FLOWERS FOR BUDDY

As I was preparing to write this story, (and as I often do) I went to the internet, and brought up a series of articles related to my topic.

In this case wild violets.

And as I googled the subject of my quest, the first item at the top of the list was,

“How to get rid of wild violets in your yard.”

And I thought,

“Why would I want to get rid of them?”

(and)

“I happen to like them.”

(and)

“I happen to like them a lot.”

I mean, I purposely mow around a 2x2 foot clump of the little things in my back yard.

Of course, as you might expect, there’s more to the story, and for anyone who is a fan of my blogs, you may remember my having written about the topic before.

Yesterday, as I stepped outside to survey my woodsy quarter acre, I glanced to my right and noticed a tiny clump of lovely wild violets were in bloom. Twelve or fifteen of the small purple blossoms greeted my eyes; held up by rich green leafy shoots.

And, as always, I paused to reflect on a precious little Shih Tzu named, ‘Buddy’ which I was privileged to know and love for the space of a decade.

And as I have inferred in the past, when she left us, (Yes, ‘Buddy’ was a her) I installed a circular decorative tile on this spot to commemorate her.

For it was here that our precious pooch so often resorted to “take in the rays.

Pt. 2

Perhaps I have chosen to “read more into it,” but I am convinced that the proximity of the wild violets to the place Buddy loved the best is no coincidence or mistake. I believe it was an “on purpose” sorta thing which has its roots with Providence, and was (drum roll) planned before the earth was breathed into being.

I know that’s “saying a lot” and I realize it’s a lot to take in, but I’m convinced that Buddy was simply worth it, and that our Lord was thinking of her

…before He made the worlds.

I mean, I’ve written about my little Buddy before, and without going into great detail again suffice it to say that I think my precious pooch fulfilled her mission on this earth; whereas many human beings never do.

There was a time when her incessant barking caused a would-be burglar to flee. There was a time when she refused to leave my daughter’s side when she was grieving the loss of a marriage. There was a time when she followed my wife around the house, ‘til she submitted to a physical exam by which a malignant tumor was detected early, and she has been allowed to live out a long and productive life.

Yes, my Buddy was worth it, and I think our Lord agreed with me before I ever knew the bless-ed creature.

There is a particular verse in the Book of Psalms which provides some evidence of the Creator’s love and affirmation for both his human and animal creations, and His promise that I will see my Buddy again one day.

Your righteousness is like the highest mountains, your justice like the great deep. You, LORD, preserve both people and animals. (Psalm 36:6)

Afterward

No, I don’t believe the presence of those lovely wild violets, next to that circular decorative tile in my backyard, is a coincidence or mistake. I will always think of this place as a Providential tribute to one of His wonderful little creations named Buddy.

I like to think of that wild, uncultivated patch of purple blossoms as God’s own memorial for a life well lived, and for a creature He loved more than I ever could.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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MY (DEARLY DEPARTED) LITTLE BUDDY RETURNS

As a child and as a young and older adult, (well, throughout my natural life, for as long as I remember) I have enjoyed watching “The Twilight Zone.” And though Rod Serling, (like Elvis) has long since “left the building,” millions of people are still fascinated by the syndicated re-runs of this marvelous program.

For anyone who has ever ‘partaken’ of this half-hour broadcast, he or she is all too familiar with the quirky nature of the old series; which might loosely be characterized as belonging to the genre of science fiction. Of course, none of ‘the stuff’ of what was formerly a weekly television offing was based on reality.

Nonetheless, someone once made a statement which goes something like, “There are (strange and wonderful) things in heaven and earth which have yet to be found out; and some are the stuff of fiction.”

(Come to think of it, I kinda like my rendition of the phrase).

Lately, I have come across two examples in scripture, one in the Old Testament, and one in the New Testament, which bear out this perspective.

“You (meaning God) preserve both man and animals, alike.” (Psalm 36:6)

(and)

“Then I heard every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and on the sea, and all that is in them, saying:

‘To him who sits on the throne and to the Lamb be praise and honor and glory and power, for ever and ever!’" (Rev. 5:13)

After my pet Shih Tzu passed away, I wrote a small volume in her memory entitled, “My Little Buddy.” 

