Don’t Stay Needy

Posted on by H.J. Hill

Needy. That’s the word I kept hearing people use for Stella. “That dog is so needy.” Really, Stella, did we need a review of what everyone thinks? This is not Yelp. I wondered though if they were applying the term to me as well.

It’s all right, Stella. Not everyone will like you. Or think that you are cute or important, but I now do. Surely my opinion counts for something, at least between us. The others may come around, but so what if they don’t. Pretty girl. Stella Bella. That’s what you are to me. Stella the Beautiful, wrinkles, jowls, smooshy face, and all. Now and again, somebody just needs to tell you that. Every now and again you just need to hear that. We all do.

As for that business about being needy, we all have needs. There’s no sense in talking about it. Needs don’t require talk. Needs require fulfillment and fulfillment requires action. Action has been part of Stella’s blessing to me. Bulldogs are weighty creatures and you have to get up, do stuff for them, and use actual muscles. The endless days of easy chair sitting are gone.

I saw another connection with her. I was feeling sorry for myself. Self-pity is needy, another sinking sandpit in which to get stuck. I heard a sound piece of advice about self-pity long ago, one that I have not always followed – don’t allow yourself the luxury.

Have you ever gotten stuck in an awkward position physically and it took all you had to get going again, either because of a lack of strength to get up and untangled or simply because you had been sitting too long without moving? I was stuck when Stella showed up. Her needs forced me to get up, to move, to start addressing my needs. She was my God-given catalyst for change.

 

©H.J. Hill 2016 All Rights Reserved

 

Seek My Face, Not My Hand

Posted on by H.J. Hill

Calm dogs seek your face, not your hand. They may be excited, anxious to get going, to eat, to pee, to play, but they can calm themselves and shift their focus off of the hand with the food bowl, or the treat, or the leash, and onto your face. They can look you right in the eyes and give their full attention to you, not to what you have in your hand or what you are giving, as pleasant as that thing is.

Our bulldogs are not, by and large, a calm bunch. I am greeted most mornings with a pack of foot-stomping, body-wiggling, tail-wagging, tank-rolling dogs who want to experience every life pleasure from food to bolting around like barrel racing horses NOW, NOW, NOW! (Emphasis theirs.)

The rattling drum of bulldog paws. A raucous, rampaging stampede. A bulldog dare. Just try to ignore us. The temptation to give in and let them go wild dangles in front of me on a regular basis.

I had to develop my own discipline early on not to surrender to their excitement. Bulldogs are demanding by nature. Giving in to them is akin to giving a sugar-crazed child who is throwing a fit yet another cone of cotton candy.

I started a regimen.  I stood in front of the dog and required her to sit down and look up into my face, making eye contact. No sit, no eye contact, no whatever. The concept of having to obey an order, any order, did not sit well with Snoopey. I said,”Sit.” She stood. I said,”Look up.” She looked away. I waited. And waited. Finally I walked away.  A little later I tried again. She eventually sat, but she kept her eyes fixed on my hand and whatever it was going to do that she wanted – open the latch on her crate, set down a bowl of food, hand over a toy. Her eyes never left my hand and the hand did not hand over what she wanted until she minded the instruction and looked up into my eyes.  After that it got easy – for a while. Then she tested me.

I asked her to sit and look up and she didn’t. She’s going to give me what I want anyway. I can out bulldog her. It’s nice when a test looks like a test. I had learned to be a little bulldoggy myself. And I won. And that was good for Snoopey, too.

I am often guilty of seeking the Lord’s hand before I seek His face, a spiritual version of putting the cart before the horse. He encourages me to spend much needed time with Him, in prayer, in His Word, and simply in His Presence. I desire it…but Lord, if you would just do this one thing and take care of this other item, oh, and that other little thing that I want. I have to be reminded. If I look Him in the face, His hand is open and stretched out toward me.

“When Thou saidst, Seek ye My face; my heart said unto Thee, Thy face, LORD, will I seek.” Psalm 27:8 KJV

 

©H.J. Hill 2016 All Rights Reserved

 

Why Am I This Way?

