By Jeff Scoggins

I once listened to an old Native American storyteller telling his stories. At the end of one his tales someone asked, “Was that a true story?” He paused for a moment and then replied, “Every story is true, and some of them even happened.” The following is a true story although it never happened.

“…it is through the grace of our Lord Jesus that we are saved…” Acts 15:11.

Ugh, she was an disgusting thing. Dog breath, a crooked leg, a bad eye, hair falling out, maybe had lice, did have fleas. Nothing in her appearance attracted me to her when she showed up on our front porch one morning. I felt pity for the little dog perhaps—a put-her-out-of-her-misery kind of pity. I like dogs actually. I enjoy their companionship, the way they make me laugh, their affection, their unconditional love. But I like clean dogs. Un-diseased dogs. Dogs with hair. What did she want?

She stared at me through the screen door for a moment. I stared back. “Why should I feel sorry for you?” I said to her. As if to answer she began performing some strange antics. First she stood tall as her scrawny legs could stretch, then slowly turned around to give me a good look at her. Impressive, I thought. Then she started to bark a pathetic yap. By the way she carried on I knew she thought hers was a majestic voice. She was proud of it. Oddly, I felt I could understand what she was trying to communicate.

“I just took a bath,” she croaked. “Brushed my teeth too. See.” She grinned to show me a sentence of teeth with several yellowed “words” conspicuously absent. Ugh, again. “As for the bath, little dog, you missed a couple spots—like your face, legs, and body.” I don’t think she heard me though. She was proceeding with her impressive resume.

“Just killed a varmint for you, too,” she announced proudly, dragging around the corner for my approval the barely recognizable corpse of one the beautiful mallard ducks that had once lived peacefully on our pond. Before, I was disgusted, now I was angry. She had killed a beautiful animal that we loved to watch. And on top of that she thought I’d be grateful.

I started out the door, bad intentions in my mind, when my four year-old tugged on my pant leg.

“Don’t hurt the dog, daddy.” His plea stopped me and quieted my anger. We watched in silence as the dog performed her Olympic athlete qualifications for us. She bounded the 10-foot dash to the other side of the porch with break-neck limps. Her gymnastics routine consisted of a roll-over which left a matt of hair on the porch behind her. Her grand finale was a neat little pile in the corner that I was going to have to clean up with a shovel.

I looked down at my son who was obviously enchanted. “I want to keep her daddy.”

“But you can see the shape she’s in. Why do you want a dog like that?” I asked with rationality I didn’t feel.

“I just do,” he said.

“But she’s a mess, she has terrible behavior, and to top it off, she thinks she can impress us enough to take her in,” I said reasonably.

“I love her,” he said unreasonably, and I told him so. “What does unreasonable mean?” he asked. I explained and he replied, “I don’t care.”

“But look at her. Just look at her,” my exasperation beginning to show.

“No, daddy,” my son shot back. “Look at me! I will clean her. I will train her to be good. She can’t be good yet. She doesn’t know what good is. But I’m good daddy. Please, don’t look at her. Look at me!”

I looked at him and I saw the face of irrational, unreasonable grace.

“…it is through the grace of our Lord Jesus that we are saved…” Acts 15:11.