Tracey Marley

In the last year or so, I’ve been reminded of a few things about my personality. Lots of love to all you canine fans, but no matter how hard I try, I am not a dog person. I want to be. I’ve tried to be. But I simply am not.

The fact that I own a dog is also forcing me to come to grips with my temper. Yes, sweet little ‘ol me has a temper that can reach catastrophic levels with little to no warning. Thankfully I don’t get mad often, and when I do it’s rarely in public. This shouldn’t be surprising, or at least not to my family. I come from a long line of ancestors who were legendary in their orneriness.

Because writing has a way of helping me vent my emotions and heal, I’m choosing to write about some of my recent explosions, hoping to color them with a little humor because I don’t foresee the source of my aggrevation going away anytime soon.

Meet Tucker. Don’t be fooled by the big brown eyes, floppy ears and “please-take-me-home-with-you face”. I fell for it and two days later realized my name had become Sucker.

To truly appreciate what I’m about to write, you must understand that Tucker came into our lives during a very trying time. We were living in a small but immaculate rental house, on almost no land at all, were building our own permanent house, transitioning the ministry, all while I was suffering a really nasty depression. Bringing Tucker into our lives was not a wise decision for our family or for a coon hound who grows faster than summer grass and generates more energy than a wind mill. Tucker had nowhere to go, and I had everywhere to be. Between the kids in school and working on our new home, no one had the time to give this very attention-demanding dog everything he wanted.

That means he started to chew on everything. Stuffed animals, shoes, toys…anything that could not be swallowed whole got nibbled down until it was no longer recognizable. Eventually we moved into our new house and thought that having over three and a half acres of land for this dog to enjoy would solve his discontent.

We were wrong. Since February, we’ve lost many a things to his not-so-particular diet. This list includes all the outside chair cushions, numerous shoes, Legos, lipsticks, more stuffed animals, birdhouses, base ball bats, balls, a plastic wheel barrel…even a bag of tile mortar. He does all this before he scampers off to chew up whatever the neighbors own.

So we buy one of those fancy wireless collars. Great idea, only the dog has figured out the system. He knows when the battery goes low before I do. It takes a few hours to charge, so at night we put him in his kennel, or on a chain until the battery is ready.

Monday, when I am driving home from dropping Avery out at his last day of preschool, dreaming about what I will do with my last morning alone, I pull into our development and pass a dog. It can’t possibly be Tucker who was on his chain.

“What an ugly dog,” I think to myself. I pull up beside him. It’s Tucker. He is so sandy and muddy from the previous night’s rain I didn’t even recognize him from a distance. Furious that the expensive collar is so inconvenient and that Tucker has broken free from his leash, I roll down the window, and in my meanest mommy voice I yell, “Get back to the house!”

Tucker turns and comes over to the car window where I give him the stare. He hangs his head and follows the car down the middle of the road about fifty feet. Every so often I see him look back over his shoulder. It’s obvious he’s torn between the spanking that’s coming and pooping in the neighbor’s yard. He chooses the latter. Turning tail, he bolts full throttle back out toward the highway and to the neighbors geraniums. My anger doubles. I’m on the threshold of an explosion. I can feel it.

I drive back to our house way too mad to enjoy the quiet Bible study and cup of French vanilla coffee I’d been dreaming of. The sad thing is, I know if I don’t go get that stupid dog, I’ll worry about him all morning. Reluctantly, I grab the leash, get back in the car, and drive around the neighborhood looking for our prodigal.

I make several laps around the block, but there’s no sign of Tucker. I pull into the marina, one of his favorite hang outs. Still, no sign of Tucker. I finally give up and head back to the house. As I pass by a house, I catch a glimpse of something that is either Tucker or a German Sheppard standing in the edge of the woods. It’s Tucker. And he has a friend. They see me stop.

The German Sheppard starts barking at me—the stranger breeching his property line—and Tucker bounds over to the car as if to say, “Look mom! I’ve made a friend. Isn’t he great? What a great bark he has! Everybody in the whole neighborhood can hear a bark like that!”

I jump out and snap the leash on Tucker’s collar before the German Sheppard gets loose and chases me home on foot—that or someone comes out the back door of the house with a shot gun.

Because Tucker is so nasty, there is no way I’m putting him in my car. It’s simply not an option. I stand in the middle of the road and think. I can’t let go of him or he’ll run away, and it’s too far to park my car and drag him back home. Because that is what I would have to do: drag him. Suddenly the movie “The National Lampoon’s Vacation” comes to mind. I get an idea.

