define necessity

My early morning bike ride was refreshing but don’t picture me as an avid cycler with special designated cycle shorts, tops or shoes, my only cycle paraphilia were a helmet and water bottle.  Scruffy, my best four legged bud, who trotted alongside my front tire stopped every so often to smell the scenery while I just enjoyed the visual aspects of the route. It wasn’t totally a beatific panorama as I pedaled through an area under a bridge that was home to the temporarily unemployed.  Old fashioned metal trash cans being used for heat and cooking were surrounded by ragged looking denizens singing “Deck the Hall with Boughs of Holly” while they warmed partially gloved hands or coffee pots or meals scavenged from other trash cans . My bike ride had immunized me from  the cold.

Most of the people avoided eye contact with me until they noticed the hitchhiker on my shoulder, Rocky, a squirrel that had adopted my family as his own after my daughter, Cindy,  had rescued him from drowning in our pool last summer. Rocky would periodically jump gracefully to the ground to forage for nuts, return to my bike, deposit the treats in my front basket and reoccupy his spot on my shoulder.

I cruised into my driveway less invigorated than I had started, but feeling the benefits of a good aerobic workout.  Let’s see, the odometer said, 20 minutes and two and half miles. Come on, I had to have done more than that.  Darn thing must be broken. Scruffy danced around my bike and scrutinized me as if to say, “Is that all you’ve got?”

The front yard was dotted with erstwhile squirrels rummaging for their winter larder, squirrels that shunned Rocky for sleeping with the enemy; yes they could tell he reeked of dog whenever they approached him.  Rocky however, touched by the Christmas spirit,  tossed them offerings from his bounty of nuts which they accepted before making a quick retreat. Do I hear a thank you?  Nope, not a squeak, I felt sorry for Rocky who looked crestfallen, sharing his food with those ungrateful—never mind. No matter, I knew Rocky was well cared for; every time I pulled a book off the bookshelf nuts tumbled out on to the floor, along with cereal nuggets and other tidbits.

Before I went into the house I checked my mailbox. It was loaded with sales brochures, magazines and Christmas cards, cards loaded with gift certificates. What ever happened to Christmas shopping and present openings?
Jenny, the little girl from the rent house next door popped up unexpectedly at my elbow wearing a thread bear coat and slightly blue lips. My daughter had volunteered to baby sit Jenny this afternoon while her mom went Christmas shopping.

“What are those?” she asked looking at the profusion of plastic cards in my hand.

“Gift cards for department stores, I must have been a good girl this year for Santa to be so nice to me.”I said as I watched my words become visible puffs of hot air.

“Oh. I must not have been very good this year, mommy warned me not to expect too much for Christmas. But that’s okay she said as long as we have each other we’re doing okay.”

Boy that dampened my Christmas spirit. Telling that to a little girl, what was her mother thinking? I knew they were having hard times but sheesh.  I glanced over at Jenny’s house, the windows were covered with newspapers in place of curtains and an old car sat in the drive way that her mommy was attempting to start. I crossed my fingers and poof the engine turned over and off went Mommy on her errand waving to me as she passed. I grabbed my mail and dropped some on the sidewalk that blew off beyond my reach, I was too exhausted to chase down store flyers.

I escorted Jenny up to Cindy’s headquarters where we found her on Facebook. Someone had posted a split postcard on her Facebook wall showing a little black African child lying on the ground, half dressed and fully starved next to a picture of some elegant living room with an ornate Christmas tree surrounded by a king’s booty of toys and extravagant Christmas gifts with the caption “Define Necessity”.  How heartbreaking. Who could be so cruel to post that at Christmas time?  What a way to weaken Christmas spirits.

I admonished Cindy to get off that mood reducing site and participate in some human to human interaction with Jenny then left to surf the web for ways to cash in my cornucopia of gift certificates.

After an hours search I came up with, to my own incredulity, nothing. I crossed off dishes;  I already had too many for a family of three and no space for more, jewelry; had some I still hadn’t worn, hats; had two dresser  tops loaded with them, purses; same thing and I never took the time to switch them out;  what a  waste. Clothes, now you think you’d never have too many clothes, well wrong, mine closets were so packed I couldn’t squeeze anything else into them. Electronic gadgets? I had all the updated ones already. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening, not to an avid shopper.

Scruffy pranced in with the intention of redecorating my room with a mouth full of papers he planned on tearing up before his third midafternoon nap. I snatched the papers from him extinguishing his exuberance.

“Live with it Scruffy old boy, if you need a chew toy use one of your plastic thingies that’s littering the floor.”

Hey, what is this? It was catalog from World Vision. Give a gift. Change a life.  Hmm, must have been in the mail I dropped earlier.  I leafed through the pages  to see opportunities to provide animals, wells, school  supplies, music lessons , immunizations, job training, Mongolian gers (look it up!) or other homes for vulnerable children/orphans or families. You could pay for a complete package or any portion thereof.

