Felix The Fox

For the past couple months we’ve had a red fox living on our property who makes regular appearances to us throughout the day. I began leaving food out for him and now he regularly swings by to check his bowl, sometimes several times a day. His presence has brought us a lot of joy. We look forward to catching sight of him through our kitchen window as he savors his meals. There’s something oddly satisfying about sharing a quiet moment with a wild creature whose life briefly intertwines with mine. I’m moved toward generosity and compassion for this single soul who resides on the same piece of land where I dwell and relies daily on the provisions of creation to sustain him. Living in the woods that surround my home, this beautiful fox, no doubt, has many predators to contend with. Everything from parasites to coyotes lurk in the shadows, threatening his very life. I think that’s why he chose to live so close to us. While he most assuredly considers us a potential threat to his existence, he reasons that our presence reduces the eminent threat of more ferocious enemies that seek to have him for lunch. He watches us from afar, never venturing toward his bowl while we’re outside or while the pups are bustling about near the fence line. He waits. And once the yard is still and quiet, he prances over to his bowl, almost tip toeing. Keenly aware of his surroundings, he helps himself to the meal that he didn’t have to hunt for as he glances around, as if expecting a sneak attack at any moment. I watch from the window. My heart swells with joy. And as my eyes take him in, joy breaks into sadness.

Fully immersed in the moment, I become ardently aware of life’s paradoxical momentum. The delight of experiencing this creature benefit from kindness that flows through me, enriching his life in some small way is inextricably mixed with sorrow as I notice his haggard appearance. Our resident fox has begun to look significantly lean and moth eaten. His coat, once full and fluffy, has become dull, thin and patchy. His tail now bare, hangs low behind him. The struggles of life persist in tandem with the joys, all tangled up in a smooth cluster of sharp edges. I want to reach out and soothe his weary spirit, offer some solace for his pain and sorrow. Instead I stand there, eyes fixed on his pricked ears, unable to offer him any real comfort. I whisper, “shalom”.

I’m keenly aware that the mange that has our familiar friend in its grip could very well be his demise if left untreated. A bit of research led me to a solution, so I began lacing peanut butter & jelly sandwiches with medicine and leaving them in his bowl. The sandwiches serve as an “on the go” snack for the fox that we now affectionately refer to as Felix. While Felix generally lingers at his bowl, taking time to eat his canned dog food and left-overs from our table, he doesn’t waste any time with the pb&j sandwiches. He scoops up the whole sandwich in one fell swoop and quickly trots back into the cover of the wood-line to savor it. It’ll take multiple doses over the course of weeks to completely rid him of mange, but after just four doses he seems to be more comfortable, less itchy. As I watch out of my window this morning, Felix emerges from the edge of the woods, sneaks over to his bowl, careful not to draw the attention of the rambunctious puppies on the other side of the fence, and shoves his sandwich into his mouth with a smile. As he trots away there’s a spring in his step, a hint of glee in the air around him. I watch him disappear into the woods behind my house and sadness breaks into joy.

And such is all of life. Reality is both light and darkness or it isn’t reality at all. There is no pleasure without pain, no joy without sadness. It’s the inevitable cycle of all of creation; birth, death, resurrection. To live, to be free, is to plunge into the depths of this reality and allow it to transform you from the inside out. I have become aware of my own compulsion to desire situations, circumstances and even people to be other than they are. Inner conflict and turmoil steal my peace as I see disease, poverty, violence, hate, greed as noxious intruders that have no place in my life. The contradiction assaults me as all of life, inward and external, is filled with these painful elements I’d rather root out. But to force them out, out of myself and the world around me, is to wage war, to do violence and solidify the very thing I fight against. The desire for life to be other than it is propels me into a psychological illusory world that is altogether detached from reality. It’s insanity. And yet most people live enslaved, trapped in a vicious cycle of thoughts that drive a wedge between them and the peace they so desire. To witness the perils of fox-life; the parasites that drain life, the predators that never stop stalking, the scarcity of food and resources, ushers in a deep grief as reality collides with my desire for life without struggle. As I surrender the way things should be upon the altar of the way things are, I sink into the depths of what is and emerge on the other side, not acquiescent, but filled with peace that inspires vibrant action and vitality. There’s not resentment or passivity in this type of surrender, but an engagement with reality that invokes a peace that surpasses understanding. This is the truth that Jesus spoke of, the truth that sets people free.

