Wobbly Grace

My wife loves almost all animals, but she has a special affinity for creatures who look markedly more pathetic than all of the others.  While this trait of hers has caused me some aggravation over the years, I’m not too upset about it.  Without it she would never have agreed to marry me.

But it’s also the reason why we wound up with a three-legged hound dog.

Kristy was one of the first employees of the Knoxville-Knox County Animal Shelter (also known as the Young-Williams Animal Center).  Even though she did not work there for a lengthy period of time, she was still able to do a few interesting things.  She was able to have a little input in how the shelter operated.  She voiced her opinion over how adoptions should be handled.  And she became a licensed euthanasiast.

This basically means that she was trained on how to properly administer medications to animals in order to euthanize them.  It also means that she got an up-close and personal look at dogs and cats as they were about to die.

She did not like this part of her job.  It was heart-wrenching for her.  Especially since, in most cases, it could have been prevented by pet-owners being more responsible. 

Because of a lack of space, many of the animals that were picked up by animal control officers or dropped off by their owners were marked for euthanasia after the prescribed waiting period.

The hound dog with the missing left-front leg was one such animal. 

No one at the shelter knew exactly how old she was, but she was old.  Mostly black with a tan “mask,” she had noticeable patches of gray.  She wasn’t particularly friendly and she had an awful hard time getting up on all-threes after lying down a while.  She was half-blind.  Because of her age and temperament, she was doomed to be put down.

Until my tender-hearted wife got a look at her.

Kristy asked and received permission from her boss to bring the disabled dog home.  Shockingly, she completely neglected to ask my permission.

We already had four dogs living with us.  George and Gracie were Great Danes who fancied themselves lap-dogs.  Smidgen was a Dalmation-mix who liked to chew up the covers of my Bibles.  Amos was a bow-legged, overweight Beagle who never did anything wrong (did I mention that he was my favorite?). 

I did not want another dog.  We did not need another dog.  We became the owners of another dog.  I was a tad upset.  Kristy tried to soften my mood by agreeing to let me name the handicapped hound.  So, I began pondering.

The first name that crossed my mind was “Tripod.”  I walked outside and yelled it out loud as I would if I were calling her to discern how I liked it.  I didn’t.  It sounded mean.  Plus, I vaguely remember a dog in some movie being called that and my mother didn’t raise a copycat.

A friend of mine suggested the name “Ilene” (I-lean).  Since I am a nerd, that one made me chuckle.  But she didn’t look like an Ilene. 

After thinking of several other names and discarding them for one weird reason or another, Kristy and I decided to watch her a little to see if anything caught our attention.  At first, I did not notice anything in particular.  And then we saw her standing next to the other dogs.

Compared to them, she was a little wobbly.

We named her “Wobbles.”

Even though I had a hard time accepting the fact that I now had another dog to take care of, my relationship with Wobbles soon blossomed.  As it did, I noticed something interesting. 

I didn’t treat her the same as I did the other dogs.

If the other dogs had growled at me as Wobbles did on occasion, I would have severely scolded them.  If the other dogs had refused to come when I called them as Wobbles was known to do, I would have grabbed them by the collar and forcefully reminded them that I was the “master.”  If the other dogs had been as temperamental as Wobbles was, I would have responded with more corrective action.

In dealing with Wobbles, I showed a greater degree of compassion.  I was gentle, patient, and kind.  I showed her grace on a daily basis.

I guess I did this because I was fairly certain that she had suffered her share of hardships throughout the years.  Of course, I had no idea how she lost her leg or exactly how she had been treated throughout her life.  All I knew was what I saw and what I saw was a three-legged, half-blind dog who didn’t have much life left in her.  I was determined not to make it any worse by treating her poorly.

A year and a half after Wobbles came to live with us, we had her put her to sleep.  Her health deteriorated rapidly and her will to fight came to an end.

As I ponder life with Wobbles, I can know see that I was able to look past her poor behavior by realizing that there were reasons that she behaved the way that she did. 

She had scars.  She had been hurt.  She was weary.  It was easy to graciously overlook her temperament because she had suffered so much.

If only it were that easy when dealing with difficult people.

When we are harshly criticized by someone, we seldom consider that the reason that the person criticized us may be due to a lack of self-esteem brought on by some form of abuse that they endured as a child.

When the cashier is overly-rude, we only think how it affects us instead of wondering why she behaved so boorishly.  It’s possible that she has just been told that her mother has cancer, but we’re to busy typing out a condemning e-mail to worry about that.

When someone in your family doesn’t express undying gratitude for the help that you gave them, it may cause you to decide never to help them again.  Of course, they may have swallowed so much of their pride just to ask for help that they are emotionally incapable of saying much of anything.