Posted on by H.J. Hill

Stella sticks her tongue out between her stubby teeth, bracketed  by two bottom fangs set into her famous bulldog underbite, features bred into her, bred into all bulldogs by humans. She descends from ancient herding dogs that were bred with short muzzles and a tenacious spirit  so that her kind could fight bulls, grab and hold onto them by the nose, and torque them to the ground to win money for their owners. Or die in the process.

The old days of bullbaiting with dogs are gone (hopefully). Thank God. But the breeding man did to achieve victory in those wagered battles lingers in the faces of bulldogs. I have heard people call the dogs gargoyles without understanding how they came to look that way.

Stella would be highly insulted if she heard herself called a monster. I am not a monster. I don’t care what I look like. By the way, what do I look like? There aren’t enough mirrors around here.

When she rolls over onto her back, her jowls flop open, ruffling with each breath as air hisses through her teeth. When she sits upright again, her face gravitates downward, falling into its hangdog place. Bulldogs and their perpetually worried expressions. I have one, too, and I was not bred to fight bulls. So many people have said to me over the years, “Oh, it can’t be that bad!” simply after looking at my face. (There aren’t enough mirrors around here, are there?)

So why are we the way we are? We ask that question when we are unhappy with ourselves, when we are dissatisfied, when there is a trait we want to change.

God grants gifts, and we face the pesky choices of how we are going to use those gifts. We make right choices. We make wrong choices. We and others may suffer for those wrong choices. And the bulldogs? They abide by the sentence carried in their genes and still get to make a few choices of their own along the way. Just watch their gentleness sometime. No more fighting, except among themselves. How sad. How human.

“He hath made every thing beautiful in his time…” Ecclesiastes 3:11 KJV

 

©H.J. Hill 2016 All Rights Reserved

Mountains and Molehills

Posted on by H.J. Hill

Bulldogginess. Dear Lord, if I could just bottle it and sell it, it would help so many people through so much. (And I could make a small fortune.) On the positive side, persistence, perseverance, but then there is that other facet – stubbornness, pigheadedness.

According to the bulldogs, the sky was falling. It rained for 3 days straight after four bone dry months. When I was a little kid, I thought that rain meant God was crying. Maybe the dogs think that the world’s coming to an end. Or maybe they just don’t want to get their feet wet.

I finally had to put Stella on the leash and encourage her strongly to go out beside the driveway where she might recognize her old pee stomping grounds. And finally she did…pee.

Who knew dogs were so dainty about wet feet? I mean if you watch them for long, they step in, well, ALL kinds of things with not so much as a grimace.

This is what happens when you make a big deal out of a small deal, a mountain out of a molehill, a tornado out of a dust devil. They need us in ways that go way beyond food and water and shelter. They need us to let them know that they will be all right even if they don’t believe us the first 100 times we tell them that. They need us to be their guardians, their little “g” gods, faulty ones at best. Because they don’t understand a whole lot about what is going on even while they understand a whole lot more than we do about the ground under our feet and the rhythms of life, they act as though ordinary events are earth-shattering. Rainfall becomes an insurmountable obstacle to normal life. Sort of like when I let someone’s careless or rude remark block me from pursuing my set course.

When I was a child, I thought of dogs only as playthings, toys for my amusement when I wanted and where I wanted, even while my childish heart knew they were much more – companions, sharers of sorrows, uncomplaining playmates, guides into things unnoticed by man, fellow creatures. And they need us to sort out the important from the inconsequential, and do things like open doors and gates, show them that the sky is not falling, and bring balance to their canine ways.

I mean really, Stella, if you need to pee, does it matter that the ground is already wet?

 

©H.J. Hill 2016 All Rights Reserved

 

Don’t Drive Yourself Crazy

Posted on by H.J. Hill

When Snoopey came to us, I didn’t get to know her right away. Spring was cool and she was used to being outside. In the mornings, I was running out of the house to work and then running to bed at night. My son took care of her and I would wave at her in passing and call her name. Snoopey is Stella’s sister, but she and Stella don’t resemble each other at all and they didn’t act alike. Stella is calm and submissive (when she wants to be). Snoopey – well, there was something different about Snoopey.

