Winston

You'd expect a one-of-a-kind dog to come into your family in a one-of-a-kind way.  In early 2006, I received a call from a friend who had a coworker in a bind.  His wife had given him a puppy as a gift, then learned, much to her chagrin, that she was badly allergic to the dog.  My friend knew that the Vaughans are a dog loving family and wondered if we could consider giving this pup a home, thus sparing a regretful puppy-purchasing wife from a series of allergy shots.  I cheated, a little.  I put a picture of the pup on my computer screen and left it there until Linda stopped by my office.  When she saw the puppy pic, she asked about the dog.  I replied, "That little guy needs a home."  "Let's give it a home, Dee," she exclaimed. 

The next day, I went to the allergic owner's home to meet the dog and consider the adoption.  The puppy was, of course, adorable.  I'm the kind of guy who shouldn't pick up puppies or guitars unless I'm very serious about taking them home with me.  The owner repeated the story about his wife's allergic reaction to the puppy and asked me if I thought we could add him to our family's pack of pooches.  Holding Winston, as I learned the dog had been named, how could I refuse.  Then came a bit of a surprise.  Rather than giving me some kind of humanitarian award for rescuing this dog and his allergic wife, the owner said, "I think $300 would cover the cost of the dog and the toys and food we'll send with him."  I thought I was on a rescue mission, not a shopping trip.  Still, having actually held the puppy, I coughed up the money and took Winston home.  

Winston entered the Vaughan household to a very mixed reception.  Linda, who loves all dogs and is loved by them, took to Winston in an instant.  The children loved him, too.  But Minnie, our Pomeranian, wanted nothing to do with this puppy-come-lately.  Linda put the two of them in her lap to get acquainted, but Minnie turned away and refused to even look at the new dog.  She finally crawled up on Linda's shoulder to get away from Winston.  The cold reception didn't last very long.  Minnie became Winston's canine step-mother.  She kept him in line and often stepped in between Winston and Dixie, our 65-pound retriever who loved to toy with the easily intimidated Winston.  

Winston was quirky.  He experienced the world in a unique way, compared to the many other dogs we've welcomed into our family.  He never liked to play.  He was too serious for that.  Winston didn't tolerate too much physical contact.  He did not enjoy being held and petted.  He did like to sit up next to you as long as he initiated the contact.  Winston was stubborn as a mule.  When we introduced him to a metal dog crate as his bedroom, he protested, long and loud.  He barked for hours and became so frustrated he chewed on the bars of the crate.  He bent several of them and actually broke one of them loose.  Winston was a dropout from housebreaking school.  No matter what reward, punishment, schedule or other training method we tried, he never lost his appreciation for marking the inside of our house as his territory.  An an expression of his delusion of dominance, Winston loved to lie on top of the back of our couch, a lofty perch from which he could survey his "kingdom."  

The couch is one of the first places I noticed life was changing for our Winston.  He was nearly fifteen years old when I noticed he stopped leaping to the top of the sofa.  Several times, I saw him jump up on the seat of the couch, look up to measure the next leap, and stop, his back legs trembling.  He reminded me of my last days as a basketball player, when the floor became like fly paper that wouldn't let me jump.  Sadly, that wasn't the only change in Winston's life.  He developed pancreatitis, which required us to give him prescription dog food that cost as much as steak and wasn't nearly as appetizing.  He would begin some days with an almost insatiable thirst, lapping up most of a bowl of water.  His bad habit of marking the inside of our home became a chronic problem of leaving big puddles on the floor.  Then, a few days before Christmas, I awoke to realize my Yorkie alarm clock had not gone off.  Winston always barked to go outside about 5 a.m.  This morning, the silence was deafening and frightening.  I went to the crate he shares with Basil, our latest Pomeranian, and found him staring at me, seeming to say, "You're not going to make me move, are you?"  I carried him outside and watched him closely.  He was uncomfortable, to say the least.  I asked Linda to make an appointment for Winston with his vet.  

Visiting the vet, like everything else, has been changed drastically by Covid precautions.  I drove Winston to the vet's office, then waited in the car for an aide to come to my window, review Winston's symptoms, and take him in to see the doctor.  I sat in the car, listened to music, and played with my iPhone, trying not to think about how sick Winston might be.  After a while, the doctor called me to say she suspected Winston had some kind of mass on his liver, but would need an x-ray to be confident of the diagnosis.  A few minutes later, the nice vet walked to my car and showed me her cell phone.  On it was a picture of Winston's abdomen, at least half of it whited-out by a monster of a mass.  The vet had no effective treatment to offer.  Linda and I had already had "the talk" so I told the vet we wanted to bring Winston's struggle to an end.  