With Wobbles, it was easy to overlook her behavior because her frailty was so evident and her scars were so visible.

With people, often the scars are hidden.  But we can be sure that everyone has them. 

Maybe we should all do better in remembering that fact before reacting harshly to what someone else does to us. Maybe if we did that, we would react with greater kindness, compassion, and love.

There are plenty of people out there who are simply trying to do the best they can with what they have.  You’re probably one of them.  I know that I am. 

Let’s show each other more grace.  After all, we’re all a little bit wobbly.

A Cavalier Lesson

I used to drive a 1996 Chevrolet Cavalier convertible. 

It never was supposed to be “my” car.  Kristy wanted it.  Badly.  We were looking for a car for her to drive and could not afford anything new.  Our credit at the time was on the bad side of horrendous, so we could not be terribly picky.  Her eyes lit up when she saw the Cavalier; it was like Ralphie Parker looking at an official Red Ryder carbine-action 200-shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock in A Chrismas Story.  She just had to have it.

So, we bought the stinkin’ thing.

At first I rarely drove it.  I had my vehicle and Kristy had the Cavalier.  Technically, the Cavalier was better than the car that I drove.  I’ll admit that much.  But I didn’t like it.

The main problem was a size issue.  I am big–6′7” and over 300 lbs.  The Cavalier was a tiny, two-door car that could fit into my pants pocket.  Basically, I had to fold myself up and put it on in order to drive it.  

We purchased this car before we had many children.  When we started accumulating our brood, we knew that a bigger vehicle was needed.  We became the not-so-proud owners of a Dodge Grand Caravan.  Kristy took possession of the van.  Sadly, I got the Cavalier.

I suppose I could have kept the Corsica that I had been driving, but it had seen better days.  It had a ton of miles on it and the driver’s seat had become a rocking chair.  Seriously.  It wasn’t fixable, so I ended up putting cinder blocks behind the seat to hold it in place.  My neck became a little redder because of this.

Of the two, the Cavalier was in better shape.  So I suppressed my disdain and began driving the stinkin’ thing.

At the time we lived in Oakdale, TN.  If you are a normal person, you have no idea where Oakdale is located.  It is in Morgan County, about 50 miles east of Knoxville and 45 miles north-east of Maryville.  At the time, I worked at the corporate office of Clayton Homes located in Maryville.

This meant that I had a one-hour drive to work each morning and a one-hour drive home each evening, Monday-Friday.  That’s 10 hours per week in the car, by myself.  Each day I drove in 5 counties. 

At the end of every work day, as I got home and crawled out of the Cavalier, I dreaded getting back in it the next morning.

But it got worse.

A few months after becoming the main driver of the Cavalier, the radio was stolen out of it.  We didn’t have the money to replace it.

So instead of just driving 10 hours per week by myself in a car that was much too small for me, I began driving 10 hours per week by myself in a car that was much too small for me….in silence.

At first, I spent a lot of time on the phone while driving in the car.  But that soon became a nuisance.  So most of the time I drove in silence, wondering how in the world I was staying awake.

You might not think it was all that bad; you are wrong.  Go ahead and try it for a few weeks.  You’ll see.

It was bad.  Real bad.

Until I started talking. 

Don’t worry; I didn’t go crazy or anything.  I didn’t talk to myself.

I began talking to God. 

Now, I had prayed off and on for a good portion of my life.  Of course, I prayed more earnestly as I became more committed to the important disciplines of the Faith.  But what I was doing in the silence of the Cavalier was different.

Instead of my prayers being formulaic, they became personal.  Instead of it being something that I should do, praying became something I wanted to do.  Instead of thinking of it as a duty, it became a time to express my love for God and a time to feel Him loving me back.

I shared my burdens with Him without thinking about how I sounded.  I shared my joys with Him in whatever manner I felt appropriate; by singing, shouting, crying, or smiling.  I talked as one who has been showered with love to the One who loves perfectly.

And I listened.

Carefully. 

I listened as He encouraged me.  I listened as He chastised me.  I listened as He told me things about myself that I had not previously known.

My relationship with Him, which had far too often been sporadic at best, blossomed.  My faith in Him increased.  My worship of Him exploded.

About a year later, the Cavalier started giving me problems and the roof began leaking.  I sold it to a neighbor after buying a truck.

Sometimes I think about that car and am amazed that I ever fit into it.  Sometimes I think about all the times I was made fun of by my friends for driving a vehicle that probably weighed less than I do. 

But mostly when I think about that time of my life, I am glad.

It’s a wonderful thing to learn such a valuable lesson; even if the lesson was learned while I was folded up inside of a Cavalier.