Great Dog Stories (8 page)

To suffering there is a limit; to fearing, none.

S
IR
F
RANCIS
B
ACON

W
illie the dog has a phobia. It’s not your normal doggie fear. He doesn’t dread loud sounds or vet visits. He doesn’t cringe when he’s left home alone. No, this 60-pound Hungarian vizsla is overcome with terror by the sight of a human hand holding a dreaded
toenail clipper.

He’s been this way since my cousin Elly first adopted him at the age of 12 weeks. This was family number two for Willie. His first adoption was on September 11, 2001—really. To top it off, his breeder lived about five miles from the Pennsylvania site where one of the hijacked planes went down. It is tempting to think 9/11 might have played into Willie’s oddball fear…but it isn’t likely.

Willie wound up with Elly because his first family wanted to return him when they learned he had only one testicle. His breeder wouldn’t take him back, and Willie landed in vizsla rescue. Elly and her husband, Jim, had recently lost both their own vizslas—one to old age, the other to illness. Someone called and told them about Willie. They grabbed him.

Willie’s new humans noticed his toenail-clipping phobia right away. They speculate it was triggered by some puppyhood trauma. Elly recalls that his dewclaws weren’t well clipped. But those were on his front feet, and his back feet are his major Achilles heel.

Elly told me Willie is extremely protective of his feet. He doesn’t like them touched—especially his back ones. If she tries, he will tuck them under so she can’t get to them. If you have a toenail clipper in your hand, his fear skyrockets. If he can, he launches through the doggie door and flees to the yard. If he’s on a table to be groomed, he tries to throw himself off. He won’t ever attempt to bite the hand that tries to clip his nails, but he’ll do almost anything else to get away. Elly’s main fear is that one day he’ll hurt himself in his frantic struggles to escape.

Elly and Jim can’t ask Willie why toenail-clipping makes him go berserk. But in the ten years they’ve had him, they’ve tried everything else. They’ve bought various kinds of clippers. They’ve tried an alternate nail-clipping tool. They’ve left clippers around the house so their dog would get used to seeing them. He could handle clippers on a stand, but not in a hand. He’d even go ballistic if those clippers were being used on his doggie sister, Bonnie.

Finally, Elly threw in the towel and decided to let her vet’s techs trim Willie’s toenails. Last time, it took two of them. One distracted Willie and fed him cookies while the other lifted one foot at a time and somehow managed the deed.
Not
clipping Willie’s nails isn’t an option because if they get too long, Willie might slip on Elly’s hardwood floors. But she’s already planning to have his nails done when his teeth are cleaned. He’ll be put under anesthesia for the dental work, and he’ll never know his toenails were part of the package.

Willie’s persistent toenail-clipping phobia got me thinking about my own fears—specifically my fear of death. Like Willie, I’ve had this fear since I was very young. I can remember being about four years of age and dreading turning five, because I was a year closer to dying. Now that I’ve come to faith in Christ, I have the promise of eternal life to temper that fear—but I can’t say it’s gone. One of the ways it expresses itself these days is through another fear. I’m scared to be put completely out with anesthesia—because I might not wake up.

I’m at an age where my doctor would like me to get a colonoscopy. I’ve put it off partly due to this concern. When I had tooth implant surgery, I opted for a type of sedation that let me remain partially awake. When I faced arthroscopic knee surgery earlier this year, I wanted to do the same thing—but God had other plans.

I was told I could be awake for the surgery itself and watch. What I wasn’t clear about until I was lying in the surgery center was that I would be knocked out initially. My anesthesiologist warned me I would not want to be awake when they gave me the shot to numb my knee. Hmm…virtually certain major pain versus phobia about highly unlikely death? I didn’t insist.

Still, I was extremely scared. It didn’t help when I heard the anesthesia they were using was the same drug that had gone so wrong with Michael Jackson. My anesthesiologist assured me it was excellent when used correctly. It would put me out instantly and I would awake as soon as it was stopped. My surgeon came in and got me laughing, and that helped. I’m not sure exactly when I went under. Next thing I knew, I was conscious and my surgeon was showing me the inside of my knee on a screen.

I’d been told if I felt pain during the procedure, I could say so and be put to sleep again. I doubted I’d want it that way. I was wrong. I started hurting. I said so—twice. When I “came to” again, the procedure was over. And my long-standing anesthesia phobia, though not gone, was greatly lessened.

Willie’s a dog. Elly can’t sit down and reason with him. She can’t talk him down from his trauma, or even find out what it was. But I’m a human. I have reasoning powers. And I have a loving God who has given me a whole host of His promises. Even so, I hung onto my fear. But instead of being angry or disgusted, God met me with understanding and love and gently worked me through it.

