When we brought our Irish Setter, Babe, home a few years ago, we soon realized beauty was about the only thing going for her. Beautiful red heads are not necessarily gifted with brains. She was sweet and submissive, but the only thing she knew consistently was BIRDS.

In the field beyond her fenced yard, birds gathered constantly. I figured out the first week that pretty soon she would realize she could go over the backyard fence and then there would be no keeping her in. The few times that had happened, she came home hours later, long red hair matted with stickers and reeking of pond water.

So I decided to put up a hot wire along the bottom of the fence. All one Saturday morning I set up posts and strung my wire. While I worked, Babe helped by periodically dashing through it, tangling it and making my blood pressure rise.

I warned her. I scolded, pointed, yelled, and tried in every way to warn her what was to come. But of course, she didn't care.

At last, I plugged it in.

I clipped on her leash, led her to the fence, and exonerated my conscience by explaining as clearly as I could in dog language that she was not to touch the fence. In typical Babe fashion, she shrank back and her eyes assured me she would never in a million years touch my fence. No, she wouldn't do such a thing. Ever.

Then I unhooked the leash.

It didn't take long. The birds were gathering and her 8-second memory elapsed and there she went. She hit the fence at a run and everything went into cartoon slow motion. Yelps, flying legs, tangled wire...she looked like a cartoon dog with nine legs whirling in the air.

I raced to unplug the fence and disentangle my traumatized dog. She slunk to the patio, visibly shaking, staring in horror at the yard that had suddenly attacked her. (It took forever to get her to go back outside, but that's another story!)

The theme of this one is that until my boundary had consequences, it meant nothing.

When we set boundaries in relationships, we often make the mistake of thinking that our angry reaction is their consequence. It doesn't work, does it? In marriages, family connections, or friendships, boundaries keep the relationship healthy. Consequences make sure the boundaries stay in place. A boundary-less existence is one filled with chaos, enabling, and dysfunctional people lining up to take advantage of the one with no boundaries.

Being a doormat is not the same thing as extending Christ-like love. Love gives freely from its abundance. Enabling gives because it feels it has no option. Consequences are justly earned results of a certain action. When we leap in the way of the rightly-earned consequences of another, we inhibit the work God wants to do in that person's life. God uses consequences to teach us.

Babe has never tried to go over the fence again. Once she ventured back out into the yard, she avoided that fence completely. I never even had to plug it back in!

What relationship in your life needs healthy boundaries with consequences?

Be sure you are not robbing others of their right to learn from the consequences they've earned.

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Citizen's Arrest!

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My name is Yankee and I would like to file a report with somebody. This is a disgrace, and being only 8 pounds and very short, there's not a lot I can do about it.

That inelegant ca-nine my family brought home a couple years ago has done it again. She's nothing but a Big Red Troublemaker. I keep hoping she will finally leave, but no...she's still here, thinking we can be friends. Ha!

My people certainly overlook a lot where she's concerned and I find it offensive. Just look at her....playing innocent. Gets to them every time.


Now consider me for a moment. Perfect in every way, beautiful beyond comprehension, and doing a fine job running this household if I do say so myself. Do I run off when they're not looking? Of course not! Never!

Besides the fact that there are despicable street dogs who live down the road, I would never think to set one dainty paw outside the yard. Because as I told you, I always do the right thing. At least, right to me. 

I'm fairly obedient when they ask me to do something I want to do, I share my food dish with the red beast when I have to, and I never do anything wrong, but do they praise me for it? Ha! Take me for granted is what they do.

Again today, the red monster took off across the field as soon as my mistress turned her back. I watched her go and shook my head in disgust, knowing what will happen. Will they lock the doors and call the pound? No! They'll let her come back, scold her a teensy bit, and forgive her. She'll be back on my couch, lying on my cushion, eating my food and drinking my water before nightfall. And they don't understand why I don't like her.

Sure enough, after a couple of hours, there she was. On the patio, stickers in her fur, looking sheepish. And what do they do? Scold her, comb out the stickers, and let her right back in! If they had a fatted calf, they'd probably kill it too and throw her a party!

All I can say is, I hope you humans aren't like that. When someone offends you, I hope you drive them away forever, refuse to let them apologize, and remain as haughty as possible all your days. That would be the right thing to do, the Yankee thing to do. If I was human, that's what I'd do.

Let's face it, there are just some dogs--and humans--who don't deserve a second chance. Or third or fourth, as is the case with What's-Her-Name.

So to those of you who refuse to forgive, harbor resentment in your hearts, and let outright hate fester inside towards people who've offended you---I'm proud of you! You should be proud of yourself, too. You're my kind of human. Right on my level.

