We’ve all had at least one, that teacher that made a career of belittling their students in front of the class. We were kids. We were taught to obey authority. So we didn’t fight back.
Then there was Eugene.
Every day, for no reason at all, Mr Savage, a dark-haired short little man with a great big fat ego, punched Eugene on the shoulder. Maybe he didn’t like the way he sat in his chair or that he wore glasses or had curly hair and a Robert Mitchum dimple in his chin. Maybe he didn’t like that Eugene was bigger and smarter and better looking than he was. Or maybe it’s just that Mr Savage had to live up to his name by terrorizing his seventh-grade students.
One day,Mr Savage was extra mean. I don’t know what Eugene did, but Mr Savage marched over to his desk and plowed his fist into Eugene’s shoulder nearly knocking him out of his chair.
Suddenly, as if waking a sleeping lion, Eugene jumped up, shook his fist in Mr Savage’s face and snarled, “Now, hit me again!”
And sitting dumbfounded across from him, my insides were yelling, “Yeah! And that goes for me too!”
He must have heard me because Mr Savage laid off Eugene and started bullying me.
Every day Mr Savage singled me out, asking me questions hoping I’d give the wrong answer so that he and everyone else could roll with laughter. And every day I just sat there clenching my jaw and shooting green-eyed daggers through his heart.
My you-can’t-make-me stubbornness didn’t sit well with him. So one day while the students and teachers were lined up to go to their classrooms, Mr Savage marched over to me and snarled sarcastically, “What’s the matter with your mother? Is she an invalid or something?”
Dumbstruck and wondering what the heck invalid meant, I blurted, “Yes sir, she’s in a wheelchair.”
Suddenly, as if I’d punched him in the nose he spun around before I could explain, tucked his tail between his legs and practically ran into the classroom and slammed the door behind him!
I didn’t know Mr Savage had written my parents requesting a conference with them because I was failing Social Studies. It wasn’t until much later I discovered that daddy wrote back telling him about mom’s back injury and that if he wanted to talk to them he’d have to come to the house.
God was my hero that day. He grabbed the savage beast by the horns and gave him a swift kick in the butt. And from that day forth, Mr Savage never ever bothered me again.
Yes, I failed Social Studies. But Mr Savage just plain failed. He failed at teaching. He failed at having compassion and wisdom and understanding. Rather than building us up and helping us learn he beat us down to the ground. So I give him and every teacher like him a big fat F!
“Whoever digs a hole and scoops it out falls into the pit they have made. The trouble they cause recoils on them; their violence comes down on their own heads.” Psalm 7:15,16 NIV
All puppies are born cute and adorable. But Rascal, an Australian shepherd mix was down right handsome. It was obvious why the neighbor’s little girl picked him out of the litter of abandoned pups. Those floppy ears and tiger stripes would have melted any child’s heart, not to mention that fluffy, snow white chest to rake their fingers through.
We had a dog years ago. A sweet little chihuahua we named Peanut. He lived a short, seventeen years. When he died, I didn’t want another dog. It hurts too much when they die.
Then there was Rascal. The puppy next door the little girl took home and hugged and played with for a day or two then tossed him aside like a broken toy.
Eventually, he ended up in our yard. Then camping out on the front porch. Then playing with us and the grand-kids in the house.
Maybe he’d have gone back home had we not encouraged him to stay with a comfy bed and warm, fuzzy blanket, a food and water bowl, and toys to play with. Maybe he’d have eventually wandered off, found a girlfriend and made lots of handsome babies instead of hanging around and wriggling his way into our hearts.
But I wasn’t ready to commit. I kinda liked that part-time dogie thing. You know, the part where you spoil them and send them back home. No messing up the house, chewing furniture, and pooping on the floor. No Vet bills. No responsibility. We’ll just let him in for a few hours each night then let him back out again to sleep in his bed on the porch or go back home or find another porch to sleep on.
But he never went back home. He thought he was home.