As she sat in her doghouse one day, I noticed an odd behavior. Snoopey was pointing her nose skyward and swinging her head back and forth, a constant repetition that went on for minutes, even after I called to her. She ignored me and just went on with the head swaying. I thought it might be an ear problem, but even after she was treated for a minor infection, every few days she would go back into the head swinging mode. Even after she came to stay inside when the weather heated up, randomly she would start rocking her head and pointing her nose up at nothing.

I researched. A few people mentioned the word “neurological”. A few people I spoke with brought up the word “crazy”. I don’t like that word. I don’t deal well with “crazy”.

Snoopey wore a suspicious look, like she was constantly evaluating us and the other dogs. She accepted affection – touch, word, time, but she was jealous in that dangerous way that could start an instant dog war. What were her first 2 years like before she came to us? I don’t know and dwelling on it is a good way to get stuck in that past we are all trying to escape. Somehow, someway, she did not get something she needed in her puppyhood. She acted weird, standoffish, but not afraid. Or maybe afraid was it. Hard to peg.

So I started paying her more individual attention. Snoopey got a new stylish collar. That meant more to me than it did to her. I gave her a tough toy bone to chew on. She picked it up and carried it around with it hanging out of her mouth like a cigar. She didn’t put it down, standing, walking, laying down. She just kept it in her mouth. I think she had never had anything like it. I spent a lot of time looking into her eyes and rubbing her head and neck. Weeks rolled on. And I realized that Snoopey didn’t swing her head anymore. No more crazy.

Now Snoopey’s eyes meet mine. Still with a suspicious streak, she watches everything even when she appears asleep. She is a natural born guard dog. She naps on my feet and stays right by me wherever we walk.

I think Snoopey had spent too much time alone, and when any of us spend too much time alone, imbalance can set in. I am an introvert. My alone time is precious to me, but God made us to be with others, to share time and words and life. And crazy is not His way.

“For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” 2 Timothy 1:7

 

©H.J. Hill 2016 All Rights Reserved

 

Clinging to the One Who is Higher than I

Posted on by H.J. Hill

Stella clawed at my knee and held on for dear life, her eyes bulging with terror. Her nails dug into my flesh, a painful moment for both of us.

“What’s wrong, girl? What is it?”

She released me and ran to the crate. I trotted behind her. Nothing. No blood. No sign of distress. No dead cat.

I scanned the area inside and around the crate, but noticed nothing that would cause the panic in Stella’s frightened eyes and pounding feet. And then I saw it. A treat stuck under the edge of the crate – the whole cause of the riot. A small chicken and bacon treat had become trapped! Stella pranced around the corner of the crate. She could see it and smell it, but she couldn’t get to it. The poor treat. It was going to waste. It had given its life in vain. Save it!

Stella does this pose when she is excited. She stands up, hops her forelegs about 6 inches off the floor, spins around and freezes. Then, lifting each stiff foreleg high in the air, she prances toward me for attention and accolades. For strangers and visitors, she bows with her front paws by her head. She put on her show and I just watched.

Not satisfied with the speed of my response, she placed her tongue between her teeth and blew. “Phlubbbb.”  Special bulldog sounds equal annoyance.

“So now it’s not an emergency, but you still need my help and I’m moving too slowly to suit you. Okay, here it is.”

Stella accepted the rescued treat and settled into her place at rest. How can I fault her? I’ve blown the minor into the major times without number. And over food, too. In the old days, I am sure that I inflated the importance of chicken and bacon.

Stella was clinging to my leg to get my attention for something that made no difference in the great outside world, but was critically important in her small one. She was crying to me for help to do what she could not. As a human, I am higher than dogs in my manual dexterity, my reasoning power (I hope), and my eyes’ sharp focus and ability to distinguish colors and shades.

And as humans, we cry to the Lord to do what we cannot. He is higher than we are in every way.

“From the end of the earth will I cry unto Thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I.” Psalm 61:2 KJV

 

© H.J. Hill 2016 All Rights Reserved.