Toyota Corollas do not have steel bumpers, so I get in the car, roll down the window and commence to “walk” the dog with one hand out the open window gripping the leash and the other hand on the steering wheel. Believe it or not, there is an art to walking a dog on a leash and driving a car at the same time—especially if the dog is reluctant to the idea. No matter how bad I wanted to romp the gas, I knew I couldn’t. “God, I hope no one is watching,” I pray. “If they are, they’re probably calling the law.”

The next morning, Tuesday, Tucker is gone again. I mutter all the way to drop Anna out at school about how frustrating this dog is. “He’s the worst pet ever!” I say. “I wish he’d get really lost for good!”

I ride by the lake on the way home, alerting the marina staff that my dog is missing—again. “Oh, yeah,” the old man says, “you’re the one with the dog that was down here the other day. He was out on the pier.”

“Yes, that’s him,” I say humiliated.

The old man laughs. Thankfully, Tucker doesn’t know a stranger and is completely impartial to whoever will give him attention. “I’ll give you a call if I see him,” the man tells me. I don’t even have to leave my number. He has it on speed dial.

I drive back to our house and surprisingly find this dog wrapped around the bushes and stuck up under the tractor. In his attempt to escape, he’s wound his lease and corkscrew tie-out tight around some bushes. Of course I tell him just what’s on my mind while he’s helpless, trapped and forced to listen to my angry tirade.

I crawl in the bushes and under the tractor to free him before tying his leash to a cinder block seeing how the corkscrew that goes in the ground is no longer an option now that it’s bend at a weird angle. I have to do this because the over-priced wireless collar is on the blink….again. I give Tucker food and water and instruct Avery to “entertain” his dog or else.

All is well until the next morning, Wednesday. I leave to take Anna to school, and lo-and-behold, Tucker is gone. Go figure. “This is ridiculous. Why do I even try? We should’ve name that dog Houdini!” I pull out the end of our very long drive and turn onto the road that circles the development and there he is.

Tucker is at the very top corner of our yard, cinder block and all. He’s dragged that thing over a tenth of a mile and it’s stuck around the neighbor’s flagpole! I shake my head and keep driving like I don’t know who’s dog he is. The kids are waving, screaming, and laughing because this crazy dog has anchored itself in someone else’s yard. Me? I’m thinking, too bad he didn’t try for a swim in the lake. (Shame on me, I know.)

After I drop Anna at school, I came back to our neighborhood and went about what is now my morning routine. I hooked Tucker’s leash to the flag pole, lugged the heavy cinder block to the car, and then went back to get him. I got in the car, arm extended, new flip-flops all wet and ruined and we proceeded home—me driving and Tucker walking beside the car. This time I drive a little faster, a little more careless. I’m mad, but even I can’t bring myself to floor it like I want to. “Our neighbors must think I’m crazy. I’m sure they see me driving by and say, ‘There’s that lazy woman in the white Corolla walking her dog again.’”

Truth is, I came in the house feeling like I’d run a marathon. My heart was pounding, my arm was bruised and bleeding, I was covered in mud and so was the inside of my car. My new shoes were nasty… “Oh, God,” I say, “what is wrong with this disobedient animal? What does it want from me? My sanity? Why won’t it listen?”

And somewhere deep, deep, deep in my heart, I realize Tucker is doing this to get attention. And that when I want attention and don’t get it, I do the same things. God points out to me, much later after I’ve calmed down and can laugh about this, “How many times have I had to go get you? You’ve been known to drag your baggage much farther than a tenth of a mile, and it was much, much heavier than a cinder block.”

And it’s true. How many times, like Tucker, have I been tempted to run off to indulge in my own desires? To run ahead, or lag behind  while carrying something as cumbersome as a piece of concrete around my neck when God was really working to get me where I belonged? There have been times in my life when I’ve been where I shouldn’t and got some real spiritual dirt on me while I was there—so much so I don’t know if I was recognizable as a child of God or not at the time. Just like Tucker, I have been that sandy, dirty, stinky dog eager to prowl through someone’s garbage simply because I’m human and that’s what I’m prone to do. And what did God do with me during those times?

You’d best be believing that Tucker got some real discipline when we got home that morning, but later…later I’m sure he got a treat. Thankfully my Master cares enough to discipline me, too.