(Yes, her name was ‘Buddy.’)

The dear creature first wandered up to our house with another dog of the same variety; apparently her brother; as they were obviously still puppies. And since Shih Tzu’s are rather expensive, it seemed obvious that these were no ‘throw away’ pets. Sadly, the male pooch died shortly thereafter, and as a result, Buddy displayed some significant anxiety, but it is not my purpose to give much time to that sad occurrence.

However, I will allude to the passing of our dear little Buddy; a full decade later.

Buddy, (as is the case with many Shih Tzu’s) suffered from severe allergies, and the only recourse was the administration of steroidal medication. Otherwise, she at best would have been uncomfortable, and at worst, might have scratched out her eyes.

However, the use of this medication over the course of ten years took its toll, and Buddy’s liver values continued to rise, and ultimately to dangerous levels. I always referred to this seeming medicinal contradiction as, “Taking poison to stay alive.”

I will spare you the worst, (though I was quite specific in my volume by the same title as this story) but suffice it to say our little Buddy left us in the course of a night, though her leaving was not without significant suffering. She lay close against me that night, as she had all of the 3,000 plus days I’d called her mine. And as the dark of night gave way to the light of dawn, Buddy took her leave, and traveled to wherever household pets go …when they go.

On a rather light, or morbid note, (depending on your particular mindset) having considered ‘permatizing’ my pooch, I once looked over at Buddy, and asked,

“Buddy, would you like to be freeze dried when you die?”

And I kid you not, my furry friend responded with the most contentious look I had ever witnessed on her canine countenance. But to be sure, I’m convinced that we will see our pets again. At least, I have asked our heavenly Father for the favor of their eternal presence next to me.

Can it be sixty years since that black & white Cocker Spaniel, Princess, graced my life? And with the passing of decades, Buddy, and Lucy, and Queenie filled the successive emptiness left by the one before.

And of course, as each went “the way of all flesh” I expected the obligatory wait ‘til I would see any, or all of them again.

But, have you heard the old adage,

…“There’s always an exception to the rule.” (?)

I was heartbroken.

I was nearing 60, and I found myself coping with a loss with which I hadn’t contended in half a century. The demise of a beloved pet. The tears came, and continued to come hot and heavy, as they had when my little Princess had gone on to her reward.

I don’t exactly know what I believe about “visitations from the great beyond;” (except the admonition of scripture that we refrain from ‘following after’ such things). I can only bear witness to the unique experiences which were mine, (and mine alone) after my little Buddy left the scene, and the resulting perspective that God can do anything He “jolly well chooses” to do.

It had been, at the most, a few days since Buddy “gave up the ghost” and my emotions were as raw as the day she left us. My furry friend and I had slept in the same bed for years, and there was no one to complain about the arrangement, as my wife had long since “taken up residence” in her own bedroom; due to her work as a shift nurse.

My little Buddy had her own pillow at the foot of the bed. (And I’m not ashamed to admit that after her demise I have kept a token pillow at the end of my bed).

At any rate, after I resorted to my bedroom one night, and the combination of weariness and grief overcame my wakefulness, I experienced something completely unexpected, and unbidden.

…Breathing

Or at least the sensation of something up against my right shoulder, and that something was

…Respiring.

To be sure, no audible sound escaped the lungs of whatever lay next to me. Only the physical sensation of something breathing in and out, in and out as this non-descript thing lay hard against my shoulder.

And as you might well imagine, several seconds transpired before I conjured up the wherewithal to look. I mean, by this time I was all too aware that I, and I, alone should be the only entity filling up the 65 square foot rectangular surface upon which I resided.

Ultimately, I turned to look.

And what greeted my eyes was,

… absolutely nothing.

That same night I sensed the sensation of weight against my right foot, as if this same unseen entity was seeking the comfort of the pillow which was lying there.

I can assure you I was wide awake, and that there was nothing about these unseen manifestations kin to the dreams of which I, (and every other inhabitant of the earth) are all too familiar.