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Things I've Learned From My Dogs

This is a re-post from last year. If my schedule ever slows down again, I'll get creative.

Yankee and Babe have become a great source of inspiration as I watch them do stupid dog things that often parallel the stupid human things I do. Here are a few of the things I've learned from watching them:

1. Jealousy is unbecoming.

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2. No matter how much barking I do at the irritations of life,
nothing really changes.
Noise and fuss do not equal control.

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3. My food dish will be filled no matter what I do or don't do because Somebody loves me in spite of my messes.

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4. Being put outside for a while is not the worst thing that can happen. I'll live through it and life will be good again.

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5. There is no sense in growling at children. It ticks everyone off and they have long memories.

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6. I can sleep on the floor to make a point, but the only one who gets the point is me.

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7. There's plenty of room on this couch for both of us. No need to be touchy.

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8. A humble hand-licking goes a lot farther than a snooty pout.

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9. Grooming only hurts for a little while and I'm always better for it.

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10. There are times when you have to go to the vet, and at those times it's better to trust my Master's wisdom than the scary sights and sounds all around me.

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It's Not Rocket Science

It's me writing today. Babe.

I need to file a complaint.

These people I live with, they expect the IMPOSSIBLE! They're always throwing new words at me, expecting me to know what to do.

Now I won't argue with the fact that we Irish gals aren't famous for our intellect, but c'mon...

For example, ever since I got here, they've been speaking human words to me as though I speak human.

That word "sit" they're so crazy about. How am I supposed to remember that it has to do with the position of my hindquarters?

And that other word, "sit." What's that about?

As if I'm not confused enough, they hurl other random words at me like "sit," "sit", and "sit." You see my point?

I try. I really do, but their demands are ridiculous. Orders flying at me all day long, sometimes they even wake me up! I've started to wonder if they care about me at all, or if they just like bossing me around.

Just yesterday, I heard a new one: "sit." Now what does that mean?

They start shoving on my backside until it lands on the floor and then they praise me like I danced a jig. I still don't know what they want. Life is very confusing when you are beautiful and... well, beautiful.

But I noticed something about you humans as well.

I hear you all talking about God giving you commands and how hard it is to follow them. You get downright fussy about some of them, acting like our Creator doesn't know what He's talking about. You argue back and forth about whether he really meant what he said, whether you'll be in big trouble if you disobey, and how you don't think he truly cares.

I so understand. I feel the same way about my masters. But my question is: If you humans don't want to obey your Master, why are you so aggravated when I feel the same about you?

Hey, Babe

She's supposed to be an outside watchdog.

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Clearly, she's not outside and... does this face scare you?

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If the burglars would be so kind as to wear bird suits and pretend to fly, she'd be a force to contend with. Otherwise, she's about as useful as a parka in Tahiti.

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Knowing that our multi-purpose mutt, Spunky, was near permanent retirement, we got Babe to replace him outside. Spunky has been a 15-year barking machine and no criminal with half a brain would challenge his backyard. Living in the country, we feel safer with a barking dog outside at night. Preferably one who could tell the difference between a criminal and a squirrel. But Babe...well, let's just say that intelligence isn't everything. And courage is overrated.

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She gets lonely at night. She's scared of the dark. And anyone approaching the yard might be a potential friend, so she'd hate to offend.

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She slinks around with a guilty look on her face and if we so much as raise our voices in laughter, she rushes to confess her crime. She obviously has emotional issues dating back to puppyhood, with which we were in no way involved. She was 3 years old when we got her, so any neurosis is NOT our fault.

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Things don't always turn out like we plan.

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Spunky is still kicking. Babe lives in the house and only barks to be let in. She worships our two boys with a passion almost eerie, and every stranger is greeted with slobbering devotion. The shedding which I'd carefully avoided with my Maltese is now a regular part of life and we still don't have a replacement watchdog.

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Sometimes we do things for one reason and the result is nothing like we expected. We roll with the punches, make lemonade, or whatever cliche you choose to use. The best part is God's promise that He will make everything turn out for the good, if we love Him. The darkest night, the deepest sorrow, the biggest hurdle---it doesn't matter. When it is God's, He can twist ugly twine into a beautiful bow.

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"What would we do without Babe?" my youngest son asked as he wrapped his arms around her patient neck.

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Before I could start my list, he hugged her tight. "One look at that face, Mom, and you can't stay mad at her no matter what she did."

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I swept more red hair off the floor and watched them, boy and dog, lying together on the floor, content just being side by side. We don't have a watchdog, but my son has a friend. A responsibility. A practice in patience for parenthood some day.

