Mud's Story | Part II

We turned the truck around and headed back to the house. I introduced the little dude to Dirt, grabbed my treat pouch, and filled it with a cup of kibble. After a quick medical analysis of the pup, ensuring he wasn’t injured anywhere, we left Dirt at home and went to town.

The first stop was our vet. “Alright, Dad, he needs his shots,” Dr. P said as she looked the little guy over.

“Yea, yea.” I muttered, “Let's get him ready for a good home.”

“Gotta check with Dirt first, huh?”

“I already have. He’s at home – plotting a cow-dog Navy Seal hell week program.

“You couldn’t have found a better home, buddy. Now you just need a name.” Dr. P whispered in the puppy's ear while she scanned him for a microchip. “Nothing.” Then she looked at me with eye contact that said only one thing. She knew Dirt was about to have a brother.

She handed me the bill for all fifteen syringes she’d injected him with. I begrudgingly pulled out my wallet because who knows what’s really in all those shots.

“I’ve only heard of one case of rabies in all my years.” I started telling Kim at the front desk. “My buddy's stepmom, Donnette. They found her in the Branchville Piggly Wiggly, growling at customers trying to buy frozen Swanson's Chicken Pot Pies. Weird.”

I grabbed an oozing handful of tootsie rolls, and we headed home.

When we got back, Dirt was guarding everything. He’d place a ball on the ground, and as soon as the little dude would go near it, Dirt would growl and cover it up. He’d jump on the couch, the pup would follow, then Dirt would nip him off. But the puppy could hang. He had vigor as well as forgiveness.

I put him on a leather lead attached to a collar that had Dirt in bright orange sewn into it. I tied it to a kettle ball and placed him outside the door. The perfect spot for him to watch while Dirt and I made dinner. Steaks.

It couldn’t have taken longer than thirty seconds to cut the bag of Caesar salad and dump it into a bowl, but when I turned around to flip the steaks, he was gone.

A seemingly fourteen-week-old puppy had chewed through a leather leash and vanished within seconds. But, of course, it only took Dirt half that time to track him down and herd him back to base, where smart me, once again, put a new leash on him, tied him to the kettle ball, went to the bathroom, and when I came out, poof, he was gone again.

“Mud!” I yelled out. “Dadgum, it! That was a good leash!” I surprised Dirt and myself when I broke the coveted “think before you speak” rule and called him by the perfectly suited name.

Dirt excitedly herded him up again and brought him back to the house, knowing he now had a brother to constantly use as a cow.

As I watched Mud snoring upside down in his crate, I couldn’t help but wonder, what if somebody didn’t drop him off? What if he chewed through a tether? Maybe he wasn’t meant to be tied down? A little explorer puppy, perhaps. Dirt and I certainly didn’t want to be deemed as the guys who stopped the next Magellan canine.

Is a short life full of adventure and curiosity better than a long life of safety and precaution? Mud was totally dry when we found him. And upon further inspection of the spot he crossed, was a set of clearly visible tire tracks just off the pavement.

The explorer narrative tastes better than imagining the harsh truth. We don’t want to believe people can drive out to the middle of nowhere, pull over, and drop off a helpless puppy, but it happens every day. And if you’re one of the people who has done this, please know that just like Mud, I forgive you.

Life is hard. And it's particularly hard to offer grace to those who act in ways we may not understand or can relate to. If the guilt hasn’t already got them, shame certainly has, so what if we assume everyone’s doing their best? Maybe Mud was the difference between new shoes for the kids or fifteen shots at the vet? (Which ain’t cheap doc…)

The other day, I found a mother and eight puppies at the entrance to our drive. They were dropped with a brand-new plastic dog crate and a huge water bowl. The puppies couldn't have been more than a week old. A couple weeks before, I found four puppies in an old abandoned church on the back of the farm. These were good people who didn’t know what to do. We’ve all been there.

I’ve learned getting mad at the person or the act doesn’t do any good and certainly doesn’t assist in finding a solution. Why beat them up?

Bob Goff told me once, “People don’t need to get a grip. They need a handle to hold.” When we shame people for their mistakes, we ensure they won’t ask for help the next time the road gets muddy. Shaming only fuels a more callused tomorrow. It’s easier to judge and ridicule than to be curious and ask how we can help.

We all get stuck in the Mud. Let's offer a handle and help get them out. Or, at the very least, buy them some Swanson’s Chicken Pot Pie.