The late Jimmy Stewart, one of my favorite old-time movie stars, once appeared on “The Tonight Show” (with Johnny Carson) and shared one of his ‘home grown’ poems, titled, “My Dog, Beau.”

What he apparently experienced, and upon which he based the following excerpt seems akin to my own experience.

“And there are nights when I think I feel him
Climb upon our bed and lie between us,
And I pat his head.
And there are nights when I think
I feel that stare
And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair,
But he's not there.
Oh, how I wish that wasn't so.
I'll always love a dog named Beau.”

And I suppose if that had been the end of it, a decade later I might still be questioning the reality of what transpired that night.

However…

As I was walking in my neighborhood one evening, perhaps a month after the loss of my beloved Buddy, and I found myself reminiscing about the old girl,

…I saw it,

(or should I use a different pronoun)?

…I saw her.

Suddenly, not thirty feet ahead of me, what seemed to be a little white pooch appeared out of nothingness, slowly walked across my path way, and entered my neighbor’s front yard.

And as quickly as she appeared, she immediately relinquished her physicality.

I can’t account for why the great actor and I were blessed to realize such momentary manifestations of our precious pooches. But at least for me there remains that quiet reassurance that our pets are alive and well, and reside in a land where the roses never fade, and no tear dims the eye.

There’s a poignant cartoon which depicts St. Peter standing at the pearly gates. Next to him is a dog thoroughly overcome with excitement. In the foreground we see an old man approaching the duo.

St. Peter bends his head towards ‘Rover’ and exclaims,

“So this is your friend, Bobby, who you’ve been ‘going on about’ for the past 50 years!”

I think by now Jimmy and Beau have been reunited, and that Buddy is eagerly awaiting my arrival.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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REGARDING FORGIVENESS

(My responses to someone on social media related to the topic of forgiveness)

It occurs to me that God expects us to forgive people who sin against us whether they ask for forgiveness or not. However, in order for God to forgive us, He expects us to ask. Just part and parcel of the way God has decided to do things.

Here's a few scriptures related to this topic: Psalm 32:5, Proverbs 28:13, Romans 10:9-10, 1st John 1:9.

I think this apparent contradiction relates to God's unwillingness to accept anyone into His kingdom, unless they want to be there, whereas He expects us to forgive even those who don't ask for forgiveness simply because it is good for us, and allows us to move forward.

On a related topic I have written about God's Forgiver and Forgetter Mechanisms. God not only forgives, but forgets - Isaiah 1:18, Psalm 103:12.

However, we were only provided one of those mechanisms; the Forgiver Mechanism.

For whatever reason He didn't provide us a Forgetter Mechanism. Unless we develop amnesia, we will always remember the sins people have sinned against us, but we are left with God's expectation that we forgive them, and surrender "our right to get even" with them.

MAYBE TWOUBLE LOOKIN' FOR YOU

I pedal

I pedal a lot

I pedal in the wee hours of the morning

And during the course of almost 4 years, and over 12,000 miles of pedaling the same 10 mile course, I’ve “run into” some pretty strange scenarios; (in addition to several calamitous falls).

A woman standing next to the highway, in the shrubbery of a bank, holding a small terrier, and singing the most eerie tune that’s ever been sung. (Needless to say, I kept pedaling).

Speaking of four-footed beasts of the canine variety, a miniature, emaciated Doberman tied to a lamppost next to the highway. It goes without saying, I cannot leave her there, but take her home, feed her, and quickly dispatch the precious pooch to a no-kill shelter.

A young man, perhaps 6’ tall, 170 lbs., walking along the sidewalk towards me, as I am preparing to cross a four lane thoroughfare. I look to my right. I see him. I look to the left. No traffic. I look to the right, and he has vanished from my sight. Did I mention there is an 8’ wall on his left, and a well-lit highway on his right?