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He's right. What would we do without Babe? And what would we do without all those unexpected twists and turns life hands us? Those valleys that end in mountaintops. Those detours that take us past undiscovered beauty. All those opportunities for God to take our snarled balls of twine and make bows out of them.

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What's the Babe in your world? That situation that didn't turn out like you thought it would. The decision. The detour. The upside-down, out-of-the-blue shock?

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Let God have it. One day you will look back on it and find yourself saying, "What would I do without it?"

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Are You Rolling in Something Gross?

The scent was intoxicating.

She couldn't get enough of it and was certain the others would be equally thrilled--jealous, even--when she pranced by, leaving the tantalizing aroma in her wake. She'd never done anything like this before, but the thrill was too great to pass by.

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So she lay down on it and rolled. Over and over, feeling the thing ooze beneath her back, delighting in the knowledge that at this moment, she was making the aroma hers. It would be her identity, her calling card, and those in the house would be amazed.

My clean little Maltese had discovered a squished earthworm in the grass and for the first time in her life, she had to have it. Had to roll on it, had to make it part of her. We pulled her off it eventually and wiped the brown stains from her snowy hair.

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We laughed at her, the way she pranced and looked longingly back at the squashed mess in the yard as though leaving a treasure. Didn't she know how gross it was? She'd just had a bath, and now the dusky scent of earthworm overpowered Doggy Groomer cologne. It was obvious to everyone but her how disgusting her treasure was, yet she walked with a proud strut as though modeling a silk collar.

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Know anyone who does the same thing?

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They cover themselves in worldly baubles, ooze materialistic pride, and wear seduction like cologne. They strut their stuff, arrogance swirling around them like a silk cloth, and challenge the rest of us: "Aren't I wonderful? Don't you wish you were me?"

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And those of us who've inhaled the scent of Mercy, who've basked in the presence of the Holy One, who've worshipped at the feet of True Beauty, wrinkle our noses. The smell is nauseating, the brown stains unattractive. What are they so proud of?

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What the world calls desirable, God calls rubbish. What the world calls wise, God calls foolish. The pride we slather ourselves in, God calls filthy rags.

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Next time you see a dog rolling in a decaying mess, think about this: As gross as that looks, what are you covering yourself with that reeks to High Heaven?

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Whose Got the Purina?

My 6-pound Maltese put on 2 more pounds the month after we got Babe.
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Suddenly, her food dish was filled with way more food than she could eat. But she tried anyway. Standing guard night and day, she ate as much as she could hold, trying to keep Babe from getting any. Nine months later, she's still at it.

It's not possible to reason with a piece of fluff whose brain is not much bigger than a quarter, so I've given up. But it's aggravating to watch her spend her days lying on the floor by her full dish on the chance that Babe will try to get a bite to eat. Her life would be so much fuller if she wasn't preoccupied with preventing something she really can't control.
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As I refilled the dish today from the giant sack of Purina, I thought how much like Yankee we are. We stand guard over our treasures, our lives, afraid to invest ourselves in the lives of others for fear there won't be anything left for us. We hunker down with our nose to the grindstone, competing for that prize, looking out for number one, because maybe nobody's looking out for us.
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And all the time, God watches us with his big bag of Purina, ready to keep us filled if we'd just get out of the way. He's got an endless supply of everything we need. Investing ourselves in others doesn't deplete the supply in any way. There's always more when we need it.

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It's not only money we're stingy with. Our time, our schedules, our talents can all be poured out over and over again, and like the widow's oil, our lives stay full.

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Yankee may never learn where all that dog food comes from, but we can learn. God says, "Try me now and see. I will open up the windows of Heaven and you will have so much you can't hold it all."

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So, how do you spend your days? Are you lying beside your food dish or do you know Who's keeping it filled?

Animal Psychology

My dog needs a therapist.

After three months of being quite consistant with the house-breaking, she's suddenly developed mental problems. Mayo Clinic's website was no help at all. For some reason, Irish Setter's aren't listed in any category.

Which I don't understand, because surely we're not the only ones with this problem.

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It's got something to do with the proliferation of gophers and moles taking over our property. She's gone wild chasing them above ground and trying to dig them out wherever she stops. Our back yard looks like Bahgdad.

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I got creative and installed an electric fence along the side to keep her away from the area with the most craters and I thought we were getting the picture. Then she tried to walk through it!

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It was a perfect cartoon reaction.She bolted blindly into the hotwire with no reaction until she was halfway through, then leaped three feet off the ground. She twisted in midair, wrapping the fence around her body as she yelped and squealed. She was untangled by the time I got to her, but she took off to the back door, tail between her legs, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Poor thing.

