That Dog Won't Hunt

I was a real jerk to Levi the other day. Wait, let me back up a minute and give you a little backstory on Levi first.

Levi was born June 6, 2016 in West Tennessee. He came from a noble and celebrated family, being the grandson of a grand champion. I don’t know exactly what he was the grand champion of, seeing as I’m not really knowledgeable about the world he came from, but he was the grandson ofLabrador nobility. Like many children, (sons of preachers, lawyers, doctors, musicians, and the like) others had decided what he was going to be “when he grew up” before he was even born. He was destined to be another in a long line of champion retrievers, being bred and trained to retrieve ducks that were felled by hunters. Levi, however, had other plans, and it seems the Lord agreed with him. Nine months into his training he simply stopped retrieving, leaving his trainer to literally declare “that dog won’t hunt.” Trainers have little use for retrievers that don’t retrieve, and as one door closed another door was opened.

I met Jeff in Costa Rica about seven years ago on my very last trip to Central America, during my last official week as a member of Latin American Missions. Like me, Jeff is a Tennessean who had no intention of being a preacher, and yet, found his way into a pulpit. Jeff has a unique ministry where he uses the Black Labs he trains to give live demonstrations of spiritual principles. Over the next few years we would cross paths several more times at various church and youth events. During those years Jeff became familiar with the history of my oldest son, and all he had been through as the result of a traumatic brain injury he received during a car wreck.

Somehow or another Jeff learned we were looking into getting a service dog for our son, but the biggest obstacle was the big price tag. He offered to be the go between for us and a breeder/trainer he worked with, who told us he would give us this Labrador non-retriever if we would just come get him. At the time our son was in a dual diagnosis facility, but the day he was released we began making our way from Florida to just north of Memphis to meet Levi. It was immediately apparent he was an amazing dog, and just because he wouldn’t retrieve didn’t mean he wasn’t intelligent and very well trained. A few days later he came home with us. Soon after our son left our home and moved to Jacksonville, then Alabama, Georgia, and Tennessee, but Levi remained with us. Little did I know it at the time, but just like that, his therapy dog would actually become my therapy dog.

In the three years since Levi became a member of our household he has taken over the place. Most of the first nine months of his life were spent outside in a kennel with nearly a dozen other dogs. His bed was a fifty-five gallon drum turned on its side with the lid removed. For the first couple of months at our house his bed was a folded up blanket in a large metal crate in our bedroom, but just like George Jefferson, he’s moved on up. Now he sleeps wherever he wants, which is usually his doggy bed if we are home, or the couch if we aren’t. At night he sleeps in our bedroom in a huge, plush leather chair, watching over us as we sleep.

His current kingdom is the land between Walnut Creek and Houston Town roads, every inch of which he patrols multiple times a day. He rules his domain with an iron fist, refusing to allow a bird or squirrel invader to have a moment of peace as they forage for food in his territory. Other than these momentary patrols, he is usually found in my office or the living room, stretched out and never more than three feet away from me. There are many places where he sleeps, but his home is in our hearts.

I don’t know what Levi thinks, but sometimes I can tell what he’s thinking. Mornings begin with Levi waking me up, sometimes nose to nose, sometimes licking my face, sometimes biting my hand, but usually just pacing the floor in my bedroom, his claws making a clickety-clack sound on the hardwood floor that mimics a train rolling down the tracks, both in rhythm and volume, not to mention urgency. Once I’m awake Levi goes outside to use the bathroom, all while I’m filling his food and water bowl -- just who is the pet and who is the owner? He comes back in to eat and then back out for another round of yard fertilizing, but this time when he returns to me he isn’t empty handed; he’s carrying a ball, or a rope, or his stuffed pig, or whatever toys he’s chosen for the day. Levi loves to play tug-o-war with you, but his favorite game is, I kid you not....retrieving. Levi isn't the first to fail at something only to later get it right. I seem to remember Peter completely bombing completely as a witness for Jesus on the night the Lord needed him the most, but he turned it around and did ok, and so can you. Maybe you decided to use this slow down and shut down time to really get into your Bible or commit to more prayer or spend time writing letters or making phone calls, but a month later and you've mostly just watched tv. Perhaps you've had some lingering sin that you have really struggled with getting under control. Sins of the tongue and sour attitudes seems to cling to us like a stick-tight or a cocklebur, but with a little time, attention, and patience, we can get rid of them. One of my favorite parables is a pretty short and sweet one that illustrates this point. "A man had two sons. And he went to the first and said, ‘Son, go and work in the vineyard today.’ 29 And he answered, ‘I will not,’ but afterward he changed his mind and went" (Matthew 21:28-29). Back to Levi and his return to being a retriever.