A young man with a cane standing at a busy intersection. Approaching him he asks if I can direct him to a particular part of town. Johnny (for that is his name) tells me that he has been walking for five (5) hours; having been released earlier that evening from the county jail. Making a calculated decision I suggest he keep walking. I will finish pedaling home, retrieve my car, and drive him the remaining couple of miles to his home. (That I am writing this story and have suffered no harm or alarm speaks for itself).

And then tonight''

Perhaps the most bizarre scenario of all

I have just crossed over one of several four lane highways which exist on my measured pathway, and mounted the next sidewalk; for I only pedal on sidewalks. Safer, don’t ya know? (Ironic, I suppose, given this strange series of stories).

I hear it before I see it. Some muted, unidentified protestations. I turn my gaze in a diagonal direction. And oddly enough, as it seems now, on the exact same corner where I encountered ‘Jailhouse Johnny’ are a large black SUV, and a late model semi-truck cab. Parked at a traffic light, I notice the driver of the SUV is standing just behind his vehicle, while the driver of the larger truck is engaged in a struggle with what appears to be an adult female.

I think none of us know exactly how we will respond to a seeming emergency until it “drops from the sky” and figuratively exclaims, “Here I am.” Oh, we can imagine what we’d do, but “the proof is (definitely) in the pudding.”

I do not hesitate

It occurred to me at that moment that I was willing to do whatever I had to do to rescue the apparent “damsel in distress.” At the moment, at least, I had no consideration whatever of the presence of firearms, or taking on two ‘bad boys’ at a time, (or the fact that I am approaching 70 years of age).

I immediately begin peddling my speedy (well, not so much) bike towards what appears to be the scene of a crime. As I pedal I attempt to “get the mark” of the situation unraveling before me. It seems a woman is being dragged into the driver’s side of the cab, as if the offender intends to take her against her will.

Twenty feet from the truck now, and the young (or not so much) lady is being pulled (or clamoring) over the legs of the driver and into a jump or bench seat to his right.

Ten feet from my goal now, and the driver’s door slams shut. I peer into the poorly lit cab and it seems the driver and potential detainee are still, and awaiting the decision of the other vehicle. The man walks to the driver’s side of his car, gets in, makes a 90 degree turn, and the semi-cab follows suite. I watch the two vehicles as they accelerate, and eventually disappear out of sight.

As ‘Mrs. Fairfax’ (re. the novel, ‘Jane Eyre’) was heard to say,

“What to do? What to do?"

I reach into my pocket and consider the possibility of dialing 911. And yet. Wasn’t the woman ‘cool, calm and collected’ as the door slammed shut in my face? And didn’t the driver of the other vehicle casually stroll to his car, as though nothing was amiss?

I consider an alternative possibility

Perhaps the three individuals knew one another. Perhaps the driver of the first vehicle stopped at the light to allow the woman to ride in the second. Perhaps she and the pilot of the second were a bit ‘tanked’ and simply engaging in some raucous revelry. And rather than using the passenger door, she chose to enroll herself in the cab the hard way.

I delay. I debate. I deliberate. (All those ‘D’ words).

I desist

Approximately three minutes elapse and I hear it before I see it.

(Rather familiar, don’t you think)?

A sheriff’s department cruiser comes sailing down the highway at break-neck speed, its red and blue lights flashing, and its siren screaming.

I can only surmise, having witnessed the unusual scenario unfolding before him or her, a witness retrieved his or her phone and made the call.

My brother is, himself, a long haul truck driver, and I often give him a ring as he is on his way to Miami and I am completing my ‘O-dark-thirty’ trek. This morning my routine was the same, though the story I shared with him was anything but routine.

Wayne, being a man of few words, generally allows me to do most of the talking. However, having heard my fateful tale, he responded with,

“Maybe you should ride in the daylight, rather than the dark!”

I responded with,

“Very wise advice. Maybe you’re right!”

There’s a scene in the movie, “The Karate Kid” in which ‘Daniel-son’ interacts with an Okinawan bully.

Our hero speaks.

“Hey man. I’m not looking for trouble!”

To which the local thug responds,

“Maybe twouble lookin’ for you!”

I can relate

As a freshman in high school I learned an old Irish prayer. It seems rather fitting here:

"From ghoulies, and ghosties and long-legged beasties, and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, deliver us."

