within a scoundrel's memory

On our last snowy walk, we talked about all the usual stuff. We discussed the failing health of Zac's jeep, the crazy rantings of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, and the likelihood of more snow. We talked about our upcoming trip to Israel and how much time we could spend with our friends there, Hananya and Devorah. Just as we were turning the talk to dinner, and whether Dave preferred beef stroganoff or chicken tetrazzini (an outcome I could have placed money on--beef wins with him every time), Dave happened to glance over his shoulder and spot a bit of happy, rascaly blackness tracking our snowy footprints.

That scoundrel had gotten loose.

"Larry!" Dave yelled.

The tracker lifted his nose from our bootprints, shot his triangular ears skyward, and froze. I could see his thoughts just as clearly as if they had drifted from his little pea-brain and formed themselves in a cartoon display above our heads. "I am Larry, tracker of my lost people ... They'll see me coming and rejoice that I've come to rescue them. He'll pat my head and talk about my tracking virtues. She'll shower me with grateful kisses ... Ruh, roh. Dave looks irritated. I will now race back home and pretend this never happened."

He turned to do just that, but Dave called again. His be-at-my-ankles-before-I-count-to-three tone cut through Larry's plan and brought him running. "Please pet me," Larry begged with those brown eyes. And Dave did.

"You're supposed to be home," Dave said. It got me thinking. How had Larry gotten out of the house? Did he cajole one of the kids into opening the door? Or did he have secret opposable thumbs we knew nothing about--and had he performed the job himself?

Though the image of two people and a big black dog walking along a snowy, wood-lined trail has instant Norman Rockwell appeal, we didn't want him along on this stroll. For the last year or so, we've been losing a battle trying to curb his wandering urges. We've tried reasoning with him. We've tried tying him to a dog run. We've put him in the kennel. We've even used the shock collar. But no matter what we try, the moment freedom raises its hand and waves a beckoning gesture, Larry responds.

We turned back for home. Larry thought this was great fun. At first, he marched just in front of us. I could see he was rising to the occasion. He was a Saint Bernard with a little barrel of whiskey tied to his massive throat. We were a pair of lost Swiss orphans, following our hero down the mountain and to a waiting chalet, where we'd all indulge in toast and hot chocolate, and beef-flavored dog treats. But then Larry spotted a bird, forgot the waiting chalet, and veered off the trail to give chase.

"Larry! Come here!"

He obeyed with obvious reluctance. Within a few minutes he began trotting and quickly put thirty feet between us.

"Larry!" Dave called again.

For heaven's sake, Larry thought. But he obeyed.

Dave then remembered a phrase from a long ago time when we innocently believed Larry to be trainable. During that vain period, Dave took Larry on regular walks and tried out all kinds of commands. Sometimes I'd go along, and I could see Dave's thoughts as clearly as if they rose above his head and wrote themselves into a mini-movie. "I will take my big, black dog and show him off to the world. We'll enter competitions, where his instant responses to my commands will cause a unified gasp to ripple across the crowd ... I'll look humble when I accept my giant trophy."

It soon became clear that no giant trophy would ever grace our mantel. Dave shelved the Keep it Simple Stupid dog training book and Larry promptly forgot the handful of commands he'd memorized.

Or so we thought.

"Right here!" Dave said. And a miracle occurred, right there on that snowy trail. Three years after he'd last heard that particular combination of syllables, something in Larry's memory sparked ... and he complied. He fell in line with Dave's right leg.

"Did you see that?" Dave asked.

He got to try out the command again about twenty seconds later, just about the time that staying at Dave's leg lost its luster.

"Right here," Dave said again. Larry looked back, slowed down, and fell in line with Dave's right leg.

All the way home, Larry tried to walk ahead, and Dave called him back with two simple words from a long-ago training session.

I'll admit it: this is not the best illustration you're ever going to get, but it's all I have to give you. "Train up a child in the way he should go," the Scriptures tell us, "and when he is old, he will not depart from it."

Take heart, you who love your wandering scoundrels. The words you've spoken, the wisdom you've shared, the love you've poured out--it all remains. Though you may think those things gone, it's not so. They're rooted in memory. And in the end, what you gave will make a difference.

Hey, it worked with Larry.

rascal

Larry's been at it again. I don't know if it's because he misses his pal, Jake, or because he misses the mistress of Jake's house, but he's taken to high-tailing it back up to the neighbors' house every chance he gets. Forget the shock collar around his neck. He's decided it's worth the zing to gain his freedom.

He doesn't stay long. That's because when we notice his absence, one of us will drive 1/4 mile up the hill and pause at the neighbors' driveway. When I'm the dog-fetcher, I bring the car to a screechy stop at the top of the hill and watch as Larry perks up his ears, stands from his lounging spot on their front porch, and lopes toward me. He knows our routine. He even knows to come to my side of the car, where I'm able to reach back over the seat and snag the back door handle. He hops onto the back seat, tail thwacking the window and driver's seat as he maneuvers himself comfortably. My hand gets a lick. Sometimes, he rests his nose on my shoulder.

