The Gift

Since it is Mom's birthday, here is a story about her dog Rusty. I wrote it a couple years ago and never shared it with anyone.

With the same excitement of a ten-year-old Florence, my Mom, blurted the news, “I got a dog and I’m going to name him Rusty.”

“Oh no,” I said. I envisioned a snarling beast lurking my mother’s kitchen. I cradled the phone’s receiver on my shoulder. “Dogs with that name bite more people than any other. How about Lucky?” I suggested. After all, as my mother described the circumstances he seemed to be one lucky dog.

“No,” she insisted. “You should see his coat. It’s thick. It’s so shiny.” So, Rusty it was.

Mom loved dogs, but Shelties held a special place in her heart. For eleven years she owned a blue merle named Holly. Mom and Holly often took walks around the rural block to meet and socialize with the other dogs in the neighborhood. Or they went to a nearby state park where Holly could run through the woods barking at grey squirrels—real or imaginary—while Mom strolled around the park’s quiet lake.

After my father, Manuel, retired my parents set off in their RV across North America and Holly patiently sat behind Mom’s seat through thirty-five states and three countries. In Mexico, she kept the Federales at bay when they insisted on searching the vehicle. They changed their minds when they heard the dog’s growl inside the motor home. If they had seen her diminutive size, they would have laughed and torn the RV apart from top to bottom.

Holly had been a lifesaver. More than once the little dog woke Dad to alert him that Mom suffered an insulin reaction. But Holly had passed away the previous spring and Mom mourned the loss of her faithful companion. Every night she prayed that when the right time came, she’d have another dog.

Then one Sunday morning after church service, Mrs. Williams approached my mother. “Florence, do you want a dog?” She explained, “I can’t take him. It doesn’t seem right to let such a nice dog roam loose.” The elderly woman leaned on her cane and repositioned the worn Bible clutched to her chest. “I don’t know what to do with him. He mysteriously showed up one cold day. He’s a Sheltie.”

When he didn’t leave, Mrs. Williams felt guilty and fed him. Three months later and deep into winter, she knew something had to be done if the dog were to be able to survive until spring. With anyone else, Mrs. Williams might have had to beg, but my mother didn’t hesitate. Mom knew God had answered her prayers.

Snow blew across the road when Mom and Dad went to get the Sheltie the following morning. The stray jumped right into their car. He appeared a little thin, but wore the thick coat of his sheepdog ancestors. Such a coat shielded the herding dogs from the stinging sleet and snow carried by the Scot Highland winds. The little dog’s matted and tangled hair captured residue of every muddy ditch, shallow stream, and salty road he had wandered. His cream-colored underbelly and petticoats, the long tresses of hair that grew on his hind hocks, were a grimy brown. Old burrs were embedded deep within his wool-like coat. And he stunk.

Mom arranged for Rusty to have a check up and bath at the local veterinarian. When the vet’s assistant brought Rusty out, the bounce in his gait made his clean coat dance. The luxurious blend of the black-and-tan hairs shone and his well-groomed petticoats floated behind him like angel’s wings.

Mom loved her new dog. Dad, more reserved in his affection for pets, admired the beauty and easy temperament of the little dog.

Karen, who had been Holly’s vet, asked to speak to Mom. “He’s in remarkably good shape for living outdoors for who knows how long. Maybe he could use an extra pound or two; otherwise, he seems healthy. Blood and stool samples results will be back in a few days. Let’s start his shots next week.” Karen cleared her throat and asked, “Where did you say you got him?”

“Over in Gansevoort. A friend from church found him.”

“That’s some distance from Glens Falls,” Karen said, “but he looks an awful lot like this dog.” She handed Mom a flyer of a lost Sheltie dated five months earlier. “We always keep them on file,” she explained. “I thought the dog looked familiar.” The grainy black-and-white photo captured a remarkable resemblance.

“Can’t be the same dog,” my mother denied. “Besides, he’s mine now.” She ruffled Rusty’s lion-like mane. The chain on his new collar jangled.

Dad studied the flyer. “That’s clear on the other side of the Hudson River, about fifteen miles to the nearest bridge. How did he cross the river?” There was no explanation.

