I’m not sure why God gave us dogs. Maybe it was to remind us of our mortality. Perhaps he sent them to set a good example of what a friend should be like.
Possibly, His intent was as simple as giving us something to take care of, so we feel needed. And just maybe, he gave us dogs to make us smile.
In the presence of men who know dogs, I hear them describe pups relative to dogs they have known.
“She runs with her head up like Ol’ Sissy did.”
“That Brittany holds as solid as Jake when he was a pup.”
“Look at that head. He’s a dead ringer for Duke.”
I may nod and agree with them, but form, features, and style are not what I remember most about my dogs. The things I recall, and smile when I do, are the ones that at the time made me the maddest.
My first bird dog was a Brittany named Clayton Joe. He was short-legged, orange and white, with a good nose. He retrieved like he owned each downed quail and panted with a grin, tongue to the side like a happy drunk. By the time he was four, he’d become steady enough to be useful in a dove field. I won’t lie and say he was perfect; he wanted to retrieve every bird that fell. But I stood on a check cord when I shot and only raised my foot when my bird fell. Soon, he learned to release on command.
Back then, dove season opened at sunrise. I’d fallen in with three generations of dove hunters who ran a small field like it was preparing for a religious holiday. Barbecue showed up at noon, stands were uncut sections in the field, and we kicked off each morning with coffee and doughnuts. The first year I brought Clayton, it was my turn to bring the doughnuts.
My hunting vehicle at the time was the family car, a tan Datsun with an interior so small I could reach every corner from the driver’s seat. Clayton spread out on the back seat and quickly fell asleep, induced by the soft bedding and gentle rocking of the car. The doughnuts rested peacefully on the front seat. So when I pulled into the convenience store parking lot to buy a cup of coffee to sweep away my mental cobwebs, the Datsun contained all the ingredients for a Greek tragedy.
Perhaps the coffee fumes cleared my brain enough to make me remember I had just left a dog in a car with unguarded doughnuts. I paid quickly, rushed back to the car, and utterly surprised Clayton Joe, whose full name I used whenever I yelled at him. I learned that from my mother. Hearing his name without expletives deleted, he popped up in the front seat with his head totally concealed within a doughnut box. Crumbs fell like snow flurries while I considered changing his name to Dunkin'.
So when I see a Brittany in the field, I still remember Clayton Joe, not on point or retrieving, but in the front seat of a Datsun with a doughnut box on his head. And I smile.
I’m still not sure why God gave us dogs. I just know the ones I remember best are the ones that for one brief moment I wanted to strangle. And when I think of them, I smile at their tricks and my stupidity. So maybe He gave us dogs to build character, ours not theirs.
I’m just glad He did.
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