By Cynthia Culp Allen
With the exception of women, there is nothing on earth so agreeable or necessary to the comfort of man as the dog.
~Edward Jesse, Anecdote of Dogs
My father was just finishing up radiation for cancer when his dog, Duno, disappeared. To Dad, it was the final strike in a series of crises that threatened to put him out of the game. Duno, a Queensland Heeler in his golden years, had never left the farm that he had been raised on. My dad had trained Duno from a tiny, furry pup. On command, he would sit, heel, fetch a ball, and jump up into my dad's truck. The dog never left the man's side. I think my father loved that canine almost as much as us kids, maybe even my mother. Once when my son Christian was four, he stayed at my parents' house. When he came home, Christian told me, "I can't wait until I'm Grandpa's age... it looks like so much fun, just sitting around eating and watching TV with my lifetime companion."
"You mean Grandma?" I asked.
"No," he replied quickly. "With Duno!"
I laughed then, but now that the dog was lost, I knew how serious it was for my father. He already seemed depressed after his surgery. This new loss jeopardized his recovery. I decided to find that dog -- whatever it took.
I searched and searched with no success. I put an ad in the local paper. No one called. For weeks, I watched the full-page ads from the animal shelter for our county, hoping to see a photo of my dad's lost dog. I called the shelter so many times asking if they'd found a Queensland Heeler that they started sounding irritated when they heard my voice.
Finally, one morning I studied that week's ad and called again.
"Do you have any Queenies in there today?" I asked for the umpteenth time.
"Actually we do," the receptionist said. My heart jumped in hope, then sank when she added, "But it's a female. You said your dad's is a male, right?"
"Yes," I replied, discouraged.
"And you said your dad's dog had a brown leather collar. This dog has a new red cloth collar," the receptionist continued. "Someone brought her in because she kept barking and they couldn't get her to stop."
My dad's dog never barked. Duno was the calmest, quietest dog a human could ever own.
I hated to call my father with the news, but I knew I had to.
"Dad, the shelter says they don't have your dog," I told him over the phone. "But maybe we should go in there and see for ourselves."
Why did I say that? I had lots of chores to do that day.
"Please help me find that dog," I prayed, wondering if God paid attention to petitions for pets when He had so many other major crises to control.
My father came by and picked me up in his truck and we headed over to the shelter. When we arrived, I explained to the workers that we just wanted to take a look at all the dogs they had in there. The worker led us up and down the rows of cages. There were so many dogs waiting for their masters to find them -- Border Collies, Pit Bulls, Dalmatians, Lab mixes, Terriers and mutts. But no Queensland Heelers.
With all the barking, it was hard to converse. I shouted at the worker, "Are these all the dogs you have?"
He nodded.
"You don't have any other dogs anywhere on the property?" I persisted.
"Well, we have the dogs waiting to be euthanized," he said sheepishly.
"Where are they? I want to see them," I shouted again.
He led us to the other end of the property where a building housed the most unfortunate dogs. I hurried ahead of my dad, who was still trying to build up his strength after cancer treatment. I charged down the row of animals on Doggie Death Row, my head bobbing right and left as I quickly glanced into each cage for my dad's dog. At the end of the row, my hopes were dashed. I turned, stretched out my arms, and exclaimed in a discouraged voice, "Dad, he's not here!"
Just then, my dad rounded the corner of the building, coming into full view, for me -- and the animals. Suddenly, a dog that had been lying in the back of a cage leaped forward from the dark shadows, barking and jumping. He stretched up to full height on his hind legs, putting his front paws on the cage, barking and howling at my dad. His bobbed tail wagged joyfully and a normally quiet dog was making lots of noise as he recognized his master. It was as if he was saying, "Man, am I glad to see you! Get me out of this awful place. I want to go home!"
Dad understood, in that unspoken language between owners and the pets that they love. He opened the gate, and wrapped his big arms around Duno's neck.
"Let's go home, Boy," he said quietly, patting his dog. "Things are going to be alright." Dad sounded more confident than he had in months.
Once home, Duno was treated to a bath and a new fluffy bed. My dad left the red collar on him. The people who had stolen Duno had thrown away his brown leather collar, replacing it with the new red one. They tied my dad's dog to their house for safekeeping. But the dog barked incessantly, so they took him to the pound to get rid of him. Weeks had gone by, and we had found Duno just in time.
I call this event our family's Mini Miracle. Many people might not want to bother God with something as minor as a man's lost best friend. But when that canine companion gives a man a new lease on life, I call that the major leagues, don't you?