Felix the fox isn’t caught up in thoughts about how his life should be. There are no contradictions for him to navigate, no resentment, no inner turmoil. Felix is free to be exactly who God created him to be. He hasn’t been wracked with worry about where his next meal will come from or what he’ll do about that persistent itch. It would seem that Felix has taken the words of Jesus to heart, “Therefore, I say to you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink; nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing?” (Matthew 6:25). It’s so simple that a wild fox gets it. Even the birds and lilies resonate this resounding truth; “they neither sow nor reap”, “they neither spin nor toil”. And yet life has graciously bestowed upon Felix safe shelter, abundant food and remedy for what ails him. Through uncertainty comes contentment like the shimmering light of a midnight star piercing the dark. I appreciate the wisdom of a sly fox that invites me to be who God created me to be. Engaging with all of creation as it is, both magic and tragic, without the tension and antagonism of my own self-sabotaging opinions and desires is what sets me free. To cease worrying and to trust. To simply be.

I scrape the contents of a 13 oz can of dog food into Felix’s bowl and tap the spoon against the rim to alert him that dinner is served. I whisper, “shalom” as I turn and walk back toward the house. Is it weird to pray for a fox? You might think so. I really hadn’t given it much thought until I typed these words. But if I’m honest, I find it much easier to breathe out prayer for a fox than for many people I know. And I know that God blesses foxes as I’ve been fortunate enough to experience it firsthand.

May the Lord bless and keep you, Felix.


Puppy Life

We are grateful for the opportunity to recently add Goree’s Gunslinger (Doc) to our family. Doc was produced by Goree’s Bulldogges and offers us an outside line to integrate into our program allowing us to move forward with our keepers from our bloodline. Doc is a mellow soul who is affectionate and intelligent, not to mention absolutely adorable. We are excited to watch him grow!

Anderson’s Summertime was produced right here at Anderson Bulldogges out of Anderson’s Calamity Jane and Nunley’s Ezekiel. Summertime just wants to be the center of attention. She’s affectionate, inquisitive and full of personality. We are excited about this baby and look forward to watching her grow.

Nunley’s Dream A Little Dream (Ella) comes to us from Nunley Ranch. Ella is a very affectionate, inquisitive and happy baby. We are excited about all that she will one day offer and are looking forward to watching her grow.

New Additions and Up & Comers

We are excited to introduce Nunley’s Purple Haze as one of the newest members of the Anderson Bulldogge family! Haze was produced by Nunley Ranch and will offer some diversity in stud selection as we move forward. This boy is a beautiful representation of his breed with a playful, joy filled disposition. We are grateful for the opportunity to add this boy to our family.

Anderson’s Pitch Perfect (Amy) was produced right here at Anderson Bulldogges, but was owned by Dixie Land Bulldogges. We are grateful for the opportunity to reacquire this girl and look forward to everything she will add to our program. Amy is athletic and free breathing with excellent confirmation. She’s an affectionate girl who loves belly rubs most of all. Amy is an excellent representation of her breed and an asset to our program. We are excited about what the future has in store with this girl. Amy is out of Anderson’s Bluebell Blossom and Nunley’s Ezekiel.

Anderson’s Clive Staples (Lewis) was produced right here at Anderson Bulldogges. Lewis, affectionately called Big Lew around here, is a beast of a bulldogge. This boy has bone for days, a nice large head-piece, wide open nares and beautiful conformation. We couldn’t be happier with how he is growing out and look very forward to his future contributions into our program. Lew is out of Leadfoot Lightning Bug in our “Classic Literature” litter sired by Nunley’s Ezekiel.

Thorns and Thistles & Merry Christmas

“Thorns and thistles”, I muttered under my breath as I watched forty pounds of dry dog food come pouring out of the torn bag and onto the floor of my vehicle. I was loading groceries into the back of my Expedition and as I attempted to slide a bag of dog food over to make room, the corner of the bag caught the edge of a dog crate and ripped open, hemorrhaging a river of pellets into my trunk space. Thorns and thistles. This has become my mantra over the past couple of years. There was a time in my life when the brokenness and difficulties of life were intensely frustrating to me. I wouldn’t have been able to articulate it at the time, but I was living with a notion, just below the surface of consciousness, that life was suppose to be a certain way. And I was reasonably disgruntled that my life was not as I supposed it should be. I would catch myself saying, if not aloud then certainly to myself, “Why does everything have to be so difficult?”. Now I know why things are difficult; thorns and thistles.

Cursed is the ground because of us; Both thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for us. (Genesis 3:17-18) Life is struggle, brokenness is the norm in this post-edenic world that we inhabit. Rather than lament the toil and adversity, we should be astounded when things go smoothly. While I use to rail against the audacity and injustice of a world relentlessly opposed to my agenda, I have come to terms with the reality of humanity’s desperate situation. My desperate situation. Life only makes sense when viewed through the lens of the Genesis narrative. The days of our lives are punctuated by toil, by the sweat of our brow will we obtain sustenance until we return to the dust from which we were taken. This somber truth resonates within all of us whether we like it or not.

