I nearly killed my dog today. It was an accident, but the guilt was incredible. I actually cooked him lunch…and hand fed it to him because he was too exhausted to stand and eat (my husband doesn’t need to know about that).
In all fairness, it was kind of his own fault. A male hubris sort of thing. He’s an old dog. A very old dog. But he still likes to go for walks with me. Little walks. When he gets tired, he turns around and goes home to wait for me on the porch. But today I met a friend, and she brought her two much younger and more active male dogs. And my dog Ranger refused to admit he wasn’t the pup he used to be. We walked for nearly an hour and he kept up with every step. But as soon as my friend turned to leave with her dogs, the swagger was gone. He could barely lift his paws. It took him half an hour to get back to the house and up the drive way, where he collapsed by the water bowl and remained for quite some time. A couple of hours later, he finally struggled to his feet and climbed up to the porch. Where he remains, sprawled out, not even attempting to stand for the home cooked meal I prepared for him.
I’ve checked on him a hundred times today. And it occurred to me during one of my periodic checks how grateful I am that I don’t have to worry about ever find Jesus prostrate and panting on my porch, saying, “I can’t take it anymore. She’s killing me!”
I know I keep Him busy with my frequent wanderings and misguided adventures, but He will never grow too weary or too tired to still pick me up and carry me whenever I need Him.
“Save your people and bless your inheritance; be their shepherd and carry them forever.” ~Psalm 28:9