Bowl of challenge

We've begun the equivalent of torture on the biggest dog we share a home with (not own, no never do we own). Samantha, deemed Sammy, is a -- to quote a friend -- wide load.

The story of how Samantha came to share a home with us is legendary. About four years ago, I had a back procedure done to me at the back doc's place. Put me unconscious, nailed something into me (or it felt like it later), then let me come to. Seems one of the nurses had been talking about a new pup she had. I woke, and immediately told my dear, somewhat understanding, wife Mary that we were going to the animal shelter on the way home.

We walked in, me somewhat shakily, and asked to see some dogs. I was keen on a peekaboo or something like that who licked my hand with relish, which means she liked my hand not that I had relish on it for that would have been down Sammy's wheelhouse. Mary, being Mary, asked which dog had been there longest.

It was Samantha, a mutt, sorta, kinda brown. She was tall, or seemed that way for she was taller than the doxies we lean toward, and thin. I swear she was thin.

She came home with us, and she loved her food bowl. Still does. Just has a problem figuring which food bowl is hers. So, her solution is to, or was to, eat all the bowl fuels.

Now ... she is a wide load.

So, last week we went to Pet something or other and we bought this bowl that has the circle of death carved into it. It's a maze that allows Sammy's kibbles to fall gracefully into it. The theory, apparently, is it will slow her eating. And lessen it. We also bought some weight-control kibbles.

She's eating slower, and lesser, and we found her eating plastic awhile ago. I fear she will eat one of the doxies soon she's so hungry.

We're also walking her, which is akin to dragging the figures on Mount Rushmore around the block and hoping they go back into place.

The first time I was considering going to get the truck for her, till I decided I could not possibly lift her and put her into the back.

The good news is the block is quite clean now, for her tongue clearly hit the pavement about step 20 and never lifted as she huffed and she puffed and she blew the debris away.

She's taking joint medicine, kinda like me, and she doesn't mind as it is in her mind apparently a treat offered by "the man." She would eat sweet potatoes with broccoli should I put it down, I'm afraid.

I learn from all our pets and rescues. I do. And what I've learned from Sammy has nothing to do with gluttony, though that's a lesson I should. No, what I've learned from Sammy is trust. She is borderline miserable, but if I said go run across the street and fetch something (the neighbor's cat would be a good start), she would do so instantly.

She's already begun to look toward her new maddening bowl instead of the normal ones. She is in no way happy about it, she simply trusts that "the man" knows what he's talking about.

I've learned that God allows us to make our mistakes, eat wrongly, get involved wrongly, cheat on those things that aren't good for us and such. Then when we willingly turn to him, he still accepts our meager efforts.

I probably need a bowl like Sammy's new one. I need to be refined and challenged and walked and such.  I need to be challenged by God. I need God, period.

And maybe, just maybe, this then is more about me than it is Sammy. Maybe I need the walk around the block. Maybe I need the love that I have for Sammy.

Oh. I have it.