Even though I'm usually annoyed that I had to make the trip, I don't scold. In fact, I use my "happy" voice. My words might smack of lecturing ("You belong to me, you silly pup. Not her. I'm your mama.") but Larry only hears love in the babbling.

We head back down the hill and drive together over the nasty wire -- the one that zaps him whenever he makes up his mind to rebel. On that return trip home, Larry feels no sting. And that's by design.

All the hurting, I believe, should happen on the trip out. I want Larry to feel the sting of pain when he leaves our boundaries. But his homecoming? That, in my opinion, should be pain-free and filled with lots of hugs and doggy treats. Because at some point, my desire is that while my dog is sitting on that other porch, it will occur to his little half-pound brain that home is a wonderful place, and it isn't much worth all that howling and hurting just for a chance to have his own way.

Do I even have to point out the spiritual application? Probably not. But let me just encourage you to think about those in your life who have crossed that wire and headed up the hill. Pray that they're miserable while in the wilderness. Pray that they find no satisfaction in their rebellion. Let the Lord deal with them in their desert. He knows how to convict and correct. All you need to do is ready yourself for the homecoming. Prepare yourself to forgive. And when you see that loved one crossing that hill, stretch your arms wide, smile, and remember to use your happy voice.

Homecomings should be joyous.

refuge

Larry's been out making friends again.

"Hi ... this is Eric. I'm a jogger on the Centennial Trail, and I saw this big black dog lying in the crosswalk when I made my first pass going north. Half hour or so later I turned around and headed back and, well, he's still here. Friendly guy. Very gentle. Looks like maybe he's waiting for someone. He talks to everyone who runs past. He's just ... lying there, all stretched out across the trail. Makes you run around him. Thought maybe he was lost, so I checked his collar and got your number. So now you know."

Yes, now we know. Actually, Eric is the second caller this week. It seems Larry has elected himself "crosswalk guard" over our section of the trail. I suppose from a distance he looks pretty menacing. I mean, he's 120 lbs of lab/chow and has a head that looks like you could crack walnuts on top of it. But when you get close enough to peer into those eyes, you can tell right off a buddy lives inside. Larry's not going to hurt anyone. He might lick you to death, but that's the only real danger.

We're stymied as to how to keep him on our property. It's hard to fence 13 acres, particularly when most of that is through dense woods. We don't want to keep him kenneled, because what's the point of having 13 acres and a dog if the two can't enjoy one another? I couldn't imagine keeping him confined all the time. So we try to watch as best as we can.

When he's not sitting on the front porch or sniffing the ducks or trying to lure the goats over the pasture fence, we know he's on the Trail. I've gone after him a time or two. I'll walk down to the edge of our driveway, scan left, scan right, see a black blip, and set to hollering. "Larry! You go on home!" He's wiley, that dog. He won't come right to me. Instead, he slinks off into the woods and tries to beat me back to the house. Sometimes he wins. And then I'm greeted with that innocent "What?" expression, as if he'd been sitting on the porch all along and I must be losing my mind.

Mid-afternoon forays are one thing, but nighttime disappearances really cause my heart to thump. And those only happen around New Year's and the 4th of July. Larry has no tolerance whatsoever for fireworks. At the first hint of a Whistling Pete, Larry's head shoots up, his ears stand to attention, and he looks for a place to hide. That's fine if he's in the house with us. But if he's outside, he takes off.

We first realized he had this tendancy a year and a half ago, on New Year's Eve. Larry had wanted to go out, and I thought nothing of letting him. About an hour later, he wanted back in. He was breathing hard and slobbered all over himself and our saltillo tiles as he trotted to his green mat. Once there, he collapsed in a tuckered-out heap. Not long after, I noticed the message light blinking on our phone. “Yeah, this is Mike over on 85th," I heard. In the background, loud music blared and the din of many voices filled my ear. "We’ve got Larry over here enjoying the festivities with us. We’ll let him hang for awhile and then see what happens.” While we'd been sitting quietly at the kitchen table eating shrimp and playing cards with our friends, Chris and Cora, our dog had partied with strangers.

We've tried to keep a good eye on him since then, but he managed to disappear at dusk a few nights before the 4th this year. Dave walked the woods behind our house and I drove the car around the neighborhood, calling his name. We went to bed not knowing where he was. I got up every twenty minutes or so, hoping he'd returned. I'd glance left, first, to the patio door, then right to the front door. I so hoped one of those glances would yield a view of a big, black lump of fur, but by midnight, he still hadn't come home. He took his time that night. Didn't make it back until 3:15. We heard him leap onto the front porch, and that was enough to wake us from a dead sleep. It's hard for 120 lbs to leap and land quietly, and for that, I'm glad.

Two nights ago, just as I drifted off to sleep, I heard some thoughtless yahoo on the other side of the woods starting up again. It wasn't just one firework, but several, and though I didn't know it right that minute, the guy would shoot them off for the next hour. Isn't the 4th over?