Now what? He was getting older and bigger and started running off the porch into our other neighbor’s yard and annoying them and their dog. But he doesn’t belong to us. We can’t box him in on the front porch or keep him in the house. That would be steeling. Besides, I didn’t want a full-time dog. I liked things the way they were. Why ruin a good thing with a dirty little word like commitment?
But I don’t like tormenting my neighbors, so we had one of two choices to make: send him home for good or ask if we could have him.
They gave him to us. Just like that! As if they forgot he was their dog to begin with.
If they only knew what a great dog they had given up. How eager he was to please, how he never chewed the furniture or peed or pooped on the floor, ever. Had they given him half a chance they would have realized how smart and obedient he was and how easy he was to train.
However, Rascal had one fault that nearly drove me nuts. He was extremely, aggressively territorial. Meaning, if he didn’t know you, you didn’t get in the house, nor would you be brave enough to try. Over-night guests had to wean their way through the front door by walking him on a leash away from the house and giving him time to get familiar with them. Then everyone was happy and could walk into the house in one piece. But once our quests went outside, Rascal wouldn’t let them back in.
Children however, had magic powers. Even if Rascal had never seen them before, they were jubilantly welcomed with a wagging tail and lots of slobbery kisses.
Rascal was a pampered house dog; we never, ever let him run loose. But some times he’d break his leash chasing a rabbit or a squirrel when we’d let him out, but he always came back home except for that one time. Frantic, my husband, Buck drove around the neighborhood looking for him while I stayed home praying and bawling my eyes out. A million what if’s terrorized my mind: What if he gets hit by a car? What if some mean person shoots him? What if somebody picks him up and drives off with him?
Buck finally came back home, but Rascal was nowhere to be found.
The next morning before leaving for work, Buck called once more from the edge of the woods and was answered back with a familiar bark. While chasing a rabbit through the woods, Rascal’s broken leash got wrapped around a twig and he sat there all night long. My prayers were answered. God kept him safe and helped us find him before it was too late.
After eight short years, Rascal suddenly became deathly ill. Saying good-bye to him was like cutting a chunk out of my heart.
We dug a grave under a tree in the back yard. We wrapped his lifeless body in a warm blanket with his favorite blue bone. We covered him with dirt and piled rocks on top. We knelt on the ground. We couldn’t stop crying. Not that day. Not the next day. Not the days and weeks that followed.
I was done. No more dogs for me. It hurts too much when they die.
But Buck wasn’t done. As much as I tried to cheer him up, he missed Rascal. With every fiber of his being, every beat of his heart, he missed his beloved dog but longed for another to fill the hole in his soul.
Although I was ready to move on and couldn’t wrap my heart around the idea of having another dog and going through all this again, I caved in to my husband’s sadness. So on his birthday we went to the animal shelter, picked out a sad looking dog and fell in love all over again.
Bella’s a beautiful greyhound mix, sweet and lovable and the strangest dog we’ve ever had. After five years, all that happy inside her still explodes when we feed her, when we let her our out, when we let her back in and when we come in from being outside for five minutes. She’s as clumsy as an ox, stubborn as a mule, and does everything on her own terms. She won’t lay down till she’s covered from head to toe, and sleeps so soundly it’s hard to wake her up.
Two year ago, we rescued Pepper, our sweet, prissy little dachshund lab mix that was abandoned with fifteen other dogs and starving to death. She was a dead puppy walking and we didn’t think she would survive the week. Funny how a visit to the Vet and a little food and lots of love and attention can bring a dying animal back to life.
There will never ever be another Rascal. He was one of a kind. But Bella and Pepper have filled the gaping hole in our heats. They make us happy. They make us laugh out loud. They fill our hearts with love.
Using Paint Shop Pro 2019, I turn ordinary photos into works of art. I also create picture tubes, bookmarks, Facebook Covers, cards, tags, and more. I don't sell my art, therefore, all my creations are free for your own personal use.