The past couple of years have been especially heavy as we’ve had to say goodbye to a few of our bulldogges who had entered into old age together. Death is never easy to accept, but it’s particularly difficult when it swallows up multiple loved ones in rapid succession. I found myself increasingly aware of the corruption that permeates all of life, the pervasiveness of calamity. All of our splendid moments are riddled with imperfections and woes. No longer embittered by the eventuality of all things, I passively accepted the paradox of life. And with that acceptance came a subtle sorrow that gently enveloped me. Lurking just around the corner of every glorious moment is a darkness that threatens to frustrate all that is right in the world. In the midst of the swirling absurdities, a light pierced through the thick haze of heaviness that was the atmosphere that I breathed. Thorns and thistles are the reality, but divine intervention has set into motion the restoration of all things.

The addition of several puppies into our family over the past month has proven to be a blessing that I couldn’t anticipate. As I soak them up and breathe in their sweet breath, I’m keenly aware of the presence of God pouring into the deepest recesses of my aching heart. Thorns and thistles trampled and beaten back by raw, undiluted love. That’s the antidote, after all. A love powerful enough to reverse the curse. As I contemplate the profound blessing of puppies in my life, my thoughts find their way to the Christmas story. Because of thorns and thistles, the God of the universe penetrates our shattered world so that we might be saved from the ravages of our own deeds. He enters into our brokenness, He restores all of creation from the inside out through unrestrained love. And it’s because of Christmas that we experience the glorious moments, the beauty, the glimpses of perfection. Because God is with us, life is good. It’s not as it should be, but it’s good. We live within the tension of brokenness and restoration knowing that a day is coming where everything sad will become untrue. Puppies are proof of that future reality. They’re the incarnation of divine love, a glimpse into the life our hearts long for. And so tonight, on the Eve of the celebration of the birth of Christ, I mutter under my breath, not “thorns and thistles”, but “Merry Christmas”.

Happy Birthday, Clementine

Dear Clementine,

When you came bursting into my world a year ago I couldn’t have imagined the impact that a three ounce pup, such as yourself, would have in my life and in my heart. I often marvel that someone so tiny can take up so much of my heart. And I’m equally astonished that you manage to take up so much of my bed. Just a year ago today I was rescuing you from the perils of runt life in a litter of bulldogge pups. But my resolve was strong. I intended to pull you from your litter, bottle feed you and find the right person for you when you were big enough to leave. I was absolutely certain that I wouldn’t keep you for myself. After all, it would be utterly nonsensical for me to keep the tiniest bulldogge puppy that I had ever laid my eyes on.  I had no room in my plans for emotions to navigate my decisions. Keeping, not just the runt, but the runtiest of runts was out of the question.  It’s amusing to me now. The idea that I could resist the gift that you are is absolutely absurd. I’m overwhelmed by the magnanimous grace of God that bored right into my adamant determination to resist love in its purest form. That’s really what it boiled down to, though I wouldn’t have articulated it as such. No, I would have said that I was making wise decisions in our breeding program and attempting to do what was best for you.

Truth be known, I was too exhausted to give it much critical thought at all. The rigorous schedule of keeping you fed was taking a toll on me. But you were thriving, so I pushed through the debilitating fatigue in hopes that you would turn the corner and return to your litter soon. I had big plans of letting you rejoin your littermates at around four weeks when the weaning process would begin. In the midst of exhaustion, that was the hope that kept me from collapse. And that hope evaporated like a mist when you continued to demand your bottle as your siblings started gobbling up the mixture of mushy food that I offered. I cried as you turned your little nose up at the mush that I presented to you day after day. If it wasn’t for my dear friend, Morgan, you would probably still be sucking that bottle. She clued me into the magical allure of puppy mousse and, by the grace of God, you dove right into that stuff. You’ve since heard me refer to that delicacy as “puppy crack”. My next hurdle was weaning you from the puppy crack to dry food. That was another process all its own. Quite frankly, you’ve been a handful since you were born, both figuratively and literally.

I guess looking back on it, that’s when it happened, though. My resolve broke. The realization that you would require much more than I had planned to expend crashed into me and wrecked me. The Lord knew that I needed you. And He knew that I’d struggle against the gift of you, so he sent you in a most irresistible package. An undersized pup with over sized opinions. In the midst of my agonizing sleeplessness as I poured myself out so that you might live, I was overcome by an inexorable force. Love, agape love, God’s love . And it’s precisely that kind of love that flows through puppies, especially tiny runt puppies like you. As Proverbs 19:21 says, we can make our plans, but it’s the Lord’s purposes that prevail. The Lord purposed you, Clementine, to bless my life exponentially. You were perfectly formed to fulfill a destiny that has brought me so much joy and happiness. How could I ever thank Him? How could I ever thank you?

A year ago today you tipped the scales at 3.2 ounces. Today you weigh in at a whopping twenty-six pounds. Still tiny, opinionated and bossy, you continue to simultaneously challenge me and steal my heart away. You were, and still are, a fireball dropped right into the middle of my “life as usual”. And you are the source of a multitude of joys in my life. I love you my little loud-mouth Terp. My world is a lot more eventful and beautiful with you in it. Happy First Birthday, baby girl.