And “one more for the road.”

Since I wrote the foregoing description of several scenarios to which I have been exposed during my morning bike treks over the years, I have been forced to relinquish my recurring ‘spin’ in favor of putting one foot in front of the other. (But that is a whole ‘nother story).

At any rate, as I was putting in my ‘morning 2’ (as in two miles) today, and had turned off Highway 540 onto Spirit Lake Road, (an apt name) and was walking down the parallel sidewalk, I happened on a rather bewildering sight.

And while the entire situation fell together in the space of eight or ten seconds, and due to the darkness I was not able to discern what the individual was initially ‘up to,’ a tall, slender male (or female) suddenly bounded across the front yard, and ran in a serpentine pattern towards a nearby bush.

Arriving at the moderately tall bush, my ‘momentary friend’ crouched down behind it, and while squatting there continued to hold my gaze. And very much like a recent Progressive Insurance commercial, he (or she) continued to squat “right there in front of God and everybody,” as I passed within twenty paces or him (or her).

And while at 225 pounds I “cut a mean figure,” and while the metal cane which I held was capable of inflicting significant damage, I admit to looking over my right shoulder ‘til I’d left the ethereal him (or her) far behind.

Given the abject wierdness of the moment, I was tempted to utter a few words; in hopes of staving off the possibility of an unlikely attack. In retrospect I might have done well to shout, “Ready or not, here I come” (or) “Dost thou think that yonder bush covereth thee sufficiently? No, yon phantom. It does not” (or) “Do you realize how utterly stupid you look squatting behind that bush?”

At this stage, I cannot be sure why I held my peace. But I think I may have done so to forestall the most likely possible response…

“Maybe twouble lookin’ for you!”

 by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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THE KENTUCKY COLONEL

It was almost half a century ago, but it could have just as easily been yesterday.

I was a student at the (then) Southeastern Bible College, (now Southeastern University). As an off-campus, commuting student I was required to attend chapel services 2-3 times a week.

The guest speaker at one of the morning services was none other than Colonel Harland Sanders; founder and CEO of the world famous Kentucky Fried Chicken Corporation.

As might be expected, “The Colonel” was dressed in his equally world famous white suit, and “Southern plantation” tie. As he was introduced by the president of our school, he slowly strode to the podium, and proceeded to share the history of his enterprise, beginning with his adornment of chicken cadavers with various herbs and spices, in an attempt to determine just the right combination, for just the right taste. The man in white went on to detail how a single rural location duplicated itself, and how over the course of several years his brand of fried chicken became the best known, and most loved product of its kind in the world.

Three things about the “Kentucky Colonel” impressed me the most, or at least, have remained with me the longest.

His quiet and peaceful demeanor. (Even with a microphone, and sitting within a few rows of the front of the auditorium, I had to listen carefully to his words).

His “I’m really no different than you are” sort of presentation. He knew his roots, and they were humbler than most any member of the student body.

But more importantly, this man knew who he was, and to Whom he belonged. The Colonel acknowledged his faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, and gave Him the glory for how far He had brought him.

And though that old Southern gentleman has long since gone on to his reward, and while poor facsimiles of the Colonel have lately appeared on KFC commercials, of all the chapel services I attended at my beloved school, I think I will always remember, and cherish the one to which I have alluded the most.


by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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SHIRLEY'S SANDALS

In the early 90’s, possibly 1995, Dr. Dobson co-sponsored a week-long counseling seminar in Denver, along with The American Association of Christian Counselors. My wife and flew out for the seminar, and while Jean found various things to keep her occupied, especially sight-seeing (she loved Rocky Mountain National Park) I attended various daily subject blocks that were presented. Of course, I was in my early years as a pastoral counselor in Winter Haven at the time.

On the last night of the seminar, Dr. Dobson spoke to what was easily a thousand participants. Afterwards, he invited whomever would to speak to him a moment and have their photo made with him. It seemed like hundreds lined up for this howdy doody time with him. Since there were dozens and dozens of people ahead of me, I decided I would head back to the hotel where Jean waited. As I walked out the conference hall door, I rethought that decision, since I really wanted to meet the imminent doctor. I turned around and got in line. By this time I found myself like three people from the end.