Let’s see, someone could build a health clinic for $39,000 or stock it for $1,000 or equip a health care worker for $50; or they could buy five ducks and two chickens for $55. The caption said, “Just $55 can feed families year round.”  At the back of the catalog were items to buy so you could actually have something tangible for your donated dollars.

I looked out the window and saw Jenny’s mother as she entered her house with bags stuffed with—who knew what but I could tell the bags came from Good Will, an organization that recycles other people’s junk/extras. Jenny’s mother had to buy second hand gifts, how sad. Oh, well, at least there would be something under the tree, if she had one. I don't know; did she?

 Define Necessity. Where did that thought come from? A light went off in my head; finally I knew what to do with my gift certificates. I grabbed my coat and car keys, told Cindy I was off and raced to my sedan before I changed my mind, I can be unpredictable.

When I returned home with bags and bags of stuff I informed Cindy, who had already sent Jenny home, she and I had and errand to execute and of course Scruffy followed us bringing Rocky along with him. Those two were so inseparable.

I pulled my car under the bridge I had bicycled through previously and parked; much to Cindy’s discomfort.

“Mom, what are we doing? This isn’t safe here.”

“We are going to “Deck the halls with boughs of Holly,” I said as I grabbed some bags.

“Have you been taking your medicine?” Cindy asked, “Or are you smoking and not sharing?” Not to start any rumors, we don’t smoke at my house, not anything. I just gave Cindy the look, you know, the look of disapproval.

I got out of the car and greeted some of the folks that had been cordial to me this morning and showed them the bags while explaining my intentions.  The information I shared spread like fire and Cindy and I became encircled with eager helpers much to Cindy’s whispered vocalizations to remain inconspicuous.

Decorations went up around the bridge and shrubbery brightening the area with Christmas joviality while we all sang Christmas carols, mostly off key and consumed nutritious treats that I had also provided. Rocky was only half way handy as he placed loops of tinsel and garlands on the hard to reach branches, then pulled them away again, we couldn’t get him to understand the ornamentations were supposed to stay where he put them. Scruffy did his own thing, looking for free hands to scratch his ear, belly or any other accessible body part that he proffered.

Cindy and I then distributed individual sacks filled with socks, hats, gloves and other personal care Items purchased at the nearby dollar store. At the end of our time under the bridge Cindy had loosened up a little, just a little. But she kept one eye on the car and the other eye on my keys at all times.

Christmas morning, at last.  I reached high in my kitchen cabinet for a bowl to fix pancakes only to have dozens of nuts cascade down onto my head and roll over the floor upsetting Rocky who had felt they had been securely hidden. He chittered at me wrathfully while he attempted to re-gather his cache.

“Now listen here young man, this is still my kitchen,” I said as I swatted him with a broom and swept the nuts outside where  vagrant squirrels emerged to help gather the pecans. Rocky shrugged in acquiescence then ran up the broomstick handle to my shoulder; he didn’t feel like taking on the world this morning, not if he was expecting to get some pancakes thick with pecan syrup and butter.  Hmm hmm.

“Honey, this is great what you did,” My husband said as he sat down at the table with his Christmas gift; a card that held cut up snippets of a catalog. Snippets of animals that had been purchased in his name to provide income and food for some distant families we’d never see.

“Yea,’’ Cindy added following her dad to the kitchen table. “I love my present also, but I bet the rest of the family will feel cheated.” She was probably correct on that account. My extended family was very avarice.  But who cares, it was my money and I could do what I wanted to with it, right?  That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.

The back door resonated with excited knocking.

“I wonder who that can be,” I said, loudly as I looked through the window into Jenny’s upturned face.

“It’s me, open up please!”  Jenny said excitedly.

Jenny’s mom, carrying Jenny’s coat, just caught up with Jenny as I opened the door.

“She’s been up all night waiting for your lights to come on,” Mrs. Cramer said.  “I’m sorry; I tried to get her to wait awhile.”

“He came last night! He really came, and he had some of his reindeers with him, only they looked like horses to me with antlers on, he said that was to disguise them so people wouldn’t know it was him!” Jenny said as she jumped up and down while her mom tried frantically to get the coat on a moving object.

“Who came Jenny?” I asked, a puzzled expression on my face as I grinned at Mrs. Cramer.

“Santa of course,” Jenny practically screamed at me like I was completely void of brain cells. “And he was real nice, even though I was too scared to come out from behind mommy. And he gave me lots of presents, a doll and a doll carriage and doll clothes and he gave me this brand new coat that no one else has ever worn and some shoes and.. and ..and …{breathe, Jenny, breathe} and he even brought mommy some curtains for the living room and a set of dishes that doesn’t have a missing piece. You should have seen her cry.” The words just poured out of Jenny’s little mouth and tumbled all over the place. “I must have been real good this year after all. Did he come here? What did you get for Christmas?” Jenny asked  when she finally ran out of steam.