I throw the ball as far and fast as I can and he runs full speed to catch it, grab it, and with equal zeal, return it to me to repeat again. Grooms don’t look at their brides...soldiers don’t look at home...children don’t look at Christmas trees surrounded by gifts with the unfeigned love and devotion that Levi has in his eyes when I draw back my arm to throw that ball. His toy tantrum is so bad we literally have to spell the word B-A-L-L if he is around, because, when he hears that word he gets in a tizzy and searches the property looking for where he last left it (this is also true of the word B-A-N-A-N-A). Upon finding the ball he will put it in my lap, drop it at my feet, roll it toward me with his nose, and some times he will even shift his eyes from yours to the ball and back repeatedly, even licking it to make sure you know what he is suggesting. Subtlety is not his strength, but I’ll tell you what is.

I was ugly to Levi because I hadn’t played ball with him the day before. We usually play before I go to work in the morning and when I get home in the afternoon. The reason I didn’t play wasn’t because it was raining or I didn’t have time, but just because I was in a bad mood and didn’t feel like it. Making matters worse, the next day we were gone most of the day so there really wasn’t an opportunity to play, and I could tell he was kind of depressed about it and I felt bad, I really did. Because we were busy, something that was beyond my control, and because I was in a bad mood, something I could control, he was denied of the one thing in life he loves most for two days. Despite me blowing him off, and him being depressed those two days, the next morning, he greeted me with the same joyous enthusiasm as every other day. I had really let him down and disappointed him, but to Levi all of that was ancient history.

The way he begins each morning is a constant reminder to me, “this is a new day.” He can’t speak but his body is quoting Psalm 118:24, “This is the day that the Lord has made, we will rejoice and be glad in it.” Levi is the embodiment of “Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, today is a gift, that’s why we call it the present.” I know it’s a cliche, but I like cliche’s, and I like Levi’s outlook on life: one day at a time. Endure the hard days and enjoy the happy days, and start over every morning. Surely we can do the same.

Maybe the reason dogs don’t live as long as us is because we don’t deserve them and the unlimited, unselfish love they live to give us. Or maybe they just come into our lives long enough to heal us and help us and then leave us to go and do likewise. Even if you’d never picked up a Bible, five minutes with a dog should be enough to prove to you there must be a God. If God can create something that loves us so much, I can't imagine how much the Creator must love us. Actually I can, "For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will scarcely die for a righteous person—though perhaps for a good person one would dare even to die— but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us" (Romans 5:6-8).

God bless him, Levi can’t get a drink without making a big enough mess with the water that you could float a battleship in what splashes out of his bowl. He loves bananas and Chik-fil-A grilled nuggets and waffle fries made from the end pieces of the potatoes. I don’t like those, but he does, which just proves we belong together. He has an alter ego named Frisky Dingo who runs full speed through the house, jumps and spins, and barks really loud at nothing and everything incessantly. Levi loves everyone he meets and assumes that each new day is going to be a good day. He’s more than man’s best friend, he’s my best teacher and best influence. He is a daily reminder of God's faithfulness. His mercies are new every morning (Lamentations 3:22-23). Now, if you will excuse me, someone just placed a filthy, ragged, rope toy in my lap.