In two seconds I was out of bed and standing on the front porch, looking for Larry. In the time it took for my voice to drift through the night and my eyes to adjust to the darkness, I saw his form, halted in mid-flight on his way to the woods. He turned at the sound of his name, spun, and bolted back to the house. He didn't even wait for an invitation inside--he just flew past me, a black blur of anxiety.

"Where do you think you were running off to?" I asked him, scratching between his ears. He twisted his head and that snakey tongue of his whipped out and slathered my hand. I kept talking. "Don't you get it, you silly pup? We're your safe place. When you're scared, don't run off. Run home."

The words were still hanging in the air when I heard a whisper. Remember that, He said.

"Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will not be shaken. My salvation and my honor depend on God; he is my mighty rock, my refuge. Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge."
--Ps 62:5-8 NIV

devoted

Larry loves me.

Dave's not threatened, of course, because Larry's a dog. He's 120 pounds of fur covered, coiled up energy. He's a sniff and a wiggle and a shiver of "touch me," all bound up in a big black bundle. I love him right back.

He's not quite two, but he thinks he's a man-dog. When Dave leaves the house, and I'm home alone, Larry walks the fence. He circles the house, scans the trees, barks at the wind, and lets our little corner of the world know that he's on duty, and he's not playing games.

He waits for the slightest sound from me. If I turn the knob on the front door, he's on the porch in two seconds flat. If I move the slider an inch, he gallops around the corner and stands at attention. If I try to sneak out the back door to bring in a pile of firewood, he shadows me. Last week, I decided to split some of the larger pieces so they'd fit in the stove easier. Larry didn't like that. He whimpered as I lifted the splitting mall above my head and dropped it on the upturned chunk, and when I missed my aim a few pieces later, knocking the wood off the block and almost cutting my leg, he slid over and stood between me and the chopping block. I think he would have taken that axe out of my hand if he could've figured a way to do it.

When the four of us return home after a time away and crest the hill leading down our driveway, we can look past the Centennial Trail, across the creek and up the pasture, and watch Larry doing his loop. We don't know how or why it started, but he has a route he runs whenever he hears us coming home. He gallops through the fruit trees, rounds the holly tree, then flies past the large pine near the chicken coop, jumps the fence surrounding the goat barn, circles the pasture twice in a big, boisterous loop, and then dashes back just in time to meet our approaching car. It's his joy run. We're home--and he has to release some of that pent-up ecstasy.

I'm not sure if we taught him to do so, or if love compels him, but when we all pile out of the car and walk up the porch steps and open the door, he waits. He lets all four of us go inside first, and then he cocks his head to one side and waits to see "yes" in our eyes. Only when we say it, only when we give a nod and say, "Go to your mat, Larry," will he burst through the door.

He's almost always inside with me when I'm alone. And when I do invite him in, he follows me from room to room. Though he's supposed to stay on his cedar-stuffed mat in the tiled area of our dining room, he knows the rules don't apply when we're home alone. He knows I can't deny him the right to follow me to the kitchen, where he lays across the floor like a speed bump. "Move, Larry," I say, but he knows by my tone that I really mean, "You're the best dog ever." As I type this, he's laid out on the carpet right near my feet, with his head so near-to-touching that I can feel the warmth of him.

Yesterday, the kids and I were home together. Zac was in the dining room digging through the fruit bowl for a ripe-enough pear, when I heard him say, "Looks like we have company." I looked out the dining room window and saw two huge dogs in the big grassy area below our patio. Larry must've figured that with Zac home, he could afford to take a short break, because he wasn't alarmed at all by the intruders. In fact, as I watched, he wagged his tail in an I'm-so-glad-you-stopped-by manner, traversed the slope leading down to the lawn, and trotted over for a friendly sniff-and-greet.

I don't want strange dogs on the premises. They won't love our cats the way Larry does, and they'll chase the ducks right out of their feathers. So I went outside, hoping my presence would shoo the dogs away. The brown one took the hint and headed for the woods, but the bigger, older-looking dog looked merely intrigued. Larry glanced up at me and then back at his new friend, tail still swishing.

"Get!" I yelled, in the sternest voice I could muster. And in the fraction of a second it took for my word to ride the wind, Larry transformed. My displeasure curled his lip and released a snarl from somewhere deep. He rose up, pounced, and bit a warning in the side of the other dog's neck. The dog responded, and for about thirty seconds, they fought.

I had to call him off. The other dog took a few nonchalant steps toward the woods; I encouraged him the rest of the way with a few poorly-tossed rocks. And then I called my protector to my side and let him know how much he meant to me.

Larry loves me. When I want to walk, he walks. When I prefer to sit by the fire, he joins me there. He loves what I love and hates what I hate. His ears are ever tuned to catch the slightest whisper from my lips, and I'm convinced he'd fight to the death to protect me. He's devoted to his master.

Oh, that I might be as devoted to mine.