“There’s a stray dog on your deck blocking the door. He growled and won’t let me get in to feed Miss Ruthie.”

I was on vacation, packing for my return home, when my cat sitter sent the text.

“Miss Ruthie has plenty of food. Just wanted to let you know what you were walking into.”

I’d been gone a week, and, while I was gone, a stray dog claimed my deck as his own. His breed wasn’t known for friendliness, and it would be almost dark by the time I got home.

What was I going to do?

Believe me, I’m a dog lover. My hope is that, when I die, at least six of my favorite dogs will greet me in heaven with tails wagging.

The sitter’s report, however, indicated this dog might have a different greeting for me.

During the six-hour drive home, I had time to mull things over. The dog had shown aggression, which limited my options. Children play in my neighborhood. People go for strolls on the levee behind my house. Other people could be affected.

I knew the animal control folks in my town to be good people. I knew they would do everything they could for him once they caught him. But the dog would need to be caught. That was the problem.

Mississippi Delta – 1990s

My mind wandered back to the 1990s, to the small Mississippi Delta town that adopted a stray black dog for a while. I pastored a church there and the postmistress of the tiny post office kept me up on the daily local news.

No one knew where the young black dog came from. The postmistress made sure he had the basics of food and water, but over time he charmed his way into the town’s heart. He was delightful. He greeted every car but artfully dodged too much engagement. He wanted to play it his way and that didn’t include submitting to any of us who would have loved to take him and provide a good home.

One dog-lover managed to coax him into her car and took him home, but it wasn’t long before he was back ruling his post office kingdom. He was always friendly, but he never committed to a single person.

Fall came, and, as the weather got colder, something was obvious. No matter what we wanted for that dog, he set his own path.

January came and I headed north to Chicago for two weeks of school. Before I left, I saw the dog for what would be the last time. I said to him, “Just choose one of us. We all want to give you a good home.” The dog, however, had his own agenda.

When I returned two weeks later the dog was gone and the postmistress said she didn’t know what happened. Some hunters camped nearby, and he had hung around them. She hoped maybe one of them finally sweet talked him into going home with them.

I felt pretty sad. The lack of closure was unsettling.

For quite a while I continued to look for him. My eyes searched the woods near the road where the campers had been. I even kept an eye on the edge of the road to see if he had been hit and killed by a passing car, but there was no resolution. He was simply gone.

I wondered if the dog waiting on my deck would be the same.

Home – Present Day

When I pulled into my driveway, the dog suddenly came from behind the bushes, not to rush at me, but to run away. I startled him. I felt compassion rather than fear as I saw the ribs of such a tough dog.

How did he come to be here? How did he come to choose my home? Did somebody abandon him?

A part of me hoped he would be gone, and another part, my heart, wanted to help.

He ran to the levee and from a distance I saw him cautiously watching me.

I pulled together some scraps to make a little meal.

I couldn’t give the dog a home, but I could try to help. If nothing else maybe, like that Mississippi dog, all I could do was give him a place to rest before he goes on the next leg of his journey.

I set the food out and went into the house. As if by magic, the food and the dog disappeared.

The food I placed out the night before was gone too, so I called the good folks at animal control. They would have the best chance of either reuniting him with his owners or finding him a good home. That was my dream for him.

But, maybe like that Mississippi dog, this dog had other plans.

Regardless of Results

I’m reminded of people I’ve tried to help in the past. Usually there’s been some kind of plan, either mine or theirs. Sometimes the help ended well, and sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes the outcome is unpredictable.

Sometimes we are not responsible for the fix. Sometimes just being present with someone who is lost or suffering is all we are called to do.

I haven’t seen the dog since last Friday. The cage to catch him sits in my yard as an invitation to a new life. It’s an invitation and not a command. I hope he comes back but if he doesn’t, I’m ok with that.

I gave it my best shot. That’s all I’m asked to do.