Though she be but little, she is fierce. ~William Shakespeare

Praise The Lord

“Let everything that has breath praise the Lord”, cries the psalmist. The words dance off of the page and crash into my heart. The final verse of the final psalm of the psalter. The scriptures paint a beautiful portrait of God’s heart for His creation. Each brush stroke skillfully brings depth and form to the overarching theme and message. This final sentence of the book of Psalms serves as a climactic finale of poetic words revealing the purpose of all creation, human and animal alike. What does it mean to “praise the Lord”? In Psalm 148, the psalmist called on all of creation to praise the Lord including angels, wild animals, birds and cattle. As I consider the Bulldogges that I share my life with, I imagine what it could mean that they should praise the Lord. I continue to ponder the implications that all of creation, both animals and humans, are called to celebrate, elevate and illuminate their Creator.

The revelation that praise and worship flow out of creation when it functions as it was designed to function directs my heart and thoughts onto my nugget of a pup, Clementine. I’m overcome with joy and gratitude simply because of her existence. Her mere presence enriches my life in countless ways. My heart bubbles over with emotion as she rushes to greet me, bursting with joy. I’m utterly undone as unrestrained love bounds toward me. A sense of awe and wonder wash over me as she communicates her strong opinions about the world she lives in. I’m enamored by the precision and perfection of who she is in her entirety. Her thoughts, motives and desires are so beautifully complex. She’s affectionate, emotional, intelligent, opinionated and bossy. She’s a light in this dark world, a shooting star burning up the sky. Everything about this exquisite creature brings glory to the One who knit her together and animates her with his very breathe.

Animals, not just dogs, are arrows pointing to God. They are love and grace embodied, vehicles of the majesty and mercy of God. God loves life so much that he creates it in seeming endless variety. The beauty and complexity of it all leaves me awestruck. All of creation, all creatures, participate in the symbiotic relationship of the cosmos. All life is significant and filled with purpose. To fulfill that purpose is to praise the Lord. When creatures are entirely what God designed and desires them to be they bring Him glory. That’s the praise that His heart desires. That’s the heart cry that comes cascading from the psalms as mountains, trees, angels and animals join in praising the Lord. Eden restored. That’s the trajectory of the universe, spinning and toiling toward the fulfillment of resurrection life. My heart smiles at the thought of dogs praising God by just being who they were created to be. It’s inspiring and convicting.

While the birds observe the time of their migration, disobedient humans “do not know the ordinance of the Lord” (Jer. 8:7). Jeremiah’s contrast between birds and humans brings into sharp focus the upside down nature of things. Animals naturally do the will of the Lord. They can be no other than who they are created to be. They glorify their creator in all of their ways. This is why dogs are generally delightful. They will always be who God designed them to be. They are genuine, sincere, faithful and pure. Their presence is comforting because the peace and love of God radiates in and through them. They’re unable to deviate from their true selves. It’s as easy as breathing, inhaling and exhaling. They embrace the life that God gives to them and they generously give that life in return.

I’m humbled by the thought.

“Lord, thank you for animals, especially Bulldogges, who model what it means to truly praise You. May I never become complacent in response to the magnificence and splendor of the animals who grace my life. May I never lose my sense of wonder and may I learn to praise You as perfectly as they do.”


Psalm 150:6


I was standing at the checkout counter in Dollar General waiting to swipe my card when the cashier cheerfully exclaimed, “I like your necklace!” Smiling politely, I thanked her. “It’s really cool. What’s it say?” I sighed internally, continued smiling and replied, “Luke. It says Luke. It’s a memorial pendant. Luke was my dog.” After an awkward pause she muttered, “That’s so cool.” Still smiling,  I kindly thanked her as I swiped my card and punched in my pin number. As I exited the store and walked through the parking lot, my thoughts looped back over the brief exchange.  “Luke was my dog” is what I had said to her. How inadequate those words were to convey who Luke was to me.

After eleven years of unwavering devotion and constant companionship I’m left with a mere symbol of his presence. I wear a pendant filled with Luke’s ashes around my neck. Saying goodbye to Luke was one of the hardest things I’ve ever  had to do. We often mitigate the grief we experience when losing a beloved dog by suggesting that it doesn’t compare to the loss of a human. I think we almost feel ashamed for being so deeply bereft over the loss of a canine companion when there are those who have lost children, spouses, parents. But in my experience the pain of losing a dog is just as intense as the suffering we experience upon losing a person. In some cases it’s even more profound. Relationships with people are often riddled with frustrations and offenses. Let’s face it, our capacity to love one another well is tainted. We set out with good intentions, but our own inadequacies ultimately unleash pain and suffering onto those we love at times. Dogs don’t do that. Because they shower us with perfect love, there are no landmines of trauma to navigate in their passing. Luke never hurt my feelings, he never responded harshly and he valued being with me above all else. I could always count on him to joyfully accompany me, to comfort me, to accept me. I could always count on Luke to love me perfectly.