 

God-Send

Posted on by H.J. Hill

I thought I would recognize a God-send when I saw one, but Stella surprised me.

Blessings are odd things. They are not always wrapped in shiny paper. They don’t always announce themselves. Once in a while, they show up as stinky, wrinkly, smooshy-faced, barrel-shaped bulldogs with faces that, as one neighbor put it, “only a mama could love”.

The day Stella came had been a rough one for me, a confusing mess that represented everything my job had become – a sinking sand pit with me stuck in the middle. Her unexpected arrival jolted me, but not enough to get me unstuck. When my son left to pick up food and a bed for her, she promptly pooped on the floor at my feet. In hindsight, in her place, I might have done the same.

Not an auspicious start.

I cleaned up the pile, promising myself that it was the last thing I would do toward taking care of this dog. My son brought her. He would have to take care of her. That selfie promise lasted, well, maybe a couple of days. My eyes kept straying over to where she slept, watching for signs that she was going into labor. I checked her water bowl. Was it full? Was it clean? The times I was pregnant, I wanted a generous supply of clean water.

As the weeks limped along, I realized Stella’s first blessing to me. She forced my mind off of myself and onto another. Not another human. Another creature.

Stella still paws me, claims me, clings to me as if she’s afraid that no one will keep loving her. After all, it didn’t work out before.

If only I could make her understand.  

“Stella, I thank God for you. You are not a mistake. God brought you to me at the perfect time. You. Specifically you. Of all the dogs on the planet, He chose you and brought you here. I am glad that He did. It shows how much He cares for you. And for me. An answer to prayer shines like a star. You came right on time, Stella. Not a moment early, not a moment late.”

So keep your eyes open. You never know when a disguised blessing will appear, even one in the form of a four-legged, walking barrel.

 

© H.J. Hill 2016 All Rights Reserved

 

Not the Dog I Prayed For

Posted on by H.J. Hill

The first time I saw Stella, I didn’t like her. Easy dogs are easy to like. Well-mannered, cute, sweet-smelling, obedient. Stella did not fit that bill. She did not meet my definition of cute. She smelled awful. She farted constantly.

Stella is an Olde English Bulldogge. A bulldog. Lazy old me with a bulldog.

I had prayed for a dog – a small brown and white dog with a long, narrow muzzle and a quizzical look on its face. It had been almost 5 years since my little Corgi, Susie, had died. I felt I was finally ready.

“Dear Lord, please send me a dog I can help, a dog I can be good to, the little brown and white dog that I am seeing in my mind. Oh, and no shedding, chewing, bad smells, or pooping and peeing in the wrong places.”

(In other words, I wanted a windup toy dog that I could turn on and off with the push of a button. Lazy old me.)

Three months later, Stella came. She did not wander up. My son brought her. She was pregnant and within a couple of weeks of delivering her litter. I didn’t expect anything good when Stella showed up. I expected more work, more mess, more dirt.

But then I hadn’t expected much of anything good for a long time. It’s hard to talk about failures. They come in so many varied shapes and sizes. Sometimes they come in strings and, after a while, if you don’t break free from quicksand thinking, you get stuck. You start tolerating life, not living it. (And here’s a secret – occasionally failure is success in disguise.)

I started tolerating Stella and shifted to feeling sorry for her. I looked at her hang dog face night after night as she awaited the birth of her puppies. Poor Stella would lumber up to me, begging for a smidgen of attention.

One day I realized that Stella and I looked a lot alike. Hang down heads. Hang dog faces. God can use anything to get your attention, even a bulldog.

“God knows what He’s doing, Stella.”

She looked at me doubtfully with her sideways bulldog stare. “God knows what He’s doing. Do you?” She didn’t have to say it. It was written all over my face.

So where will all this lead? I don’t yet know. The Lord answered my prayer with a bulldog. She was not the dog I prayed for. She was the dog I needed.

And she did fit one item on my mental prayer list. She was brown and white.

 

©H.J. Hill 2016 All Rights Reserved