Every time I look at the back of my right hand, and see that two-inch long scar, I think of “Scottie”. He was a “bull dog-bird dog” mix, the kind of dog that people give away if they can find anybody who wants one. But to a boy, his dog is the greatest thing in the world. A loyal dog will adore its owner, who may have many shortcomings, but to the dog he is a god. The same respect is returned to the dog only by little boys.
We got Scottie when he was just a puppy, and I could not believe my dad when he said he was “free”. “THIS dog had to have cost hundreds of dollars, dad. Who would GIVE away such a smart and beautiful and sweet puppy?” From the time I was six he was my most trusted friend, always wanting to go wherever I went, and I would have taken him to school with me if I could. Once I did, and they made me take him home. My teachers were so narrow-minded.
Anyway, here’s the story of how I got the scar on my hand. I was somewhere around thirteen, and puberty was making me think my folks were stupid and I knew more than they did. I talked back to my mother in a loud voice one night, and she told me to go outside until I could “straighten up”. I slammed the door, and then for good measure I put my fist through the window glass, ripping a huge gash in my hand. But I was too proud (or maybe too angry) to go back inside, and Scottie and I took off away from home. Wrapping my hand in newspapers, I walked eight miles through Birmingham, from Ensley on the west side to Woodlawn on the east side of the city. Of course Scottie was right there with me, never more than three feet away. We walked through downtown, past the steel mills, through the neighborhoods, to my grandmother’s house. It took us four hours.
My grandmother gave me a hug, took me inside, bandaged my hand, and called my parents to let them know that I was okay and would be staying the night with her. Scottie, who had never been to her house, lay down on her front porch as I went inside. It was by now past midnight.
The next morning I woke up feeling fine, but Scottie was gone. I called him and walked around the yard and through my grandmother’s neighborhood, but Scottie could not be found. He had been my closest companion for seven years, and now I had lost him, and all because of my own rebellion against my mother, and my stubborn attitude which made me walk eight miles rather than turn around and apologize. I prayed and I cried and repented. “Please, God, all I want is my little dog back! I will be better from now on, I promise!”
Sometime around noon my grandmother drove me on a sad trip back to where I lived. But upon arriving home, as we were coming up the steep steps in front, there was Scottie, waiting for me on the porch. He was so tired, but he was home! My mother said he got there just before we did, and he had collapsed from exhaustion, so weak that he had bumped his head as he lay down.
Looking down at this faithful little animal on my porch, I wondered how many miles Scottie had walked as he sniffed his way through the city of Birmingham for twelve hours. I thought about how many times he must have come close to being hit by a car as he sought his way through the downtown traffic. I wondered what had driven him to keep going, and how he could find his way at all, with all the confusing noises and smells of the city. But I was so glad that he had made it, and was so grateful that he was back with me! Lying down on the porch beside Scottie, I put my arm around him, amazed at the resilience and instincts of a common, mixed-breed, “free” dog.
Today I am still amazed that the best things in life are indeed free. What we can earn or achieve or purchase are nothing compared to what God provides for us at no charge. It’s called “grace”, and it really is free. And it really is, as the hymn says, amazing! And, just as a reminder of His faithfulness, He has given us these wonderful creatures that never knew their daddy, and forgot about their mama, but they wag their tail and think we are the greatest thing since sliced bacon.
Looking back, I ask myself some questions about what really happened that day. Did God really answer a boy’s panicked prayer? Did almost losing my canine companion make me appreciate him more? Can humans learn from animals something about loyalty and determination? As I grew up, would I ever do anything that stupid again?
The answers are yes, yes, yes, and “are you kidding?”
See that same hand? Someday I’ll tell you about the other scar!
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