I once complained to a psychologist friend about a certain person in my life who made me act in ways I didn’t like. As I listed all the annoying habits of this person who forced me to act like someone other than the kind (and certainly perfect) person I imagined myself to be, her response was, “Well, now you know who you really are. Move forward.” Although curt, her words expressed a deep truth in our Christian journey. Some people, particularly those who are by nature different from ourselves, actually serve an important purpose in our sanctification process because they allow us to identify our own flaws and move beyond them in Christ. Strangely, though, when I reflect on all the great “sanctifiers” I have known, the one who comes first and foremost to mind is the one who just yesterday celebrated his 10th birthday, the one who is a canine: my dog Scout.
When I first adopted Scout a few months after I married, he was the most adorable furry specimen I had ever seen. One of my husband’s friend had found him in a local botanical garden and had stopped by our home to see if we were willing to be his parents. I can still remember his tiny pin-like teeth tickling me as he sat in the palm of my hand, and I examined him. I immediately fell in love with him in ways I had never imagined. I simply wanted to give him everything, so he therefore became my “first child.” When we went on walks, I would bring along a cup of water for his hydration. When we would eat dinner, he would receive a plate of his own and enjoy whatever we were having. When he had his birthday, I ordered a cake from New Orleans and had his friend dogs to our home for burgers. Life with Scout was good, and that was the end of the idyllic story. Almost. In a very Marley and Me way, my honeymoon period with Scout came to abrupt end as soon as my first biological child was born.
From the day I returned home from the hosptial with my daughter, Scout entered into a neurotic zone I was not prepared for. He was overly rambunctious around the new baby, he found her poopy diapers tasty, he barked at every noise in the house, and whenever he was left alone in our home, he would either turn over trash cans, eat toothpaste containers, or de-stuff stuffed animals. The animal who had once been the light of my life turned almost immediately into a pesky nightmare.
At first, my response was to get rid of him. “We just can’t handle him,” I told my husband repeatedly. Of course, my husband, who happens to be loyal to a fault, made it clear that letting him go to another more “tolerant” family was not the answer. I therefore had no choice but to spend the next several years trying desperately to accept Scout for who he was, which frankly was a neurotic mutt with a chip on his shoulder that I helped create. And before long (after five years and several near meltdowns to be exact), Scout and all of his strange behavior finally stopped phasing me. In fact, our family began to adjust to his strangeness. I don’t even think to explain to outsiders why they might discover our garbage cans on top of counters rather than on the floor where they belong. It is simply normal for us.
Yes, I could have taken the easy way out and let Scout go early on. But perhaps I would never have learned the patience and tolerance it takes to love anyone or, in this case animal, that is a little pesty. I actually owe Scout a lot for all he has given me the past ten years, and though it hasn’t always been picture perfect, life with Scout is and always will be good.
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