Interwoven so intricately with what constitutes as our lives, we are wrapped up in relationships. We would like to consider ourselves self-reliant, autonomous creatures. But we’re intrinsically bound to our experiences. Like it or not, we are the sum total of our relationships. It’s our connections with others that shape who we are and the paradigm with which we see everything else. Just as relationships with hateful, angry, vindictive people can have long lasting destructive effects, the alternate is true of healthy, nurturing relationships. To be loved, valued and cherished is a rare gift that transforms us from the inside out. While people often struggle to illustrate a love that reflects God’s heart, dogs naturally pour themselves out in self sacrificial love. It’s interesting to me that humans, those who were created as God’s image bearers intended to represent Him in the world, so readily miss the mark while dogs eagerly serve as conduits of God’s perfect love. If our relationships with people are of an eternal nature, how much more are our relationships with our dogs? The depth of devotion, the intense connection. I believe that the purity of such a profound spiritual bond  transcends time and points forward into eternity. The fact that we can cultivate such extraordinary love, such intense soul ties with our dogs must be an indication of eternal implications.

As God pours His love into a broken world, we spin and toil and struggle to grasp the good. Life is a mixed bag. Chaos and peace, love and fear, we’re caught up in an onslaught of glorious moments which break upon the shore of loss and suffering. I remember looking into Luke’s eyes the last few years of his life and feeling a deep longing to enjoy him more. Tears would well up at the realization of the elusiveness of such a thought. Try as we may, we can’t slow the hands of time. This life is but a brief encounter, but the longing in our hearts betrays such a reality. And in the midst of our anguish the love of God breaks into the world. The hope of restoration propels me. All that is precious in this life will be amplified and clarified in eternity. Paul said, “For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.” (1 Corinthians  13:12) We’re not promised an ethereal, intangible existence on the other side of death. The promise is for abundant life, resurrection life. Life that satisfies. Father Richard Rohr says it best, “For those who are in Christ anything that has blessed and enriched us in this life will not be lost, but rather will be infinitely enhanced in the resurrection.” While I miss Luke in this life, I’m convinced that I’ll  be reunited with him when time gives way to eternity.

As the words, “Luke was my dog” hung in the air, haunting my thoughts, I mumbled under my breath a revelation of his true identity. He was the incarnation of God’s love for me. The manifestation of perfect love.


Until we meet again ❤️

Bulldogge Life: Who Owns Who?

My phone rings and I hesitate for a moment. I don’t recognize the number. Nevertheless, I answer the call and find on the other end of the line a guy who’s interested in the Bulldogge breed. The conversation takes right off as he tells me about himself and the dogs he’s owned and loved. This is my kind of conversation. He’s chattering away as I listen. He navigates through the list of breed clubs and competitions he’s been associated with. He elaborates on the shutzhund training that he was actively involved in with a particularly noteworthy German Shepherd. I continue listening as he shares about the many obedience titles his Doberman was led to under his tutelage. He lists off strings of letters before and after their names that indicates the titles that these dogs have earned. As he speaks at great length about the importance of asserting dominance over powerful breeds from an early age, my mind drifts back to when Luke sprawled out in the show ring and refused to budge. That was the same day that he urinated on me while standing ringside.

I had been showing Luke since he was puppy. He was no stranger to the routine. And he could prance around that ring and stop in a natural stack that would command the attention of any judge. He could make me look like a professional handler which was a miracle in itself. But on occasion he would decide that traveling around in circles was absurd, absolutely stupid. And when he had enough there wasn’t a hotdog or cheese bite that could bribe him into another lap. Selective obedience. That’s what you get with bulldogges. You might order other breeds around, asserting your dominance, but that won’t get you very far with bulldogges. As with any healthy relationship, Luke and I had to discuss things and navigate situations as they arose. I don’t think he ever understood why I enjoyed trotting around in circles for ribbons and trophies. He’d humor me most of the time, though. That’s what love does. It parades around in circles for reasons unknown and against better judgement. Anything that Luke agreed to was a reflection of his love for me. It was never an act of raw obedience.