I wonder if Joshua had cold feet when he had to step into Moses’s shoes and lead the Israelites into Canaan. We can’t know—but we do know God kept reassuring him. In the first chapter of Joshua, God urges him to be strong and courageous three times in four verses. I don’t think biblical courage means the absence of fear—I think it means being willing to obey God regardless. I believe God understands our fears and is waiting to graciously free us from them step by step if we will put our trust in Him.

Willie trusts Elly as much as he can, and her love covers the rest. God will lovingly work with us too, if we ask Him. No matter how great your fears may be, you can entrust them—and yourself—to a caring God who is bigger!

Friendship isn’t a big thing—it’s a million little things.

A
NONYMOUS

M
y husband, Steve, and I both grew up near Bakersfield, California. After spending our first year of marriage elsewhere, we moved back. We lived in a little farmhouse next door to the home where Steve had grown up. This is where we adopted our first puppy.

McPherson was a beautiful shepherd mix we got from Steve’s dad. He helped prepare me for the children we would have. He taught me how to be responsible for someone other than myself by feeding and caring for him. When Steve returned from a long day at work or I hauled a carload of groceries home, McPherson would be there to greet us. He didn’t understand that we had to take care of ourselves. In his mind, we’d come home to play with him, so that’s what we should do. There was no time to waste. Someone had to throw him a ball or roll with him in the grass.

From puppyhood, McPherson went to work with my farmer husband, learning how to catch gophers. He also learned to protect, like a good dog should. McPherson would bark whenever a stranger entered our yard. If he felt unsure of a guest, he would stay watchfully by the door until the person left.

McPherson was protective of our children too. He watched them in his wonderful canine way, playing with them, loving all of us as we loved him.

He helped teach unconditional love by loving unconditionally himself. It never mattered how we looked or how we were feeling. He was always there to greet us and make us feel good to be home.

McPherson was just a puppy when my dad died. So was I. I was 21 years old then. When I was especially lonely for Dad, McPherson seemed to feel my pain. I remember sitting on the porch one day, watching a tractor plowing a field across the street. I’m sure McPherson would rather have been chasing after the tractor, but he stayed by my side and let me pet him, comforting me by his closeness and sweet spirit. As we sat, I remember seeing a kitty playing nearby. McPherson did too, but he remained with me. When I finally stood up, I hugged him and he seemed to hug me back. Then he gleefully ran after the kitty, not to hurt him but to play with him, for they were friends.

When we inadvertently ignored him, McPherson would either stay close beside us or gently walk away—but he never seemed angry. He was an incredibly loving dog. It was a comfortable evening to sit with him and tell him how I was feeling or share thoughts that no one else needed to know.

When McPherson was older, he didn’t go out as much because of his arthritis. But he was sure glad when Steve got home so he could play a little ball and then sit with Steve to be petted and enjoy time together.

McPherson was a great friend—a dog that stuck closer than a brother. When he died he was over 12 years old. He had worked hard and played hard and taught us many life lessons. We all cried when we lost him. We still miss him to this day.

Arnold was a great friend too. He had been close to my parents and was a good buddy of mine until he died. Our families went camping together and spent many weekend evenings enjoying a barbecue and his favorite homemade ice cream.

Just before I got married he brought over a straw broom and dustpan. He handed them to me and said, “Connie, when Steve comes home I want you to always have these in your hands so he knows you have been cleaning the house.” It was a joke—but it was also a sweet, loving gesture. He took the time to go to the store, buy these things, and drive 14 miles to my parents’ home to give them to me. That was over 39 years ago, and is still a precious memory.

Arnold drove a big, beautiful 18-wheel truck. He worked hard all his life. After many years he had to give up truck driving. He decided to put this truck we all loved on the market. My family considered buying it, but none of us had the funds for such a large unneeded possession. Arnold talked about his truck until the day he died. In fact, the man who bought it brought it to Arnold’s funeral so everyone could see it again. It had been to many antique truck shows and won many prizes.

Before Arnold’s illness kept him at home, he and his wife, Salome, were in my Sunday school class. Talking to him and listening to his low, slow speech was so comforting after both my parents died. I knew through the years he always loved me unconditionally—just as McPherson had. Arnold mentored me in unconditional love and taught me to take life more slowly and with a smile.

McPherson and Arnold were both loyal, loving, and sincere, and I thank God that I could count them my friends and that both were part of my life.

God understands how important friends are and the Bible talks about it. Friends teach us, guide us, love us, and tell us when we go wrong. They come to our aid when we need help and listen when we need to be heard. Proverbs 18:24 says, “One who has unreliable friends soon comes to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.”