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Mad Crazed Night of the Dog

Rachel and Barry are the kind of friends you can call and ask the following:

“The entire Manry Clan is coming down to your neck of the woods for college touring two weeks from now. Can we stay at your house even though you have company right now and you’ll have company right after we leave and you’ve only lived in your house a few months and have not really settled in? Also, can you watch two of my kids for an entire day until late in the evening while your kids are in school and it’s your daughter’s birthday? We won’t see you much and it will be a major imposition, but can we stay with you?”

Rachel and Barry are opposed to putting boundaries on the impractical requests of their friends.

Once, when Dale requested coffee (Rachel and Barry don’t drink coffee) during a time we were at their house, Barry went to Duncan Donuts and bought a giant ‘Box of Joe’ for Dale.

Saying “We don’t drink coffee, so you can’t have coffee” would never occur to them.

As expected, they said we were welcome to stay with them. We were a major inconvenience in all ways but one: Dale drove to Sheets to get his coffee.

Because we arrived late at night and twice departed early in the morning for college tours and once departed early to attend church, our time together was limited. One evening was the birthday dinner event and the other evening was the Creation light show at Natural Bridge. Our visit was go-go-go and amazingly they went along with us.

Late one night, Rachel and I decided to go for a walk around her neighborhood with her dog Quea. Because I was wearing my boots, our pace was painfully slow. It was a lovely, quiet neighborhood. With only the lights from the front porches and a tiny flashlight to guide us, we walked along at a meandering pace.

Quea was happy to lead the way into a neighbor’s yard where she did her business. Initially, Rachel was not concerned. She was prepared with lots of bags.

Unfortunately, those bags were the improper size to fit in her plastic bag carrier. Having jammed them in, she couldn’t get one to come out though she tried and tried. I held the flashlight to help her to see as she pulled and pulled on the bags. After much force was applied, the bags did come out, all at once and happily unrolled onto the neighbors lawn.

The flashlight was no longer helping much as it was shaking up and down from me laughing uncontrollably.

When the flashlight was back under control, Rachel gathered up the bags and separated one from the masses. We had now completely lost orientation on the mess that needed cleaned up.

I began to walk slowly forward with the flashlight inches from the ground. One can always find a mess this way, although it has its drawbacks.

When the mess was finally cleaned up, we continued on our way. (We should have heeded this first warning that this nighttime walk was not going to go well.)

The only other people out in the dark were two hoodlum teenagers who had escaped their homes and were running around looking for some trouble to get into. We walked by them as they schemed together in a ditch.

We were a downer on their plans as they had recently escaped their mothers and did not want other mothers keeping track of them.

They jumped up and ran off, but over the course of the walk, we would encounter them time and again.

Occasionally, we were not quite certain in which direction we were walking. Rachel was new to the neighborhood and in the pitch dark all the streets looked the same.

Finally, she saw a street sign she recognized.

“If we go down this road,” she said “We’ll eventually come to the street leading to my house.”

This is where the hoodlums decided they would have the most fun. In front of one house was a massive German Shepherd. The hoodlums sprinted past and set the dog off. The mad dog went crazy, first at them and then at us.

Initially, I couldn’t determine what was keeping the dog in the yard because it was so dark. He ran at a sprint in a perfect arch and when he reached the end, he hurled himself upward and outward only to be brought back. Back and forth he sprinted barking and snarling and growling.

Finally it dawned on me, “He’s chained,” I said, “He’s chained to the tree.”

Rachel snatched Quea into her arms and started walking quickly past the house. (Quea is a small fluffy dog who could be carried off by a large bird.) Meanwhile, I turned around and walked slowly backwards watching the mad dog race his arcs and lunge over and over and over to break the chain.

I was thinking, “Remember the dog whisperer: be calm, assertive and if he breaks the chain, you’ll have one good kick to slow him down. Maybe Rachel and Quea can get to the nearest porch before he mauls them.”

I was also praying, “Lord, please help that chain to hold.”

It was scary for what felt like a very long time.

Praise God, the chain held.

When we regrouped farther up the street. Rachel asked me what I had been planning to do.

“Kick him, so you could get to the nearest porch,” I said.

“I was going to start running home with Quia,” she replied.

“You never would have made it,” I answered somberly.

When safely back at Rachel’s house, we relayed our moment of terror to our husbands. Later, Rachel asked her middle school daughter if she had ever walked Quea down the street with the large dog chained to the tree.

“Yes,” She said, “He doesn’t pay attention to us. He’s always gnawing on something.”

Most likely the remains of some poor creature who did not escape.