It was a particularly cold day for an outdoor show. I was excited about the prospect of showing Luke in an all breed setting. He had earned his Grand Champion title with the National Bulldogge Association and I was hopeful that he might begin working toward a title with an all breed club. The day started off with a bang. As I stood with Luke at the registration table entering him into the shows, a Cane Corso strolled by and came to a halt next to his handler about fifteen feet away. I felt Luke’s leash fill with tension, so I redirected my attention onto him. That Corso was sitting politely at his handler’s side while staring menacingly at Luke. That’s all it took. Luke wasn’t about to put up with another dog mean mugging him. He snapped to attention, chest out, chin up. He snorted like a bull and stomped the ground. I quickly snapped the lead to draw his attention away from the rude onlooker. Luke stepped toward me as he shot one last piercing glare over his shoulder like a laser beam toward his adversary. As they held eye contact for a few more seconds, Luke lifted his leg and hosed down my freshly pressed dress slacks. That wrapped up the staring contest. The stone still Corso shifted, a perplexed countenance overtook him. Luke strutted alongside me toward our seats, intensely satisfied with himself. Check mate.

I stood, leg soaking wet, watching all of the handlers work their dogs ringside in preparation of the anticipated competition. Dogs stacked up beautifully, eyes fixed on the bait. I looked over at Luke who had bundle himself up in my mom’s lap and snuggled under her blanket to keep warm. I attempted to lure him out with a tidbit of hot dog. He shot me a flat no with his eyes. If I hadn’t already paid the entry fees I think I would have opted out of standing in the cold and went back home. Obedience and conformation competitions are enjoyable only when your canine counterpart takes pleasure in them as well. Luke was intelligent, personable and opinionated. He had strong feelings about things and he expressed them freely. He exhibited moments of excellence and high performance followed by fits of defiance. I learned early on in our relationship that forcing an issue would be miserable for both of us. Luke would do anything that I insisted on, but not without theatrics. An explosion of dramatics highlighting his utter contempt and animosity would precede obedience. And much sulking and silent treatment would follow. I learned to pick my battles. Life with bulldogges is like that. Asserting authority and pressing trivial matters will only serve to frustrate. Isn’t that true for any healthy relationship, though? Who in their right mind would enjoy being manipulated with treats while having their opinions overridden at every turn? Respect. Bulldogges require respect.

The day’s events went much as I had anticipated. There were five shows that day and Luke and I stumbled along in the first three. He would hesitate to enter the ring, I would insist. He would let out an audible sigh and begrudgingly travel around the ring without fanfare. He would sit when I tried to stack him, pull when I tried to stop. Eyes fixed on the ring exit, he went roughly through the motions while longing to bundle back into his blanket ringside. We were both miserable. Finally, the third show proved to be the climax of the day’s activities. As we passed by the exit in our final lap around the ring, Luke put on the brakes and pulled like a train in attempt to exit. With handler/dog teams bringing up the rear I cringed at the thought of screeching to a halt mid lap. I tugged on the lead with force and insisted that Luke comply. He shot me an insubordinate glare, bowed his head down , dug in with his feet and back pedaled to toward the exit. The other participants trotted past us as Luke plopped belly down with much force at the edge of the ring. We were locked in a battle of the wills. The judge was agitated, I was embarrassed and Luke was exptremely displeased with me. I pleaded with Luke to cooperate and he finally, after what felt like an eternity, stood back up and took his place with me in the line up. There was no chance in placing after such a flagrant display, but we stood there until the last ribbon was awarded. We congratulated the winners, left the ring and packed up our things. It was well past time to go home.

As I drove home feeling dejected with my pant leg stained with Luke’s urine, I glanced over at him curled up on the seat snoring like a fat baby. He had finally gotten his way. He was content. In spite of the day’s frustrations, I couldn’t be upset with him.  After all, he hadn’t signed up for any shows or indicated an interest in such for that matter. I had taken it upon myself to haul him out into the frigid cold to prance around in circles for points, titles and ribbons that meant less than nothing to him. As I reflect on all of Luke’s accomplishments in the show ring over the years, and he had many of them, I remember most affectionately the moments that more accurately conveyed his personality. The times when he expressed himself with flare. Luke showed well for me on many occasions, but he wasn’t a show dog at heart. He was charismatic, a social butterfly. He enjoyed meeting people at shows, he enjoyed eating chicken nuggets ring-side for lunch and he enjoyed just spending the day with me. But he didn’t always enjoy turning it on and strutting his stuff in a show ring.

My telephone conversation with the obedience training guru waned. I was amused that in a world filled with breeds who live to please, this guy was zeroed in on adding a bulldogge. I expressed my concerns to him candidly and explained that while bulldogges are intelligent, they aren’t always agreeable. Stubborn. Bulldogges are stubborn. And that flies in the face of activities that require impeccable obedience. He didn’t seem deterred by my words of caution. Maybe a bulldogge is just what he needs. Oftentimes, the most unlikely relationships happen along and serve to transform us in ways unimaginable. This guy just might need to be owned by a bulldogge. Few things are as special as having a dog take charge of your life and train you up to their liking. As I hung up the phone, I smiled as I imagined how unimpressed a bulldogge would be with his extensive training knowledge and experience. Maybe a bulldogge isn’t what he needs, after all.