With the exception of women, there is nothing on earth so agreeable or necessary to the comfort of man as the dog.
~Edward Jesse, Anecdote of Dogs
My father was just finishing up radiation for cancer when his dog, Duno, disappeared. To Dad, it was the final strike in a series of crises that threatened to put him out of the game. Duno, a Queensland Heeler in his golden years, had never left the farm that he had been raised on. My dad had trained Duno from a tiny, furry pup. On command, he would sit, heel, fetch a ball, and jump up into my dad's truck. The dog never left the man's side. I think my father loved that canine almost as much as us kids, maybe even my mother. Once when my son Christian was four, he stayed at my parents' house. When he came home, Christian told me, "I can't wait until I'm Grandpa's age... it looks like so much fun, just sitting around eating and watching TV with my lifetime companion."
"You mean Grandma?" I asked.
"No," he replied quickly. "With Duno!"
I laughed then, but now that the dog was lost, I knew how serious it was for my father. He already seemed depressed after his surgery. This new loss jeopardized his recovery. I decided to find that dog -- whatever it took.
I searched and searched with no success. I put an ad in the local paper. No one called. For weeks, I watched the full-page ads from the animal shelter for our county, hoping to see a photo of my dad's lost dog. I called the shelter so many times asking if they'd found a Queensland Heeler that they started sounding irritated when they heard my voice.
Finally, one morning I studied that week's ad and called again.
"Do you have any Queenies in there today?" I asked for the umpteenth time.
"Actually we do," the receptionist said. My heart jumped in hope, then sank when she added, "But it's a female. You said your dad's is a male, right?"
"Yes," I replied, discouraged.
"And you said your dad's dog had a brown leather collar. This dog has a new red cloth collar," the receptionist continued. "Someone brought her in because she kept barking and they couldn't get her to stop."
My dad's dog never barked. Duno was the calmest, quietest dog a human could ever own.
I hated to call my father with the news, but I knew I had to.
"Dad, the shelter says they don't have your dog," I told him over the phone. "But maybe we should go in there and see for ourselves."
Why did I say that? I had lots of chores to do that day.
"Please help me find that dog," I prayed, wondering if God paid attention to petitions for pets when He had so many other major crises to control.
My father came by and picked me up in his truck and we headed over to the shelter. When we arrived, I explained to the workers that we just wanted to take a look at all the dogs they had in there. The worker led us up and down the rows of cages. There were so many dogs waiting for their masters to find them -- Border Collies, Pit Bulls, Dalmatians, Lab mixes, Terriers and mutts. But no Queensland Heelers.
With all the barking, it was hard to converse. I shouted at the worker, "Are these all the dogs you have?"
He nodded.
"You don't have any other dogs anywhere on the property?" I persisted.
"Well, we have the dogs waiting to be euthanized," he said sheepishly.
"Where are they? I want to see them," I shouted again.
He led us to the other end of the property where a building housed the most unfortunate dogs. I hurried ahead of my dad, who was still trying to build up his strength after cancer treatment. I charged down the row of animals on Doggie Death Row, my head bobbing right and left as I quickly glanced into each cage for my dad's dog. At the end of the row, my hopes were dashed. I turned, stretched out my arms, and exclaimed in a discouraged voice, "Dad, he's not here!"
Just then, my dad rounded the corner of the building, coming into full view, for me -- and the animals. Suddenly, a dog that had been lying in the back of a cage leaped forward from the dark shadows, barking and jumping. He stretched up to full height on his hind legs, putting his front paws on the cage, barking and howling at my dad. His bobbed tail wagged joyfully and a normally quiet dog was making lots of noise as he recognized his master. It was as if he was saying, "Man, am I glad to see you! Get me out of this awful place. I want to go home!"
Dad understood, in that unspoken language between owners and the pets that they love. He opened the gate, and wrapped his big arms around Duno's neck.
"Let's go home, Boy," he said quietly, patting his dog. "Things are going to be alright." Dad sounded more confident than he had in months.
Once home, Duno was treated to a bath and a new fluffy bed. My dad left the red collar on him. The people who had stolen Duno had thrown away his brown leather collar, replacing it with the new red one. They tied my dad's dog to their house for safekeeping. But the dog barked incessantly, so they took him to the pound to get rid of him. Weeks had gone by, and we had found Duno just in time.
I call this event our family's Mini Miracle. Many people might not want to bother God with something as minor as a man's lost best friend. But when that canine companion gives a man a new lease on life, I call that the major leagues, don't you?
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