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She has viewed the back yard like a war zone ever since and has opted for indoor plumbing, namely Wayne's office. You can imagine how well that goes over. We've been able to coax her onto the patio, but when we point to the grass, she gets a wild look in her eye and runs back to the door, quivering tail between her legs. The gophers hold no fascination anymore, so that part worked.

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So now we have a torn-up yard AND a dog pooping in the house. If she wasn't so sweet we'd be madder about it, but she gives us this look every time we scold her that says, "Yes, you're right. I'm a bad, bad dog and I deserve any punishment you can give me." It's hard to be wrathful with such devoted groveling.

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Yankee, the Maltese, on the other hand gives us a look that says, "You lay one hand on me, and I'm calling SPCA." She's been prancing around all week with her nose up and a cartoon thought bubble over her head: "I told you we didn't need another dog."

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So, poor Babe has been put back on leash-duty when in the house while we wait for a competent therapist.

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Maybe I need one too.

Babe's View

Hello. My name is Babe. I'm the newest member of the McCombs family and I've got some things to say.

Thought you might be interested in what really goes on around here. They're pretty decent humans on most accounts. The food's pretty good and there's plenty of birds to chase. Cats, too--when they let me.

But I had no idea who really ran things when I agreed to move here. At first I thought it was the little boy who loves me, but we rode all the way home in the very back seat with not a single sniff stop and I started getting the picture.

Then, I thought it might be the lady who feeds me. She seems to be in charge of everything. She makes me take medicine I do not like. I clench my teeth and send her strong eye messages, but she acts like she doesn't understand and down it goes anyway. Then she took me to a place with wild smells that made me nervous and the next thing I know, I'm waking up with a slit in my belly and everybody's petting my head and saying, "Now you won't have to worry about puppies."

Well, I wasn't worried to start with, but what can you do? I'm still a bit miffed over that, but I'm licking their hands anyway to show I'm a good sport.

I never even suspected the man of being in charge. He's pretty much on my level: sleeping all the time, eating messy, getting yelled at. He's one of my kind, I'm pretty sure. But he leaves my food alone, so we get along fine.

No, the truth was made clear to me right off the bat. This whole house and big running yard are clearly controlled by one furry contraption they call Yankee. Now, I admit, we Irish Setters are not well known for our high intellect, but I know when I'm not in charge.

I'm not sure what this thing is that hovers over our mutual food dish and makes growly noises in her throat when I walk into the room. She's started taking her naps right beside the food dish so she can catch me if I so much as ask for a drink.

I could eat her in one bite, but being a gentle lady, I refrain. Besides, she's so hairy I can't imagine getting all that out of my teeth. She controls when I can eat or get a drink until the lady catches her and scoops her up and talks babytalk to her while I grab a bite or two.

Now I don't want to come across as jealous or bitter. I'm just not that kindof gal. But what I would like to know is: How Do You Get That Job?
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It Happened One June...

Once upon a time in a place not far from here, a family decided to adopt a beautiful purebred Irish Setter for the youngest son to call his own. Since the breeder was located in a picturesque town only five hours away, they thought to make it a mini-vacation.

The father had started a new job only two weeks earlier and couldn't take off work to go, so the mom thought, "The kids and I will go alone. Just a couple of days. There's an amusement park there. A water park. We'll have a quick vacation this year, pick up the dog, and come home. Next year we'll take our big, expensive trip somewhere we can all go."

The hotel was booked, car serviced, dog owner contacted...all was set.

Two hours into the trip, Mom runs over a blownout tire strewn on the interstate. Thinking it was lying flat, she opts against throwing on the brakes and tries to straddle the biggest hunk lying in the road.

Mistake. They hear a loud "Clunk! Clunk!" underneath the car, going at 75 miles per hour and the van immediately loses power. Mom coasts across the right lane and onto the shoulder as the smell of gas fumes fills the van.

The engine won't turn over and the oil light flashes red. Cars and trucks whiz past only a few feet away, showering the van and its five occupants with searing exhaust and the stench of melting rubber.

Mom is about to panic. The outside temp is approaching 100 and inside the van, heat builds. Older brother calmly suggests: "Why don't we call a tow truck and have them take us to the next town and rent a car to go on to our destination?"

Mom holds the panic in check as she considers that. Should they? Or should they forget this whole thing? Still at least four hours away. Was it worth it? But what else could they do?

"It's Sunday. Nothing's going to be open on Sunday," she moans.

Little Sister pipes up from the backseat. "Want me to find a service station on my GPS?"