Testing: One, Two, Three

“His leg is broken” came the official diagnosis. I had left the puppy play pen with all 7 pups bouncing around vigorously. I came back an hour later to find Niles lying still as the other pups rushed to greet me. I knew instantly that something was amiss. I quickly discovered that one of his rear legs was injured, so off to the vet we went. The only plausible explanation for an injury of this nature is that his mama must have accidentally stepped on him when entering the puppy pen. Over the years I’ve witnessed close calls as pups swarm to greet their mom as she hops over the guard to enter the whelping box. It’s by the grace of God that more injuries haven’t occurred. My mind busily processed the logistical layout of the whelping box, play pen and guards. I searched for ways to prevent this type of mishap in the future. I came up with nothing. Accidents happen. It’s a frustrating fact.

X-rays revealed a clean break of the tibia that will heal quickly and completely. The prognosis is good. Relief rushed over me as I learned that Niles was expected to experience total recovery within three weeks and would suffer no lasting effects. The challenge, however, would be keeping a four-week old puppy confined so that his leg could heal properly. On the cusp of experiencing enhanced mobility, this little guy was suddenly restricted to staying off of his feet for a few weeks. His leg may be broken, but his spirit is brimming over with desire to bound about, to explore his surroundings. He wakes to eat, potty and play with much regularity around the clock. And he wakes loudly. Sleeping in short bursts has proven to be therapeutic for Niles. He awakens full of energy and well rested, ready to seize the moment.  I, on the other hand, am not responding as well to his schedule.  Broken sleep has ushered in exhaustion and irritability. I feel my resolve erode with each passing day of sleeplessness. I wonder how people raise human babies.  I can’t even imagine. And I’m too tired to ponder the thought for any length of time.

It’s a test. All of life is a test. How we behave when things are going well doesn’t exactly reveal much about our character. It’s adversity that breaks down our facade and illuminates what’s really inside of us. I’ve heard it described this way. If you have a cup of water and you bump the cup, water will spill out because water is what’s inside the cup. Likewise, whatever is inside of us is what will spill out whenever we’re “bumped” by the challenges of life. There’s nothing like a little sleep deprivation to highlight all that’s wrong with yourself. A journey that began with thanksgiving over a good prognosis was morphing into an opportunity for me to complain. A lot. If not verbally, internally. A steady stream of grumbling about everything imaginable was beginning to take root. I felt the shift in my internal atmosphere immediately. Peace evaporated.

I’ve fasted complaining on several occasions. You never really realize how much you complain until you make an intentional effort to cease all grumbling. Even the trivial gripes that flow from us in such a way that we don’t even recognize them as such. They’re the most destructive. A complaint fast is revelatory. I’m struck by the irony of it. Something that I electively abstained from on several occasions with fairly optimal results was the very thing that came gushing out of me when pressure was applied. The same old tired temptation to listen to the lies of the enemy and marinate in discontentment. I’m amused by the lack of originality on the part of my tempter. I’m less than amused that I fell into the trap yet again. All of life is a test. And I’m thankful that God’s mercies are new every morning.

It’s always a heart issue. Every lament is a reflection of pride rising up in our hearts, spilling out into our lives. A tinge of discontent settles on the countenance and before we  know it our voice assumes a tone of disdain. It’s subtle, subconscious for the most part. Nevertheless, our murmuring ascends up to God as an affront that serves as a barricade of His blessings. Every irritation, aggravation and frustration is at the root a complaint against God himself. The language of satan. As we exhale murmurs with the breath that God gives, we unleash hell into our circumstances. And the effects of discontentment are exponential as we give vent to bitterness. Isn’t it interesting that our free will is relentlessly bent toward misery? I’m arrested by the thought. We lock ourselves up in the prison of animosity and blame God for our suffering. We sacrifice peace on the altar of discontentment. And then have the colossal nerve to rail against God for the harshness of life.

Niles has a broken leg that struck him out of nowhere. He was up and running one minute and wracked with pain the next. I’m overwhelmed with emotion as I witness the abundance of joy that fills this little pup. In the midst of a major set back, Niles maintains an optimistic outlook. He dives into his meals with a smile, he scoots around with delight to paw at his toys and he lights up when I talk to him. There’s not an ounce of disgruntlement in this baby. The absurdity of my irritability due to inadequate sleep is magnified as I observe the love of God flowing through an adorable bulldogge puppy with a broken leg. That’s God’s grace. It relentlessly pursues and meets us in the midst of our messy moments. And it flows most freely through the gentle, the humble. It flows freely through puppies.

Adversity is an open opportunity to be a conduit of discontentment or of peace. It’s always a choice. It’s always a test. May the love of God flow as readily through me as it does through bulldogge puppies. And may there be an abundance of puppy breath for all of life’s tests.