"Do you want to be with him?" she asked.  "Yes," I said without a second thought.  Any living thing deserves to come to the end of life in the presence of family love.  "Then pull your car around to the back of our building and we'll bring him out to you soon."  In a little while, the good doctor came out the back door, carrying Winston with an IVP in his leg.  I held that little dog in my big old hands as medicine flowed into his body and the life flowed out of it.  

I probably startled the vet with my first words after Winston died, "I've changed my mind."  I quickly added, "We want him to be cremated."  

I'm in the presence of death fairly often as a pastor and have learned to process my own emotions in that situation.  But, as I drove out of the parking lot toward home, I wept uncontrollably  Dogs are so loving and loyal, even curmudgeon-like Winston.  They make so much more sense than people do.  Why is their time to walk this earth so brief?  That's on my list of questions to ask the boss when I see Him.  

Don't Envy Those Who Wear the Whistle

 One of the ways I earned money to finance my seminary education was by refereeing city league basketball games in the town of Wake Forest.  If you ever played basketball with me, this might strike you as ironic or even some form of cosmic payback.  I'd never treated referees very well.  I was quick to criticize and protest what I saw as unjust calls, most of which, of course, were against me.  So, putting on the stripes and whistle felt, in one sense, like heaven saying to me, "OK Dee, if every ref you've ever met has done such a poor job, here's your chance to show Me how it's done."  

The City Basketball League in Wake Forest was a challenging venue in which to cut your teeth in officiating.  The area Referee Association, or whatever the organizing group of basketball officials called themselves, refused to supply refs for these games.  Threats had been made among players and toward officials.  Fights had broken out during and after games.  The Wake Forest Police Department always assigned armed officers to patrol these games.  They had made a few arrests.  One of their basketball prisoners, a hulking mass of muscle, escaped from their police car in handcuffs by kicking the back door off of the car from the inside and running away.  I arrived for my first game feeling like a roadie for Johnny Cash playing a concert in Folsom Prison.  

What my short career in officiating taught me is that making the tough calls is much easier from the comfort of a recliner in front of a television set or in the safe anonymity of a crowd than it is on the floor in the moment with everyone watching your every decision and appraising your existential worth and moral character on the flimsy flighty basis of whether they agree with your choice.  I was questioned a number of times by the city league basketball players.  I was mocked and ridiculed a few times.  I'm grateful to say that no fights broke out either with me or about me.  No police officers were called for backup.  I worked hard for those few dollars I was paid to keep law and order on the court.  

My officiating days changed my perspective.  No, I didn't suddenly agree with every call made, especially when my children were involved.  But I did gain some hard-earned empathy for those who blow the whistle and a much greater sense of respect for those we saddle with the thankless job of making the tough calls.  Now, at least, I say, "He missed the call!  But I bet he has a good heart."  

Right now, in our Covid-complicated world, making decisions is much more difficult and demanding than usual.  Leaders must make tough calls in a "game" none of us has played before and, for which, few widely-accepted rules have been established.  Added to that, the conditions under which we play are constantly changing in literally life-threatening ways.  Church leaders, myself included, face choices that affect the health and lives of our congregations, choices about which we've had virtually no preparation or experience. 

Church leaders will miss some calls.  We will make some decisions you, from the comfort of your pew and the anonymity of the crowd, would make differently.  But, as you deal with the daily tension of struggling to live a winning life in a biologically hostile world, don't take out your frustrations on those you've asked to wear the stripes.  When you don't like the call and want to boo the ref, first ask the question Christian love must always ask before passing judgment, "What's it like to be you?"  Neither your ticket to a ball game nor your membership in a church purchase the right to treat others, especially leaders, with a lack of respect.  Don't forget that the ref you're yelling at has feelings and family.  

Take it from a short-careered referee--no one sets out to make a wrong decision.  But when they do, don't envy the ones who wear the whistle. And don't lose sight of the truth that they're human beings, made in God's image, probably doing the best they can, and always deserving of your empathy and respect.