“Well Jenny, I got a big smile,” I said feeling warmed by Jenny’s exhilaration.  Happiness didn’t get any better than this. I was still a pretty good shopper after all; I just discovered it didn’t have to be all about me.

Once I invited Jenny and her mother to stay for Christmas breakfast I took Jenny’s brand new never before worn coat to the hall closet where I hung it next to the rented Santa suit my wonderful husband adorned himself in last night to bring joy to a little girl at Christmas for the first time in six years. When I shut the door I could hear nuts fall from the upper shelf and bounce off the closet floor.

Deck the hall with boughs of holly,

Fa la la la la la la la la.

'Tis the season to be jolly,

Fa la la la la la la la la. 

Don we now our gay apparel

Troll the ancient Christmas carol,

Fa la la la la la la la la.

See the blazing yule before us

Fa la la la la la la la la.

Strike the harp and join the chorus.

Fa la la la la la la la la.

Follow me in merry measure,

While I tell of Christmas treasure,

Fa la la la la la la la la.

Fast away the old year passes,

Fa la la la la la la la la.

Hail the new, ye lads and lasses!

Fa la la la la la la la la.

Sing we joyous all together,

Heedless of the wind and weather,

Fa la la la la la la la la.

EASTER PLANNING

Easter Planning

 Because I’ve been let down before I tried to not get too excited about the Church’s upcoming plans for Easter and it paid off, I was right, I was working that day. Phooey. Church must be for the retired. No, that can’t be true either because the retired members use cruise vacations and visiting grandchildren as a reason for availability conflicts.  I would have thought the Easter festivities would be on Easter, (makes sense to me), not the day before.  My work schedule leaves me two available full weekends to do fun stuff and my church never gets it correct, they continuously arrange things on my unavailable Saturdays. They must hack my work schedule to plan this; it can’t possibly be totally accidental. I wish I wasn’t so paranoid, but at least I’m in touch with my emotions.

 As I fidgeted with the ring on my left hand I realized the only options open to me were making cash donations and being part of the pre festivity activities. These were workable alternatives, but darn, I really wanted to be a part of the actual revelry, not a behind the scenes worker.  Oh well, I opened my pocket book and made a contribution, (a hefty contribution, pat on the back), to the planning committee and signed my name down, in big letters, for volunteer assignments, (if they analyzed my penmanship I wonder what my signature revealed about my current attitude.)

 With half a heart, I took some posters/flyers and thumbtacks with me from the planning committee to distribute around my neighborhood. They would probably sit on my car’s back seat for days before I got motivated to nail them to phone poles. And again, I was right. Three days before Easter Eve I leashed my dog Scruffy and trekked up and down my street and fifteen thousand others nailing signs on anything that was made of wood. Each time a sign went up I got to admire my ring. It was a simple ring, that a friend gave me when I joined the church but it made me feel, well­­—­religious. It was my seal of church membership.

 Scruffy, I discovered years ago, was a fantastic kid magnet. Kids of all sizes continuously approached me and begged to pet him and when I assented some of the younger ones would back away in fear after their first attempt to touch him. Why bother to ask if they were scared? It was obvious the only injury they would sustain from Scruffy would be abrasions from his tongue. I used the dog petting opportunities to invite the youngsters to the church Easter festivities, advising them to consult their parents. Parents who I suspected would have other plans for their days off or no intention of exposing their youngsters to fiction as I’d already heard from some out spoken adults, in front of their young and impressionable progeny.

 “Thanks, but my parents made me go to church when I was a kid and I promised myself I would let my kids make up their own minds about church.” One lady with several youngsters fawning over Scruffy, politely informed me after I extended a cordial invitation to her.

 Each time I was subjected to that and similar comments I fingered my ring and launched a silent prayer upwards. That ring really made me feel connected with the Eternal One.

 I headed home with one final poster in my possession. Where to put this one—hmmm.  Scruffy strained at his end of the retractable leash pulling me to—the duck pond. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I should have kept several flyers for this location, it was primo. Today it was packed with families of all sizes throwing bread into the waters for the resident overstuffed fowl, or fishing off the embankments.  Darn it, should I retrace my steps and retrieve a few extra posters/flyers? Oh, heck, no. It was getting late and I had other things to do. Volunteer work should be easy, not exhausting. The church should be appreciative I posted as many announcements as I had.

  My poster hanging duties officially done I rested on a bench by the pond so Scruffy could have a front row seat for duck viewing/antagonizing and as expected Scruffy took full advantage of his retractable leash to sashay along the border of water and land yapping ferociously at the winged targets and upsetting a fisherman, who by the looks of his empty bucket already flunked the right to be called a fisherman. He gave me some dirty looks, obviously displeased that Scruffy was further hindering his objectives. It’s not our fault, buddy, you were here long enough to catch something before we got here.

 Oh, well, time to move on, I thought, as I waved my hand politely at the fisherman, just at the right angle so he could see my ring, and disappointed he didn’t.

