Dog People

My ex and I were dog lovers. From the moment we bought our first home we had a dog. Emilee, a sweet, tri-colored basset hound, was soon paired up with Emerson, a black and white basset. Then, we had Tami, an amazing brindle colored Scottie. After a couple of years of Tami alone, we added George to the mix. George was a lovable little westie. He drove Tami crazy, but she eventually learned to tolerate him.



After Tami passed away, we were at a fundraiser. My ex fell in love with a floppy-eared German short-haired pointer pup – Clinton. He may have been the smartest dog we ever owned, but he was stubborn, not easily trained (he grew to weigh around 60 pounds and would never avoid leaping on people). He was high energy. A “sporting” dog, he needed to be run miles every day to wear him out.


Weeks after I was arrested I learned my wife had returned him to the farmer who had given him as an item at the fundraiser. She just couldn’t manage to get him the exercise he needed and deal with all the turbulence created by my arrest and pending trial. It tore me up to learn she had given our dog up, a dog I took running in the woods every weekend.


She and I loved our dogs, though our personalities with them were different. She trained them, housebroke them, disciplined them. I never did. I was too impatient (“why is this dog still peeing in the house?”) and I just wasn’t good at saying “no” or disciplining and being firm. Yet both of us cried our eyes out the day we had to put Tami to sleep. She was racked with cancer, barely able to stand or get to the steps. I dug her grave in our flower garden. With our younger son participating (our older was at college) we buried Tami with her favorite chew toy and ball.


I learned this week from a friend that our westie – George – is ill. There is a story about George I never shared with anyone, but I’ve thought often of it as I deal with broken men and broken relationships.


My ex, as I’ve indicated before, was a perfectionist. She accepted as her personal mission that George would be housebroken in record time. I contributed nothing to the process other than point out how many wet spots were on the carpet.


One evening I came home from work and found her holding George, his left rear leg in a splint. She was crying deeply. “Oh Larry. I got frustrated. He wouldn’t go out. I kept taking him out and he wouldn’t go. Then right in front of me, sitting in the living room, he squatted and peed.”


She told me she picked him up, carried him down the stairs and gently tossed him on the grass. But, he landed awkwardly and immediately took weight off the leg. She drove him to the vet and lied about what happened. An x-ray determined the leg was fractured.


“I’m a terrible person, a terrible mom. I hurt him. I didn’t mean to, but I did. The kids will hate me.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. I put my arms around her and gently kissed her cheek. “It was an accident, honey. You didn’t mean to do it.”


I looked at George. He was snuggled up to her. He certainly was in no fear. He was contentedly lying in her arms, his tail wagging. “I love you and know you. You aren’t a terrible person. George is fine.”


I never said a word about how George broke his leg. I knew she didn’t mean to hurt him. It was a careless, impulsive act by a decent, loving person. Funny, she forgot that family story as she decided I intentionally hurt her, I was despicable, I deserved to go to prison.


I realize as I work with guys in here, whether it involves school or legal issues, that I find the good in almost all of them. I’ve heard and read some horrendously violent descriptions of murders and assaults. But, I’ve also looked these guys in the eye. I’ve seen the regret and the scars and pain these guys carry over their actions. And, I’ve been in the visitation room and watched them with their small children. As with my ex-wife, I know good people are capable of bad decisions, bad actions.


This may seem odd, but my year in jail, my four months in the most despicable, unsafe, poorly run facility know as “Powhatan Receiving”, and my thirteen months here, have confirmed for me what I long suspected: people, by and large, are good. We all make terrible mistakes (sometimes more than once). We all will resort to a lie to keep our shame or embarrassment hidden. And, we all live with regret over the consequences of our decisions.


I knew the kind of woman my then wife was. I knew she didn’t mean to hurt that cute, stubborn, little white ball of fur. I knew she felt terrible about what happened. Why should I jump on her, condemn her, get angry with her.


We are all fallible. I try and remember that when I’m dealing with the men in here. Sometimes, it’s easier to judge someone else’s failures without realizing you’re capable of the same behavior, or worse.


Over and over in the Bible we are reminded “though the righteous man stumbles, He will not let him fall”. We are told “the righteous man falls seven times but he gets up again”. There is a message about our fallibility.


Righteousness isn’t about being perfect. It’s about sitting on a porch crying with regret because you hurt your dog accidentally and it’s about not condemning or judging that person.


There are a large number of people locked away in Virginia, close to 40,000. The vast majority, like me, are guilty. But that doesn’t make them any less righteous, any less deserving of compassion and mercy, than good people, like me ex. Ultimately, our righteousness is measured not by our judgment, but our mercy.


George knew my ex loved him. That’s why he sat so peacefully with her. We can learn a good deal about love and mercy from our dogs.