PAT AND THE BIG VICIOUS DOG [Sat, 3-14-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Friends and Dogs, by an Old Story Teller—PAT AND THE BIG VICIOUS DOG [Sat, 3-14-26]

 

Our friend, Pat, was a school teacher, thus she was a break-of-dawn jogger, so that she could get home and cleaned up and settled down before she had to face a room of thirty third graders.

Because of where she lived, she had to jog through downtown. That was no problem at first light. No stores or offices open, so no people on the sidewalks or cars on the streets. Unfortunately, the big, vicious dog didn’t worry about open hours.

Pat Is a small woman. Not much over five feet. Still as petite as she was in high school.

I didn’t know her well in high school. She was a year ahead of me. We did not have the same friends. I lived in the country, and she lived in town. We went to different churches. We didn’t do the same extra-curriculars. But I knew all the cute girls enough to say hello to them in the halls.

So it was a wonderful surprise, 25 years after high school, 25 years of different states and colleges and jobs and spouses [only one each], 25 years of no contact, that I was appointed to a new church and found that Pat and her husband were members there. We had a delightful time, establishing a new friendship, at the same time recalling high school days.

And Pat and I shared running. I think Roy and Helen got a bit bored when we talked about our running experiences. Until the day of the big, vicious dog. That was a running experience worth hearing about.

Pat was at the edge of downtown when the dog started chasing her, snarling all the way. She picked up the pace. So did the dog. She set some new land speed records. So did the dog. She mentally ran through all the businesses downtown, to see if one might be open, so she could take refuge. Nothing.

But then she remembered the police station. She would be running right beside it. It had a side door that opened directly onto the sidewalk. She was at full speed. So was the dog. She desperately yanked at the grab bar handle to open the door. The dog was almost upon her. It lunged at her. But Pat was on the other side of the long, glass door. The dog ran into the open door, bounced off of it, into the police station. Pat pushed the door shut and jogged home.

No account of the event ever made the news, but I don’t think we need to worry about the police. They are trained to handle emergencies, and they have weapons. They were probably quite surprised, though.

The point of a story is to see yourself in it, so that you can ask what you would do. Who are you in this story? Pat? The dog? The police? What would you do?

Or the Jesus story. Who are you? A disciple? An onlooker? Herod? Peter? The cock that crowed three times? The woman taken in adultery? The prodigal son? The man who went away sorrowful… What would you do?

Or maybe the point of a good story is simply to enjoy it.

Or sing a song about it. “Where, oh where, has my little dog gone…”

John Robert McFarland