 A battered old car was parked on the street obscured behind the park’s sign with the back door held opened by a tatty looking dude.  A semi pristine little girl was leaning in talking to someone blocked from my vision.  Something seemed wrong about this picture, and for some reason Scruffy’s interest was piqued at whatever interaction was taking place because he used all of his thirteen pounds to pull me towards the beat up car. Man, I really needed to work out with weights more, this was humiliating, the only explanation; Scruffy had to have gained some extra pounds.

 “Hey,” I said casually as I peeked harmlessly into the car’s backseat where a young boy sat with a box on his lap.

  “Hey,” Tatty Looking Dude echoed shifting on his feet. Did he look guilty of something?

  “What’cha got there?” I asked.

  “I was just showing your daughter some puppies,” Tatty Looking Dude answered.

  “Oh, she’s cute but she’s not mine,” I responded as Scruffy underwent a transformation from cuddly pooch to intimidating canine, exhibiting his fangs; it wasn’t like Scruffy not to see a friend in every stranger.  Again, something here was muddled.

 The little girl, in her effort to get closer to the adorable puppies, was now half kneeling on the back seat when someone called her name,” Come on Lindy, time to go.” It was fisherman.

  Tatty Looking Dude lowered his head, slammed the car’s back door shut, hopped behind the drivers’ wheel and spun off; he disappeared faster than my paychecks.  Well, if that doesn’t mean something, I thought, as I memorized the license plate.  I now stood alone on the corner of what might have been a crime scene.

 I heard Little Girl endeavoring to convince daddy of the necessity of puppy ownership as she skipped off arm in arm with him past my poster, unaware that she had probably almost become a victim in a crowded park.  I glanced at Scruffy, what had he sensed? It seems Fisherman had lowered his guard while fishing and, I hypothesized, almost lost his daughter in a very public arena.  I called the local police department with a description of the car and felt foolish as I gave my gut feelings about my suspicions but I deeply believed that doing nothing was silent complicity. The police probably thought I was nut who’d seen too many Sherlock Holmes movies.

 I gave Scruffy’s ear a good scratching. He was the one truly responsible for rescuing Little Girl, after all, the duck pond was his brainchild.

 The next goal for the Easter festivities involved me spending my Friday off filling colored plastic eggs with Easter tokens and candy.  Tokens and candy I had helped acquire, remember my hefty contribution? I sure did.

 On Saturday morning, the one I’d be absent from, there would be several stations depicting the last night and days of Jesus.  At each station the kids, after an appropriate scripture reading, would receive an egg containing a symbol of the event portrayed. For example,  at the last supper the egg held a picture of a loaf of bread; the garden of Gethsemane, some praying hand stickers; the trial,  little leather strips;  the crucification, little match stick crosses; the resurrection , little pebbles (remember the stone rolled away from the tomb?) and so forth .

 There would be eight stations in all, with an estimated 400 eggs needing 400 symbols, not to count the eggs that would be filled with candy. This was another splendid day off doing something I wouldn’t be a partaker of, not in the fun or publically visible sense. Well, at least I got to meet some of the other church members, some of who, by the way, verbally admired my simple ring.  

 It wasn’t until I went to bed Friday night that I noticed a grave personal loss. My ring was gone. My ring. After a thorough house, car and driveway search I had to admit to myself I had lost it at church. I’ll bet anything it had slipped off into one of those darn eggs. Great, I had made a heftier contribution than I initially realized , not financially, but in terms of my connection to God. I went to sleep morning my loss.

 Sunday morning, Easter, I went to church and got to hear second hand about all the excitement I had missed; after inquiring, of course,  whether anyone had found my ring; negatorio.  The cake walk, hot dog stand, bounce houses, crowds of children who had discovered the Easter story didn’t contain mention of bunny rabbits, and general all out fellowshipping;  I had missed it all, along with my ring. Silver lining to black cloud: I didn’t miss the cleanup detail, on that I lucked out.

  My heart and soul weren’t tightly connected during the Easter sermon, since my bare ring finger felt light, my attachment to God had been weakened. I had lost my God-dar. I fidgeted throughout the entire service, rubbing my bare finger. My daughter kept nudging me, the way I did her when she lost focus at church services. I think she enjoyed payback.

 The alter call that heralded the end of the service finally came and a young family answered the call to church membership following baptism. Something about the man seemed— recognizable. It was Fisherman, all cleaned up with his daughter and wife. Well, I’ll be. He raised his hand to brush some hair back from his eyes and there on his pinky finger was, of all things, my ring.  Well now I knew where it was and I was going to get it back.

 As I inched forward in the welcoming line to greet the new prospects I heard Fisherman tell the pastor that he had never visualized himself  back in a church building let alone requesting baptism but yesterday his daughter had come to our Easter festivities and returned home with some plastic eggs she had shared with him.

