Lord, we have to agree to disagree on this dog thing

THE HALLELUJAH DOG

"Mommy…" Grant dashed into the kitchen and skidded to a halt against the table. "Zachary's gone."

"The dog's out again?" I said, not surprised.

"Hurry, Zach's not in the yard." Rapid tugs gripped at my arm, pulling me towards the back door.

"Are you sure?" Strange question to ask. Stupid dog gets out almost every day.

"Look." Grant whimpered and pointed to the hole burrowed under the gate.

"Come on. Let's take a peek." We pushed the screen door open, hopped down the cement steps and inspected the escape tunnel.

"He's run away.  See?" Grant dropped to all fours, bottom riding high in the sky, and poked his head into the hole.  A crumpled package of shredded bubble gum stuck out of his rear pocket.

"Don't worry. He'll be back." I grasped his hips and backed him out of the hole.

"When?" His voice resounded on the dirt walls.

"Soon," I caught the flaps of his ears, held them from a bend, and gave a final tug. "Dumb beagle spends more time trying to get out then he does staying put. Let him go." I confided to the urine-burnt azalea.

Golden red curls blew in the wind; his moss green eyes loaded with tears. "Zach could get hit by a car or stolen. He might find a new home."

New home? Now that would be nice. The azaleas swayed in the breeze. An adjacent wind chime tinkled. Support.

"The dog has run away before and he always comes home." I offered a feeble excuse of condolence. "He's just out having an adventure, watering a tree or chasing a cat."

"No, he's lost." Grant stomped his sandal in the dirt and cried, "We have to go find him. He's part of the family."

Oh, little son - low blow.

"All right. Let's take a walk down the street." I took the trusting hand in mine and together we hunted behind bushes, scouted under parked cars, and stretched our necks down alleyways. No dog.

"Why don't we go home and see if he's come back?" I turned Grant around and we retraced our journey. We waved at a teenager waxing a Mustang and inquired of any knowledge of Zach's disappearance. Said dog a no-show we returned home to start our lost dog project. Mounds of construction paper and crayons littered the table. I searched the kitchen drawers for thumb tacks and scotch tape. I nursed a cup of ginger tea and selfishly enjoyed the silence of no barking.

"I'll color some posters with his picture and name and then hang them on all the telephone poles." He scribbled portraits of stick dogs and meaty bones and printed Zachary in purple and black block letters until his eyes weighed heavily.

"Let's call it a night." I scooted him down the hallway and helped him into his super hero pajamas - flannel warriors to protect him for the night. "Time for prayers."

"Dear God, please keep Zach safe and warm and make sure someone feeds him Mighty Dog. That's his favorite. Oh yeah, and a Liver Snap for dessert." He knelt by the bed. "And water, God. A dog needs lots and lots of water. Amen."

I rested on the edge of the bottom bunk and prayed, "Dear God, please find that dumb dog a new home."

I tossed and twisted under the sheets. The act of counteracting a child's prayer danced in my mind. Is it right to cancel out the prayer of a six-year old boy? What kind of mother am I? I curled under the quilt and questioned my parenting qualifications. The digits on the clock clicked 2:17AM.

Sunrise, sunset, repeated on end and it seemed my request was answered. Grant moped on the front lawn and beheaded dandelions.  In between, he handed out flyers to the postman, FedEx guy and the neighbor with the Nigerian accent and seven cats.

Day three, four, five - I pushed the cans of dog food to the rear of the cabinet, scooped poop and swept away dog hairs. I buried mounds of dog-doo and bones.  My yard mine again, I knelt and kissed the Kentucky Blue.

"Yes! Thank-you, God." I breathed, "No more dog."

A knock at the front door broke my solitude. I dropped my shovel, brushed off blades of grass and scrambled to answer.

"Hi, I'm Dolores Bettencourt. Are you missing a dog?" A lanky lady, wearing a floral blouse and white flowing skirt cut three hems below the knee posed the question.

"Dog?" I sneaked my foot beyond the open door and kicked the empty dog bowl on the porch to the blossoming petunias below.

"I heard you lost a dog." She waved a crinkled flyer in my face. "A beagle named Zachary."

"Me?" I glanced around her legs, no dog. "Well…"

"…Well, your Zachary is with my minister. God bless him." She fanned the paper over her rosin cheeks.

"Your minister?" The devil dog, an adulterer in perpetual heat, living with a man of the Book?

"Yes." She drew in a hearty breath and perched her hands on the pleats of her polyester skirt. "Why last Sunday smack in the middle of the evening service this brown and white beagle strolls into the church and waggles his little tail right down the center aisle."

"He didn't, you know, lift his leg and piddle on a pew?" I wondered if my homeowner insurance covered wayward pets.

"Oh yes, third row to the left. Sprinkled poor Brother Lester Pollack's new leather shoes with a spray of yellow." She covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers, an empty attempt to hold in her gossip. "You know, thank the good Lord, we were in the final verse of How Great Thou Art. It filtered out all the cursing and spitting Brother Lester did at that dog."

"How profane." I scoffed at her gossip and wished her away.

"Shameful words. Just awful." Her earrings dangled as she shook her head in disgust and declared, "Must add the good brother to my prayer list."