Oh the patience of this wonderful man. He chatted amicably with each person, like they were long-lost friends, and posed for photos. From time to time, he would encourage friends of the individual he was speaking with to step up and pose with him and them. Time was dragging by, and the line slowly crept forward.

Finally, as I approached Dr. Dobson, there was one person in line ahead of me by this time, I looked over to my right, and Shirley Dobson was standing there, looking by impatient by this hour of the night, barefoot and holding her sandals in her hands.

I heard her say, “Jim, it’s getting late. We really need to go home.”

Well, you can imagine how disappointed I was, thinking “well, there’s one persona ahead of me, and now he’s going to turn on his heels, and walk out.”

But I suppose he spoke to her and encouraged his wife that he was almost done, I don’t recall now, and then it was my turn.

“And so, do you have a question or comment, my friend?” I had previously thought what I might ask.

“Dr. Dobson, if you were to give a pastoral counselor one suggestion, what would it be.”

I realized that was a broad, open-ended inquiry, but I thought Dr. James handled it very well.

“Well sir, if I had time to consider your question in the way it deserves, I might come up with something more profound, but my advice to you is to ‘be loyal to your clients, your pastor, your church and your God.’”

This bit of advice might not mean a great deal to you, but as a counselor it certainly registered with me.

I thanked him, and headed out the door, and walked a couple blocks back to the hotel where my wife was anxiously waiting for me. It was near midnight, and my Jean was frantic that I’d been mugged, and being held for ransom. She had asked a security guard if he would assist her, and he told her that if I didn’t show up soon, he would be glad to scour the streets for me. It was about this time that I appeared… and I won’t go into that, but you can imagine Jean’s relief, as well as her momentary indignation.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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I'LL BE RIGHT BACK

Several years ago, my wife and I attended a Ruth Graham seminar on the west coast of Florida. And as I recall, the multi-hour event included elective segments on any of a number of topics, and with such speakers as Damaris Carbaugh, the mother of Ellen Degeneres’ former girlfriend, (who was decidedly against the gay agenda), and of course, (it goes without saying) Ruth Graham, herself.

Well, for anyone who has known me very long, it should also “go without saying” that I didn’t drive an hour there, and an hour back, not to make Ruth Graham, the daughter of the famous evangelist, Billy Graham, my priority.

Apparently, one segment Jean and I attended finished early, and (also apparently) my wife got involved elsewhere, since I headed over to the main convention hall to get a “good seat.” And (you guessed it) Ruth Graham was scheduled next on the, well, schedule.

It can safely be said that I did, indeed, get a good seat since when I walked into the auditorium I found myself completely

… alone.

And since I had a few hundred seats from which to choose, I walked towards the front of the theater, and took a seat in the 3^rd row, center. (I simply don’t sit on the first row of a theater, church, auditorium, or fill in the blank. Somehow, it seems a bit comforting, if that is the word, to have something in front of me, and not, as it were, to have my legs hanging out in midair).

At any rate, as I sat waiting for Ruth Graham to make her debut, who should appear but, (you guessed it)

… Ruth Graham.

Ruth, (if I may be so bold to call her by her given name) came striding across the floor from right stage towards the left, and had walked perhaps ten feet when she saw yours truly seated in Row 3, Center. Suddenly, the young lady, (younger than me, and definitely younger than she is now) stopped, and said,

“I’ll be right back!”

As I recall, I sheepishly responded with,

“Uh, Okay.”

The well-known daughter of an even better-known father. The never-to-be-well-known, except in his little corner of the world, pastoral counselor.

Interacting at that moment, at least, on the same level. (Well, to be fair she was up on a stage, but you see where I’m going). We momentarily engaged one another as if we were acquainted.

I refer to such scenarios as

“creating memories.”

And though, if you asked her, Ruth may have long since forgotten that momentary exchange,

… I never will.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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