 “In one egg was some candy and this ring, I took it as a sign.”  Fisherman explained flashing my ring at the pastor. My ring, my fish shaped ring, my Ichthys. “It was my mother’s favorite Christian symbol, bless her sainted heart; it was like she was calling me back to church from the grave, so here I am.”

 Geez, how can I ask for my ring back after a story like that? It’ll be hard but—who am I kidding?  Apparently I didn’t have to be present yesterday to be used by God to bring someone to the cross. Hey, I’m feeling the presence of God again, my God-dar is returning.  All I had to do was let go and let God. I looked up and winked. “God it’s okay, he can have the ring, I don’t think I need it anymore.”

 At home as my family and I sat down to our Easter Repast I heard a blurb on the news regarding a potential kidnapping. Apparently some unidentified concerned citizen had alerted local police to the possibility of a predator signaling out young children. Several squad cars put the alleged predator under surveillance for a few days and managed to apprehend him in the middle of attempted child abduction, using puppies as an enticement. Evidently God, through me, and Scruffy, had saved several people this week.  The newscaster showed an interview with the little girl and her family where they profusely thanked the concerned citizen and hoped she/he  would come forward for a more intimate gift of gratitude.

“Wow,” Cindy, my daughter, exclaimed as she passed the mashed potatoes, “That family has a lot to be thankful for. Do you think the concerned citizen will come forward?”

 “Na,” my husband answered, “People that do things like that don’t want to be in the spot light. Remember the bible says ,’ But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly’ whoever made that call will get what they deserve from God  himself.”

 I nodded in one accord with my husband. I wasn’t about to come forward and explain it was my dog’s insight that had saved one little girl and raised my “danger Will Robinson” antennae.

 I glanced down at Scruffy to offer him a well-deserved slice of lamb to notice he was fixated on the TV. Could he actually understand what was going on? His tail was arcing on the floor, a seriously content dog expression plastered on his face while both ears twitched in an unsynchronized fashion. Odd. 

Beside him knelt two presences unseen to human eyes, angels assigned to this particular family, the same angles who had tugged on Scruffy’s leash to assist him in pulling his owner to the right spot at the right time. The same angels that had slipped a ring off a finger into an Easter egg to remedy a mother’s concern.  The same angels were scratching Scruffy’s ears thanking him for his willingness to respond to their input.  No, for Scruffy it didn’t get any better than this.

MATH 6:6        

MATH 4:18-20

1 CORINTHIANS 3:6

2 CORINTHIANS 6:1

 

1800 dollar dog

1800 Dollar Dog
by collette mcfarland
09/25/06

Cuzn Buzz was partially named by my nephew. We had the name Buzz already picked out and when Nick visited one day he asked if this was his new cousin. Hence, Cuzn Buzz.

The first time I met CB he was pulling a cord with a large lamp attached to it across a room of yapping, prancing, active puppies. I was in a puppy mill. I realized this after the woman took me to the back to select a baby. There were dozens of cages stacked on top of each other, filled with bitches feeding their pups. The bitches wouldn't let your hand near them. They were absolutely breeding material only. I was totally shocked and wanted to leave. No way I was going to take anything from this breeder. She was inhumane and no telling how the puppies would be.

But...as I was leaving it was then I noticed my soon to be valiant CB with his lamp pull toy. Head held high, not discouraged by his three-pound weight and the size of his trophy, happily convinced he had done something to be proud of.

I couldn't leave this brave little child here. I offered to buy him. At first the breeder insisted he wasn't for sale, she was going to use him for production but some how the money I offered her reached it's destination, her pocket and I left with my rescue project.

My female shitz-su, soon to be CB's wife rejected him instantly. Then she rejected me. How dare I bring another participant into our relationship? It was perfect, just the two of us with the occasional exception of my husband who she used as a sparing partner. For a week I was ignored and CB was shunned. Eventually though he was allowed semi participation in her live. He was never fully appreciated by her but at least she allowed him to eat and breathe and sleep in her castle and she kept me on as the hired help. What good is a castle without serfs?

The first time CB and NIkki were intimate was the last time. Nikki reproached Buzz so badly he never attempted to violate her again. She had him cowering in the corner for hours. But the union produced four babies, one of which remained with us who we named Leftie because he was the puppy that was left over! My family had grown by yips and yaps.

Buzz still holds his nose high in the air as though trying to touch the sky with his nostrils, just like it was when he initially caught my attention. He's the last to return to the house after going outside and his son waits for him at the front door. As Buzz eagerly passes Leftie, Leftie pounces on him for taking so much extra freedom. Buzz, nose pointed up, just brushes past, letting the reprimands fall off his back.

I once had a waterbed mattress. Now I have a regular mattress. Cuzn Buzz is responsible for this switch. I noticed the edge of the bed was damp one morning. I erroneously suspected Buzz relieved his bladder there. But... water continued to soak through the sheets. More water than would fit in the half-cup size container that CB possessed. I discovered a hole in the liner as a result of Buzz's nails digging up a comfortable mound. The regular mattress is actually much better for me than the floaty, swishy predesessor.

