Thank You God for Dogs and Their People

I’m glad I realized I needed to take a break at the porta-potty on my way in. Once I got to the handler’s tent I would not be able to break away for some time.

I was right.

There were faces I recognized immediately, but had to apologetically ask for the names to match. There were those who blurted out “John! Long time no see,” but whom I had to stare at to make them out under their floppy hats.

One or two stared at me. I said, “John Seraphine,” and they said, convincingly, “Sure, sure.”

For four or five hours it all came flooding back. I had not been to a herding dog trial for years. People who came to dog clinics at our farm, people I had sat with, dawn to dusk, for days on end. Everyone had more wrinkles, more gray, and more wobbles than they did back then; but we could pick up immediately from where we left off.

Did you run yet? How did it go?

Too many bends. Tricky sheep. Low scores.

But it doesn’t matter, does it? Every dog is a damned miracle. They work their guts out for you. And it’s back home, their antics, their amazing way with sheep, the way they talk to you, the way they curl at your feet at night, those things are worth more than any national championship.

Absolutely!

All the dogs I knew had retired or died years ago, but all through the day, the young dogs took short breaks from staring at the sheep on the field to snuggle their faces in my lap.

And then the stories about the dogs that had died so unexpectedly. Dogs too young that cancer took. Old dogs, but with so much vigor until suddenly they couldn’t stand up. Dogs that wagged their tails right up to the moment the drugs put them to sleep.

And then there was Storm that Gordon and Kerry had brought over from England so many years ago—that champion dog that they discovered just this morning with vestibular syndrome. Eyes darting back and forth. Dizzy. Unable to stand up. Even Gordon--that tough wrangler of all these sheep, builder of all these fences, who could walk backwards for miles and miles training dogs—when I slapped him on the back and could manage to say only, “You have to love them to the end,” could only choke out, “Yeah.”

That’s right. I hadn’t been to a dog trial for years. There was a certain point, years ago, when my heart and my legs told me to slow down, and I decided to get back to Bible study and teaching. Then Covid hit and we all isolated. Then I was called back to preaching part time. No dog trials for years.

But all this chatting and hugging and talking about dead dogs and their miraculous sons and daughters, and all this remembering and loving, made me realize just how much I miss being with this big, odd assortment of people, and the dogs that own them and keep them going and keep them realizing how beautiful is the life that God has given us all.

I miss it big time. Thank you, dogs and your people.

Thanks for this amazing life.