Luke waited in the car as I stood in the yard shooting the breeze with my dad. I can’t remember what our conversation was about, but as we chatted I’d occasionally glance over at Luke sitting majestically in the passenger seat of my SUV. He peered at us intently as if he were following along in our conversation. Luke never let me out of his sight when we were out and about together. If I went into a store he’d remain staunchly seated, chin up, eyes fixed on the door as I entered and he’d remain as such until I returned to him. Our conversation continued to flow as Luke repositioned himself. I glanced over to find him slouching, chin resting on the door, nose pressed against the window. Bulldogge nose art. Luke authored his fair share of masterpieces. I drove those creative works around town, displaying them proudly. Like most artists, I don’t think Luke’s creativity and artistic flair was wholly appreciated while he lived. I’m sure it’d be worth some money now if only I hadn’t windexed it away already. Hindsight.

I began to notice Luke’s impatience as my dad and I wrapped up our conversation. Luke adjusted his posture, turned in the seat and came to a rest with his chin propped on the center console. No sooner than we had said our goodbyes and I was turning to head back to my vehicle, my dad said with bewilderment, “What’s Luke doing?” I turned around to find Luke’s rear end up in the air, his nose down below where I could get a visual. My mind raced to figure out what was happening and then it hit me. “Our hot dogs!”, I exclaimed as I ran to salvage what was left of dinner. I had always been able to trust Luke with food. Well, food that was wrapped and sacked up. Once it was opened he demanded his fair share and he’d certainly help himself if it was within his reach. But food not yet opened had traditionally been safe in his care. Temptation. It gets the best of everyone from time to time.

As I worked to clean chili dog out of my cup holder where Luke had mashed it into a pureed snack with his snout, I thought about Eve in the garden. About temptation. I imagined that Luke caught a whiff of dinner’s pleasing aroma which caused him to look upon the hot dogs with desire. He saw that they were good for food and pleasing to his robust appetite, so he took for himself and ate. How could I be upset with him. Even humans created without a sin nature placed in the garden of God had been tripped up by temptation. A hungry bulldogge with idle time didn’t stand a chance against the wiles of chili dog temptation.

As we drove home Luke sat facing the passenger door, nose pressed against the glass, pouting because I had scolded him for stealing dinner. I don’t think he regretted eating the hot dog. He just didn’t want me to be upset with him for doing it. Luke lived free from the need to impress others. He never cared what anyone thought of him. Except for me. He cared deeply about being in my good graces. On the ride home I thought about the similarities and differences of humans and dogs. Both made from the dust and animated by the breath of God. According to Ecclesiastes, our spirits alike return to the One who gave it as our bodies return to dust. Created on the same day, our lives are meant to intertwine in profound ways. The only thing that elevates humans is that we’re image bearers of the Creator with authority over creation. We’re accountable for our actions before the Author of all life. Dogs aren’t.

Luke’s moral failure was relatively miniscule, hardly worth noting. He ate a hot dog for goodness sake. It’s not as though he transgressed into a vicious attack or chewed through a wall. He was a good boy. Luke was never even tempted to chew furniture, mark indoors or act out in any otherwise uncivilized manner. We all have our limits, though. An alluring treat dangling right in front of his nose was just too hard to resist. Oh, the seductive charm of temptation. And isn’t that precisely how temptation slithers in? I’m arrested by the thought. I’m never tempted to rob a bank, commit homicide or shoot up heroine. No, my temptations are much more subtle than that. More sinister. At the heart of every seemingly benign temptation is the desire for good. I’m never lured in by blatant evil. But the desire for knowledge, for autonomy, that’s always the propeller that launches us into the pits of misery. Hell is real and we unleash it into our own lives. We grasp for good, for life apart from the One who sustains us with His breath and we isolate ourselves from ultimate goodness.

The irony. Chasing after tantalizing facades that entice with empty promises. Sweet lies. We gobble them right up. Our appetites consume like raging fires. We spin and labor to achieve our dreams, to reach our goals, to become the person that we imagine we could be. But the satisfaction is always just out of reach. We can’t earn enough, achieve enough, know enough to quench that thirst. As Solomon said, “it’s like chasing after the wind.” It’s unattainable, a phantom. And when we get to the end of our efforts, the end of ourselves, there we find freedom. Freedom from the need to strive, the desire to achieve. Freedom from the gates of hell barred shut from the inside and liberated into who we were created to be. Surrender. A daily discipline that serves to alleviate the churning desires that open the doors to temptation. A relenting of my will, the very thing that sends me careening into the ditch. An embracing of my Creator’s will, the very thing that brings perfect peace.

We pull into the driveway at home and I squeeze Luke tightly, a bear hug of forgiveness. He soaks it up with a smile. As we walked inside I sat what was left of dinner on the kitchen table and announced to my husband, Daryl, that Luke had eaten his hot dog. Puzzled, Daryl replied, “Why’s it gotta be my hot dog?” I smiled, “Good question. You’ll have to ask Luke.”