Now, he's not totally incapable of bad manners. My first night back from a particular vacation I laid in bed reading, head on my pillow with Buzz, Nikki and Leftie up with me. Suddenly I heard a whizzing sound. Turning my head slightly I caught "Mr.-Boy-am-I-mad-you-went-off-and-left-me", Buzz letting go full stream unto my pillow, inches away. Some say he would have just been a fading spot on the wall by now in their homes, but with my sick sense of humor I found it hilarious. What a way to demonstrate being pissed at someone!!!!

Hopefully I never leave anything in my car after I get home. If I need to go recover something, three furry projectiles bound past me and launch into the passenger seat ready for an excursion. So, it's around the block and back again. Then they all vault out the driver's side to disembark. One day, Buzz stayed stationary. "Come on Buzz, the rides over." Nothing. I reached over to give a persuasive tug. Nothing. Stroking my hand down his back to his tail I discovered the hair on the end was closed in the door. He was shackled, but not hurt. I had to laugh while his soulful eyes admonished me.

I suspected Buzz's hearing was going, but it was confirmed one day when he was in front of my car and I blasted the horn at him. He didn't flinch. Dogs yards and blocks away howled, but not Buzz. From then on, I used hand motions to summon him. He knew what each wave of my wrist meant. It meant to come in or go out. Of course, there was also a motion that indicated treat time was here. He memorized them perfectly.

Now, one day, a month after his wife died suddenly, at thirteen and a half, I noticed Buzz having trouble with his hind legs. They wouldn't hold his weight but he seemed pain free. I took him to the vet, crying uncontrollably, I couldn't take another death. I feared he had had a stroke and I'd have to put him down, but was relieved to learn it was "just" a knee problem. It could be fixed for a mere 1400 dollars. Buzz was worth it.

All systems go, Buzz was deposited at the hospital and under went knee reconstruction. I wasn't allowed to see him for a day before surgery because he was a non-happy camper. He'd never been caged. Never. Then I had to let him adjust to his recovery for a few days post op. When I was finally allowed admission to see "my" dog I felt and heard my heart explode. He lay there, listless, sore and non-interested in life. The ICU he was in was loaded with barking, angry dogs. This is the first time I recall being grateful he'd lost his hearing. He'd never get any rest if he heard the catter-walling taking place. There he lay, his snout inches from his favorite, undisturbed meal. His shaved hind leg was enlarged and multiple shades of ugly. I never felt such remorse in my life for subjecting someone to this misery. I went home more hurt than the patient.

Weeks of rehab followed where he stayed at the hospital. The doctor had a bariatric chamber that was used on Buzz twice daily. I got to come by every night and take him outside and retrain him to walk but he couldn't come home till he used all four of his legs. He could only gallantly use three legs, and he used them to hobble to my parked car. He wanted to come home!!!

Finally. He was home for the nights but we returned him everyday to the hospital, like taking a kid to day care, for continuing therapy. This mighty prince, who never liked being caged, voluntarily entered his confinement and patiently waited for my return each day. He had some variety in his life now and could walk again. The final bill was 1800 dollars for a thirteen-year-old dog. It was worth it. That was only four months ago but it seems longer. The happy, eager- to-be-fed and walked pooch that meets me at the door every day was worth it. The excited face that jumps up at me at treat time was worth it. I was with him every step of the way. I experienced his pain and recovery.

Kind of reminds me of another story. A man found me in a puppy mill, the world, and bought me, with his blood (that cost more than 1800 dollars or the lifetime of maintenance). He saw my potential and took me home. He stayed with me through my faults, health and illnesses. The entrees and treats he feeds me are in his word. When I get deaf to his voice he finds other ways to communicate (His sign language is hitting me on the noggin with a two by four.) When I get pissed off I don't know if he laughs but I know he still accepts me. He wouldn't throw me against a wall or replace me. He knows anger is a part of our frame and should occasionally be honestly expressed. And I can't wait to see him everyday, like Cuzn Buzz's enthusiasm to see me at the beginning and end of a day I look forward to my time with Jesus.

why did i do it

Why did I do It

This question pops into my head daily. Well, daily since the arrival of Tessie.

Tessie is a eight month old Shitz Su. Actually, I'm not sure she wasn't bred with a kangaroo. She jumps over every barrier I place in her way to confine her. She hurls over gates like an Olympic athlete leaving my two older male shitz sus behind. I wonder if there is an event for the Doggie Gold. I might have a mint on my hands! My oldest know their boundaries; she is always testing her's. "No, Tessie". Swat.