“Take the flyer. It has the number if you decide to call.”

That night, with her new dog settled down beside her bed, Mom lay awake tormented by the dilemma. Housebroken and well-behaved, this dog had belonged to someone, but Mom reasoned she now owned Rusty. God gave him to me. He’s mine. I took him in when he did not have a home. Nobody else wanted him. Yet, she knew if he had been her dog and had lost him, she would want him back.

How had he safely crossed the Hudson? The nearest bridge spanned a remote area over the river on a heavily traveled Interstate highway called the Northway. If Rusty didn’t take that bridge, the next one was in South Glens Falls. It too would have been equally treacherous to cross without getting struck by a car. But for the hardest question, she had no answer. Lord, how could you answer my prayers and then take this beautiful gift away? In the silent darkness of her room, she heard nothing, except a deep sigh from the Sheltie.

A fresh snow fell during the night and left the backyard a white blanket that glistened in the early morning sun. As Mom washed the breakfast dishes, she stared out of the kitchen window. The undisturbed snow stretched into the woods behind the house. It was just last winter that Holly’s tracks cut across the perfect surface.

Chickadees made their endless flights back and forth to the feeder. As she watched them tirelessly carry one seed at a time to the snow-laden pine bows she thought of Matthew 6:26: "Look at the birds of the air; they do not reap, or sow or store away in barns and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable then they?"

She knew what had to be done. A tear ran down her face, fell into the dishwater, and disappeared. Rusty wandered into the kitchen his toenails clicking on the linoleum-covered floor. In just two days he had already made himself comfortable in his new home. His deep black eyes met hers and he cocked his head as if he knew Mom had something to do. “You’re my dog,” she cried, bending down to hold the dog’s wedge-shaped muzzle in her wet palms. Her hand shook as she dialed the number.

A pleasant voice on the other end of the line answered and identified herself as Nancy. When Nancy learned the reason for the call, she didn’t sound overjoyed with the news. Mom asked, “Can you describe him?”

“It’s been months. Wait a minute. Let me get my husband, James.”

James and Nancy could not recall any distinguishing marks on the Sheltie, but they offered to come over later that evening. Mom hung up the phone. “Rusty they can’t even remember the droopy tip on your right ear. You can’t be their dog.”

When James pulled into the driveway just before dinnertime, he came alone. Rusty barked when he heard the truck drive up. “He’s going to make a good watch dog,” Dad said. He went to the front door and invited James to come in. A tall man in his late thirties, he dressed casually—a worn LL Bean barn jacket, faded blue jeans and heavy farm boots.

Rusty immediately recognized James. The Sheltie twirled in circles, barked and wagged his tail. Doubt disappeared when the man dropped to his knees and received a squirming dog into his arms. “Hi ol’ Boy.”

James declined the offer to stay for chicken and biscuits. The three stood in the kitchen with the Sheltie roaming around them. James told my parents the six year old Sheltie was named Lucky. When the Sheltie had disappeared, James’ two sons searched for days, going door to door, hanging posters in storefronts and on telephone poles at intersections. They solicited the help of their middle school friends and teachers. He and his wife had placed ads in the local papers and sent flyers to animal shelters and veterinary clinics. But no one had seen Lucky. The boys were devastated over the lost dog they had grown up with.

James could not figure out how the Sheltie got so far from home. Even the river crossing baffled him.

With the true identity of the owner verified by Rusty himself, the small talk completed, and dinner waiting on the stove, there wasn’t much left to do, except for James to claim his dog. An awkward silence fell in the room. James made no move toward the door. “You know, I think Lucky found a good home here. I can see he’s safe and loved.”

Tears welled up in my mother’s eyes. “Oh yes. We love him,” she whispered in disbelief, as her hands rose to her lips.

“I appreciate your call,” James said.

Mom watched him swallowed an emotion that surged up from a place inside, where men keep their feelings confined. “My wife and I haven’t told the boys. After all this time, we believed that if Lucky….” He cleared his throat before continuing, “I mean Rusty, found a good home and you want him, maybe it was suppose to be.”

He knelt before the Sheltie, and quietly gave his last command to his dog, “Take good care of Florence, ol’ Boy.”


And he did.