"So he piddled on a brother. I guess I can live with that." I squeezed past the partial opening between the unwelcome guest and the door. A whiff of White Shoulders tickled my nose and I swallowed back the sneeze.

Dolores leaned in closer and sucked in her mahogany-tinged lips. "He did much more than that."

"Just what did the little heathen do?" I stood one foot outside the screen door and brushed a spider web from my hair. "Chew up a hymnal or lap up the communal wine?"

"Why that dog marched down that carpet and jumped into the baptismal tank just as Pastor Paul was dunking Sister Bessie Kellogg, all 207 pounds of her."

I checked back over my shoulder, peered into the house and tried to remember where I hid my lawyer's number. Hey, I don't have a lawyer. God, this isn't what I had in mind when I asked for another home for Zach.

"Water splashed all over the tank like tidal waves. Poor Bessie, why she gulped in 'two praise the Lord's' full of water before she went back under."

"Water?" I clutched my open palm to my lips and whispered, "Grant asked God for water - lots of water."

"It took Deacon Clyde Silverspoon, Pastor Paul and the organ player, Earl Hubbard, to get her afloat." Her mouth flapped faster. "And there, right on top of Bessie's bloated belly was the beagle, his skinny tail beating faster than a metronome, his pink tongue cleaning her face."

I sunk in despair on the steps.

"The congregation was so excited we sang 'hallelujah'."

"And Bessie…is she all right?" I said.

"Bessie, she claimed 'she saw the light' and the wet dog was her salvation." The Good Samaritan nestled in on the second step and kept her eyes level with my stare.

"Her salvation?" I gulped and thought - a sinner dog?

"Yes, he kept tugging at her to rise from the bottom of the tank and live. Oh praise the Lord." A hanky escaped from her side pocket and she waved it towards the sky.

"Well then, praise the Lord." I parroted. "Then everything turned out okay." I reached out to shake her hand and end the re-enactment.

"Wait." She pushed aside my extended fingers and continued, "There's more."

"More?" Oh, Lord, we need to agree to disagree on this dog thing.

"Pastor Paul thought the mutt so cute he named him Hallelujah and took him home with him. After all, all God's creatures need love."

A guilt twinge cursed down my spine.

"Does Pastor have Mighty Dog by the way?" I said.

"Mighty Dog? What Pastor has is a destroyed home. Why that dog of yours…"

"…His." I paused and reiterated, "Pastor Paul's dog now." A technical error on her part.

"Your dog," she stood judge and jury. "He chewed up the couch, the pillows, tore down the drapes and then went into the bathroom and strewed toilet paper all over the house."

"Well, you see, Zach was never a house dog Mrs. Bettencourt. God's creatures were meant for the outdoors." I protested in my defense.

"Mommy?" Grant slipped through the open door and grabbed the colored scrap of paper from the rescuer-not-getting-a-reward. "Did she find Zach?"

“This is Mrs. Bettencourt.” We rose from the cement couch and faced the freckled cheeks.

"You found my dog?" He jumped up and down on his toes. "Did you know he can scratch for fleas behind his ear with his back paw? And once on vacation, he chased a skunk," he inhaled to deliver another round of dog highlights. "And it ran right through the campsite spraying stinky stuff."

"Yes, I believe I found your dog. Sounds like a terrific playmate." She turned and cast me a sour glare, then sweetened again to my young son. "Zachary's at Pastor Paul's house begging to come home." She bent to boy level and smiled. I refrained from landing a Reebok imprint on her protruding behind.

"Come on.  Let's go with Mrs. Bettencourt and bring Zach home." I grabbed the leash and watched Grant skip down the steps. Mission completed. His dog was coming home.

We thanked the angry but pious Pastor Paul and offered to pay for the redecorating. He patted Zach on the snout and said, "I think Hallelujah has repented and has been saved. Look how quiet he is." The little mutt huddled close to my leg.

Hmm? Yes, look how quiet he is. Could it be? This baptized dog found the Lord?

"Go in peace and here I bought him a box of Liver Snaps. Seems to love the square little biscuit." The minister slammed the door behind us. I swore a hallelujah deep on the bass accented with a 'damn' escaped from his open window. Add Pastor Paul to the prayer list.

Back at home, the prodigal hound savored the contentment and slept belly full of Mighty Dog on the front porch. An empty box of Liver Snaps and fresh bowl of water rested on the back step. Grant stroked the short brown fur and guarded the leash around his arm.

"Okay, let me get this straight, God." I leaned against the porch rail and replayed the events. "Water, plenty of water, Mighty Dog and Liver Snaps. So a little boy's prayers cancel out a Mom's. Got it, Lord." 

I reached down and feathered Grant's sun-kissed waves.

"But this dog conversion bit, God, now that's a new one for me.  He does appear different." I petted Zach, the Hallelujah dog, and wondered how long this devil dog would keep up the act.

I spied Zach, sprawled on the concrete, wink a brown eye under the cover of his lopped ear. His tail swatted a bug and I knew God had spoken, "Not long."

THE END

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AUTHOR BIO:

Cynthia Borris, the culprit behind the antics of NO MORE BOBS, a lighthearted mystery, resides in Northern California. Humor columnist for Valley Lifestyles magazine and frequent CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL contributor, she is working on her next novel, TO SERVE DUCK. For speaking engagements, visit website. She'll bring the coffee and laughter but not the Bobs!