Tessie is full of energy. I went to get a blood transfusion for her with reduced red blood cells. Not possible says the vet. I definitely don't offer her vitamins. She'd be the first dog on the moon. She runs after, jumps on and attacks the older dogs. That's fine for Leftie, the youngest one, he needs some exercise. Even if it is used for self-defense. Serves him right anyway since he is constantly attacking the back yard German shepherd, Shep. Leftie has the little dog syndrome. I keep pointing out to him the size difference between him and Shep, but he chooses to ignore me. Since Tessie has come into the house I believe Leftie has lost some weight. The role reversal agitates him. He used to be the house hold terror.

Tessie is continuously reminding me of things to hide. She gets into the wastebasket in the bathroom. "No, Tessie." Swat. She gets into the waste basket in my bedroom. "No, Tessie," Swat. Waste baskets now sit on counters and dressers, she has us trained. We couldn't locate her one morning till we noticed the clothes hamper swaying. There was Tessie, buried in the laundry chewing on our undies.

She has transformed my good SAS sandals into chew toys, and my closed toed SAS shoes into sandals. "No, Tessie!" Swat. Shoes sit on counter tops next to the wastebaskets.

As I climb over the kitchen gate she clamps onto the seat of my pants (or body parts not mentionable) and holds on. "No, Tessie!" Swat.

I'm on my tread mill and she snaps at my feet. "No, Tessie!" Swat.

While I'm doing sit ups she sits on my face. "Double No, Tessie!" Swat.

When I open the front door to go to work, she squeezes by. "No, Tessie!" Swat.

I'm sitting on the couch watching T.V. she jumps up and nibbles on my hands. "NO,
Tessie!" Swat. (This time I splash blood around, MINE!.)

Instead of eating from her doggie dish, she eats her doggie dish! Little pieces of plastic scrapes are all around the kitchen. "No, Tessie!" Swat.

I try to brush her hair, she attacks the brush and the extremity holding it. "No, Tessie!" Swat, slinging more of my red corpuscles. I'm getting anemia from this darling.

Walking through the house my heels get snipped. "No, Tessie!" Swat. Follow the trail of blood to the first aide kit, and you'll find me.

My oldest Shitz Su, Cuz'n Buzz, had 1800 dollars’ worth of knee surgery. She body slams him, and I yell, "No, Tessie!" Swat.

Cuz'n Buzz is deaf, thank heavens for him, he can't hear Tessie's yapping so he can ignore her simply by turning his back to her. She'll sneak up behind him and slap his back with her paws to get him riled. "No, Tessie!" Swat. Now there are wastebaskets, shoes and an old dog on the counter tops!

She empties her water bowl on the floor, causing me to slip and land on my....fanny,(what did you think I would say?) "No, Tessie!" Swat. Now guess what's on the kitchen counter.

Something on the kitchen table or counter attracts her superior sniffer and she leaps up, occasionally getting hold of something to pull to the floor. "No, Tessie!" Swat.

When I mop or sweep, her little spiked dental tools attach themselves to the end of the poles and hinder my house cleaning. You guessed it, "No, Tessie!" Swat.

I laid my glasses on the end table. They had to be replaced at fifty dollars. Something to do with teeth marks. "No, Tessie!" Swat.

I found my cell phone on the floor in pieces. Fifty dollars to replace that. “No, Tessie!" Swat.

I find Tessie lying peacefully under the kitchen table. I poke her to see if she's okay. Zoom, I hit the "on" bottom and she's off in search of more adventure. "No!" I swat myself this time.

Why did I do this? I'm too old for makeshift toys all over the floor. For doggy safe teething devices I use the lids off of detergent jugs and she just loves my empty water bottles, so my floors are littered with what others would consider trash. She is amazed when I actually offer her something to masticate on. She'll take whatever I present to her and run, afraid I'll rescind my offer. The cardboard toilet paper holder is treasured by her for all of five minutes till it implodes all over the carpet. I'm constantly monitoring a toddler that's as inquisitive about her surroundings as an explorer in the field discovering unknown territories. Each day brings new discoveries, for her and me.

At day's end, exhausted I finally recline on the couch. Tessie jumps up beside me, encroaching on my space. She approaches me fearlessly. Kissing my cheek she gently lays her head on my leg. Meeting my eyes with her's, she yawns and closes her's. In minutes she's snoring, safe and content. I run my hand over her lightly expanding chest and back, feeling the warmth, the love, the trust. This is why I did it. Puppies and humans are very similar in God's eyes. We both test limits, we both need boundaries, we both need love. We both thrive on forgiveness and acceptance. If I'm quiet enough during the day, I can hear God say, "No, Collette!" Swat. Probably more times than I swatted Tessie. That's love. That's guidance. That's incredible. I close my eyes and enter my slumber, peacefully laying my head on God's chest. What's that I feel? God's hand massaging my soul. I've spent my day depleting God's reserves, now he can relax till morning, merely supervising trivial things like terrorism and hurricanes! I wonder, does he ask himself daily, why did I do it?

the victim

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church visitation

Church Visitation
by collette mcfarland
08/16/06







 I sat on the couch scratching my dog, Scruffie's, ear wondering why. Why did I answer the door? Why did I let these people in? Why don't I just ask them to leave? Why? Why?

