"Load Up"

 
Living in the blistering heat of the Great Southwest precludes us from enjoying much exposure to the big, beautiful, double-coated, longhaired canine of the Great Northwest.
Snow dogs get creeped out at the insanity of August in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Dallas.  Rumor is that three Huskies recently tried to break in the Polar Bear cage at the Fort Worth zoo.
Having returned from a two-week vacation in Northern Idaho, I find myself missing the companionship of the state's friendly and proportionately massive population of Australian Shepherds.
They outnumber people two to one.
The Syringa is the state flower.  The Blue Bird (though nearly extinct) is the state bird.  The garnet, a precious six star gemstone located at only one place in the world: Emerald Creek outside Clarkia, is the state rock.  And surely, the Australian Shepherd is the state canine.
My sister currently has three of them patrolling her back yard.  Tripod, the three-legged female, tags behind the other two.  Sis's dogs resemble giant skunks on steroids, all black with a white stripe down their back.  Coincidentally, while we were visiting, a real skunk mistook them for ancient kin and left a mark on one that required a bath in tomato juice.
Australian Shepherds, really developed in America over a hundred years ago, are working dogs.  They need something to do, and if tasks are not assigned by humans, they will invent activities, like digging, chewing, chasing, ripping, and destroying.
They need to stay busy.
Outside of chasing Frisbees and tennis balls, their favorite sport is riding, preferably in the back of a pick-up truck, and for the really lucky dogs – a high-speed balancing act on a side-to-side toolbox.
Sandra and I elected not to pass a slow moving truck outside Lewiston one day because the two Shepherds in the back were better than a circus act.  They herded the empty beer cans from corner to corner.
My sister-in-law has five-year-old mostly black pure bread that is something special.  Intense is an understatement.  Buddy can fake relaxed, but just a twitch below the surface, he is ready to leap into action.
"Load up," Sandra's sister commands, and Buddy jumps through the open window of a three-quarter ton Ford without touching steel.  Their routine continues with her having to muscle him out from behind the wheel. He prefers the driver's seat.
In my wife's hometown, the Australian Shepherd is king.  Some of them actually have real jobs herding cattle from pen to pen.  After watching them work, I'm relieved they are not assigned to tail me.  They don't take no for an answer.
These robust and loyal dogs come in a wide variety of sizes and colors.  I was at a dinner party with my sister one night when the host brought out his prized Red Merle pup, identified primarily by possessing one blue eye and one brown eye, a genetic trait for which I heard a dozen explanations.
The old-timers called them "Ghost Dogs."
I call them "nice doggy."
One morning, my other sister, one of the few humans in Idaho without a dog in the back of her truck, handed me the local paper and said, "Read this; you'll get a kick out of it."
It was located under the "Local Briefs" section so I immediately knew the story had potential.
I about fell out of my chair after the first paragraph:
"A 34-year-old Harvard woman was transported to St. Joseph's Regional Medical Center in Lewiston on Friday after her dog shot her in the hand."
This is not the same Harvard you have heard about all your life.  This is Harvard, Idaho, a little logging town thirty miles north of nowhere (where I grew up). Few residents boast of Ivy League pedigrees.  The only living things with pedigrees are the dogs, and many of them are suspect.
The news report continued by explaining how the assault occurred.  When the Australian Shepherd jumped in Erin Buttterfield's truck he landed on a 12-guage shotgun, which discharged and nearly blew her arm off her body. 
At the emergency room she asked authorities not to hold the dog liable; it was her own fault.
Makes me proud to be of Idahoan stock.  Where else do women drive trucks with loaded shotguns and boast of Australian Shepherds as favorite companions?
Wait a minute, here.  I know what you are thinking.  You're wondering how I know this undescribed dog (civil law prevents disclosing the assailant's personal information) is an Australian Shepherd.  Well, for a couple of reasons.
Number one, name another dog that can and will jump through a truck's open window.  Number two is pure mathematics; three-quarters of the general population are Australian Shepherds.
It's a no-brainer.
Speaking of no-brainers, consider Erin Butterfield who left a loaded 12-guage shotgun in a place where it might blow her to bits.  Good thing her dog is a poor shot.
I call that reckless.
But I'm not surprised.  I see and hear about folks pulling stupid and dangerous stunts on a regular basis.  What are they thinking?
Every time a kid takes a hit off a pipe loaded with meth he/she is playing Russian roulette.
Millions of mostly men keep a 12-guage loaded computer right in harms way.  They are only a click or two from a seductive website designed to suck them into a world of shame and destruction.
Everyday one of your friends or neighbors pulls the trigger on a sexual affair that will eventually land them in the pits of despair.
Every time you flirt with squeezing what isn't yours, you are courting disaster.
Millions of Americans are right now on the verge of total financial collapse because they have gambled away their future.  The stakes always turn out to be higher than the sucker bargained for.
We are a nation of sin-sick people living on the edge.  We're one miscalculation away from disaster, one wild Shepherd's jump from getting blasted.
It doesn't have to be this way.  Jesus invites you to lay down your arms, surrender, and find the peace and purpose for which you hunger.  He's still for you. "Load up," He pleads.
 

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