Some people think dogs are smarter than humans.  I don’t argue with those folks.  Their dogs may actually be smarter than they are.

Still, I don’t know. . .

I sat at my desk this afternoon, watching the world outside my window.  I like to imagine that I’m being creative at times like this.  Reality is probably not as impressive as that.

Still, I saw the little dog run out of the neighbor’s yard and around the end of the gulley.  The little fellow headed down the lane toward another neighbor’s house, mostly hidden in the woods.

“Uh-oh.  Ollie’s out.  I wonder if they know.”  I got up from my chair to walk down that direction, but sat down again immediately.

They knew.

The pup’s owner came into view, walking calmly toward the little lane.  This guy is always calm.  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him ruffled.

Moments later, I saw him coming back toward the end of the gulley, the pup running ahead of him.  The dog wasn’t running in a straight line, but then, Ollie never does.

Wait.  He wasn’t running in a straight line because he was running in a circle.  Right back down the lane where he had been a moment before.  His owner simply turned around and walked back there, too.

When this happened another couple of times, I decided to amble down that way and see if there was anything I could do to help.

Well?  There wasn’t anything creative happening where I was sitting; I might as well get some sun and fresh air!

Ollie’s other owner came out of the front door as I started down the road.  I don’t think Ollie was all that happy to see her.  She was calm too, though.

Still, he continued to run.  They both called to him, but the little pup had other fish to fry.  So to speak.

I walked to the end of the dirt lane and squatted down.  Slapping the inside of my leg, I called out.  “C’mere, Ollie!”

The curly-haired bundle of energy stopped dead.  Then, turning toward me, he ran in a straight line to where I waited, haunches on heels, and stopped right in from of me, letting me grasp his harness.

I turned him over to his owners after petting him an appropriate amount.  The leash snapped in place on his harness and it was as if the event had never happened.

“He found the cat feces.  They’re scattered all along the lane and he’s fascinated with them.”  Ollie’s unflappable owner shook his head, almost in disbelief.

Well?  It’s not something a human would do.  Why would material like that be so attractive to a dog?

I had a fleeting thought, there in the dirt lane.  Why would the little dog come to me and not to his owners?  I was just a poser.  I wasn’t going to walk him—never going to give him a bath—certainly not going to pay his veterinary bills.

I was only a distraction for a few moments, nothing more.

I’m back at my desk again, looking out over the sunlit landscape.  And, something creative may be happening now.

I’ve mentioned before that I don’t really have control over my memories, haven’t I?  Out of nowhere, things I haven’t thought of for years—decades, even—just pop up, screaming to be noticed again.

Surely there is no connection at all to the episode with Ollie, but in my mind, I’m sitting on a shop stool in a dusty, greasy garage.  There is a wood stove, fashioned from a 55-gallon drum near me.  The smoke that chokes the air around me is not only from the stove, but also from several of the men in the vicinity who hold lit cigarettes in their hands.

You’ve seen similar scenes—the shop where several men are sitting or standing while one man works, lying on a mechanic’s creeper under an old jalopy, asking for tools to be passed to him occasionally.  Not much is being accomplished, but there is lots of talk.

The phone on the wall rings (cell phones wouldn’t appear for twenty more years), and the guy on the creeper pushes out from under the car, complaining as he goes to answer it.  He yells for one of the guys standing in the cloud of smoke and pushes the receiver into his hands, telling him it’s his wife.

After talking for a few minutes, the guy hangs the receiver up and, walking back across the garage, shakes his head as he explains his wife has sent the kids over to their grandparents and is making his favorite meal in expectation of a romantic evening at home with him.

The guys laugh a bit and tease him, expecting him to head for the door very soon.

Two hours later, the fellow is still in the shop, drinking coffee and telling jokes with the guys sitting/standing around the stove.  While his wife waits at home.

Maybe dogs are smarter than humans.  Or, just as smart, anyway.

The fellows in the shop are the posers; the stories and jokes, simply attractive nuisances (not in legal terms, but still. . .) of sorts—a lot like the cat feces in little Ollie’s adventure.

Perhaps, there is a connection between my memory of that shop and Ollie’s amusing attempted breakout to freedom.

Do I need to say the words?  To wonder why we follow the posers and sniff the trash along the road when we are meant to be following the God of Creation and eating at His table?

He waits, standing with the door flung open for us.  Inside, the table is filled with life-giving and delicious food.

But aimlessly we wander, sniffing the garbage piles and following fakers who have no intention of providing for even the slightest of our needs.

And yet, He awaits—unflappable and infinitely patient.  He knows us; knows that we are weak, coming from dust and yet He loved us enough to send His Son to save us from a life of shame and waste.

We say we follow Him.

It’s time to walk away from the garbage and back into His arms.

 

“It is common for those that have called themselves His servants, after awhile to give Him the slip, and return again to me.”
(from The Pilgrim’s Progress, John Bunyan)

“Your words were found, and I ate them,
    and your words became to me a joy
    and the delight of my heart,
for I am called by your name,
    O Lord, God of hosts.”
(Jeremiah 15:16, ESV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.