 I knew Millie, that’s why I let them in. What a fool, I should have recognized the look. She and her male friend were carrying books when I opened the door. I've had people on my doorsteps before trying to sell me their religion. I just didn't see the books in time. The "Bibles". Well now I've sat here for hours nodding and smiling. I hope I said "yes, m'am, no sir," in the appropriate pauses. They droned on and on. Meanwhile my mind went to dinner planning and what I would make, what ingredients did I have in the kitchen? When would I eat? Would I ever eat? I felt my blood sugar sinking.

 I tried to maintain eye contact, tried to demonstrate some interest, thinking to myself I was making a big mistake, it only kept them talking. If they had been strangers I would have been ruder, more assertive. They wouldn't still be here if it wasn't for Millie. They threw out words like love, grace, repentance, blood sacrifice and I just stared at their foreheads designing my evening menu.

 "Do you know God came to earth in the flesh just to die for your sins?" The man asked.

 This was it,  my chance to end this endless torture. "You know, I can't respect a God that can die. If he's so smart there must have been some other solution."

 "He's a just God and the only way to atone for sins is with blood." said the man.

 "He did that on the cross for you, can you kneel at the foot of his cross?" Millie asked.

 "Sorry, I can't believe in a God that can die. I want one a little more permanent than that. If he's so great he can come to me."

 They started closing their books. Yea, it was almost over. The man buttoned his jacket and Millie picked up her purse.

 "Well, I guess we ought to get going and let you have dinner. Mind if we pray with you before we go?"

 "Yes, I do." I wish I could have read his mind when my answer registered in his brain. Must have been the first time someone refused to be prayed for on his shift.

 "Good night, see you at work tomorrow." Millie said, politely, stiffly. I hope I hadn't embarrassed her but I had gotten quite annoyed by now. Really, people shouldn't intrude on a person's dinner time. Low blood sugar combined with topics of sin and salvation brings out the worst in me.

 After I shut the door behind them, locked it, closed the curtains and turned off the lights in the front of the house to discourage more church visitors, I went to the kitchen to stuff my face. Gods dying on crosses; how absurd. If he really wanted me at the foot of his cross he'd definitely have to take me there himself," I mumbled to Scruffie who had had curled himself into a nice little relaxed ball beside the stove, completely uninterested in my monologue.

 Abruptly I heard the neighborhood weather siren. I rushed back to the front door and looked outside. There was large black cloud coming down the street. Wind was blowing every which way and debris was flying past the house. Trees were bending to the ground. Hail pelted the grass. A tornado.  Scruffie went running out past me into the street, barking hysterically, yelping when frozen water the size of dominoes pelted him.

 
"Scruffie, NO!" I yelled, catching up with him in the middle of the road. I had barely scooped him into my arms when the funnel caught me up into its grip.

Around and around we went. Hail, trash, dirt, wood, leaves, all kinds of junk was swirling about us. We were plastered with rain. My breath was sucked out of me. We were in the eye of hell. I tucked Scruffie under my t-shirt and hung on to him for dear life. This was the end of us. I had no doubt we would die together. Oh, God, help us, I prayed. Give me a chance to understand the cross. I knew full well it was a useless prayer, but somehow a prayer seemed natural. I've heard men in fox holes always prayed but I’ve never met anyone who had prayed through a tornado ride.

 The wind seemed to lessen and without warning I was bashed against something solid. I slid down a shaft of wood and hit the ground—unconscious.


 I guess I was out cold all night; the next thing I was aware of was Scruffie licking my face with enthusiasm. I felt the sun against my back and I slowly opened my eyes. I had one hell of a headache, tons of scratches and badly tattered clothes but nothing broken that I could tell. Scruffie was completely unharmed. Not fair since it was his fault we were here. Voices were coming to me from somewhere. I discovered we weren't on the ground but on some steeply slanted roof. I crawled to the edge and carefully looked down. People were cleaning up the yard below of garbage deposited there by the storm. Furniture was strewn about and cars had been heavily dented by the hail. It didn't look like the land of Oz but everyone seemed small because I was up so high. They weren't really munchkins, were they? I searched for a pair of legs with striped stockings sticking out from under the building. Nope. I'm still in Texas—maybe.

 "Hey, I'm up here, help!"

 Everyone looked up and started pointing at me. Someone headed for a phone to call 911. I got to my feet and waved at them, glad to be alive. The sun, rising in the sky behind me cast my shadow onto the ground far below. There was a distinctly shaped shadow beside mine. I froze. I stared. I began to sweat. Then I slowly turned around to see the source of the additional shadow.

 A huge wooden cross stood in the center of what I now realized was a church roof. If I hadn't hit it last night I would have fallen from the sky to the concrete parking lot four stories beneath me. I had been saved by a cross. God had indeed brought me to the foot of his cross.