The GPS! That most wonderful of God's creations for the flustered traveler! Within minutes, Little Sis locates three service stations within 25 miles and Mom begins to call.

First one, no answer. Second one-Bingo! They fix cars and their towing service is available. Thank you, God!

The heat inside the van had built to broiling and they flee up the grassy embankment to the shade of the woods--also populated with ticks, chiggers, and poison ivy. But in 100 degree heat, those things don't matter.

With the background roar of interstate traffic, Mom hunkers down in a cluster of trees, praying no poison ivy is nearby, and starts calling rental car places. Call after call, getting price quotes ranging from laughable to ridiculous, she finally settles for laughable and reserves a Chevy Traverse.

The very kind man at the service station comes to get them--and all their gear, and takes them to the airport where they rent their Traverse, load up, and continue the trip.

Six-and-a-half hours after they began their trip, they find their hotel--a nice one, thank goodness. Maybe things are looking up.

The next morning, they head out for the theme park, spirits lifting, although Mom is ill. She tries to hide it and assures them she's fine, parked on a bench in the shade instead of riding rides. At least maybe they could have a good time. Unfortunately, many of the rides they'd looked forward to are closed for repairs. They try to make the best of the ones that are still open and hope the water park will be better.

Mom calls the dog breeder to check in, make sure they were on for getting the dog--the whole reason for this trip. "That number has been disconnected,"intones the robotic voice that can't possible comprehend what those words mean.

For three hours, Mom hits redial, launches an internet search for another number, and comes up with nothing. Website is gone. Phone number that worked two days ago is disconnected. She shuts her eyes, steels her roiling stomach against the stench of melting asphalt, and wishes she was anywhere but here.

At one o'clock, a miracle happens. The breeder calls! She explains that her phone line had been accidentally cut and yes, they still have the dog. They plan to meet the next day at noon to hand off the dog.

Mom inhales. Things are looking up.

The boys approach from the water slide, blood dripping down Big Brother's face. Mom leaps from the pool chair.

"I hit my head. I need to wash the blood off." He winces and ducks his chin, displaying a bloody clump of hair on the top of his head.

"What happened?" Mom cries as visions of Urgent Care flash across her mind. The cheap vacation keeps getting pricier.

"I don't feel so good," he says and for a quiet, non-complainer, that says a lot.

They shuffle to the First Aid building and get him inside. The air conditioning is worth whatever they have to do to him. The medics quickly clean up the blood, assure them he doesn't need stitches, and let him fill out enough paperwork to demonstrate he can still think.

By now, the fun is about over. Big Brother doesn't feel like riding anything else. It is so hot, fun is hard to find. By four-thirty they leave and Mom thinks, "It's over. We don't have to try to have fun anymore. We can leave soon."

Early the next morning, the phone rings. The breeder says, "The dog got out and we can't catch her. She's chasing birds in the field and refuses to come. If we can't catch her in time, do you want to wait or take another dog?"

Mom thinks about laughing. Hysterically. Maniacally...but it would scare the children. "We'll talk about it," she says and hangs up.

Little Brother is heartbroken. No, he doesn't want a different dog. He wants THAT dog. HIS dog, the one whose photo he fell in love with online. He tears up and Mom clicks into Instructor mode, using this as a teaching situation while wanting to kick the dog people.

Mom and Little Brother pray, turning it over to God and in an hour, the dog people call. They've caught her. The deal is still on.

Babe joins the family just as the skies open and the rain pours. They shove a nervous Irish Setter into the already crowded rental car and onto the lap of a beaming Little Brother. Mom navigates through the torrential downpour, trying to find the highway out of Funland. And at last, nerves shot and longing for home, they set out.

Three hours to the service station where the van waits in the heat with a new fuel pump. Unload, load up again, don't lose the dog, no one pass out, back to the airport to turn in the rental, and they turn towards home.

"This is certainly a vacation we'll all remember," says Mom.

Big Brother rubs his sore head, "Everyone but me!"

Thank goodness vacations only come once a year!

I Got You, Babe!

"I need her in my life, Mom," sighed 13-year-old Micah as we gazed at the online picture. Three-year-old Vayda, soon to be renamed Babe Ruth, was up for adoption by her breeders, due to the closing of their breeding business.

We both melted at the sight of the purebred Irish Setter her owners were giving away to the "right family." We decided on the spot that we were the right family.

So Sunday we'll travel to Arkansas, 4 1/2 hours away, to pick up Micah's new best friend. She'll be spayed, resign from the puppy business, and take up residence on Micah's bed.

Our five-pound Maltese, Yankee, will have a far different opinion of the addition to the family, but she'll have to adjust. We all will.

Welcome home, Babe.
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