There I was....(Canine edition)

There I was pumping gas into the Silverado at the Murphy's station in Charlotte.

I had waited for the vehicle that was at the most forward pumps to move so there would be room behind me if another vehicle showed up. FINALLY, she moved. I parked and went through the dance one goes through at the self-serve station.

As I was waiting for the reader to accept my credit card, a CJ-something drove past on the other side of the island that held the pumps. He, too, pulled all the way forward.

My Silverado is the Work Truck model and the gas tank holds 36 gallons. I fill it when it is half empty but it takes a while to fill it.

Looking diagonally, back across the island, I saw the owner of the CJ had pulled out a couple of gas cans and had left the tail-gate open.

He had a German Shepherd in the back of his Jeep. The dog smiled at me.

"Nice lookin' dog" I offered.

"Thanks, I like him" the owner said back.

"I have had two. In my opinion, they are a fast-ball right down the center of the strike-zone in terms of what a dog OUGHT to be" I volunteered.

Suddenly, we were best friends.

"He is my sixth" my new buddy informed me. "He was our first rescue."

"How did that work out?" I asked. German Shepherds are strong-willed dogs. They require owners with perseverance. If you, as the owner, roll-over then you just trained them them to be stubborn.

The man shook his head, sadly. "Not so good at the start."

I frowned and shook my head, indicating that I did not understand.

"Oh, the foster-parents were good...but the first owners beat him."

The horror must have shown on my face.

"How did you figure that out?" I asked.

"The first two, three months we had to keep an 8' leash on him, even inside. He was so skittish that was the only way we could catch him. It ain't like me and my wife are young anymore" the old man said.

"I finally figured it out after we had him about half a year. I was in the horse-barn and reached up to pull a halter off a peg and that dog went nuts. He started crying and sobbing and rocketed out of the barn. We figured we had lost him for good but he was on the back steps in the morning" the old geezer said. 

Looking at the dog you could not tell he was "damaged goods". He gave me a doggie smile.

"Do you mind if I come over and say hello?" I asked.

The old man looked me over, apraisingly. Then he looked at the pooch. "Sure. Why not?"

The dog gave a slow wag of his tail.

I came over slowly but not sneaky-like. I stopped short of the sill and the dog came to meet me. I extended my hand, fingers-curled-down and held it about a foot in front of the dog and held it stationary. After that, it was his (the dog's) call.

He got within a couple of inches and did a through, long-distance sniff test. He must have smell Zeus. He closed the distance and moved so my fingers were in a position to play with his ears.

The old man volunteered "We figure he is about two-and-a-half, maybe three years-old."

"I reckon you adopting him saved him" I said to nobody in particular.

"Maybe so" the old man said, agreeably.

It reminded me of a song

The Touch of the Master's Hand.

Forgive me if it sounds sappy, but I think God subcontracts some of his heavy-lifting, not because He needs to but because it is good for those He "lets" the work to. In this case, God subcontracted the salvation of that dog to the old-geezer to the benefit of both.

And I humbly acknowledge that the old man and his wife were doing the Master's work.