How Much Is That Oggie in the Window?
With apologies to Bob Merrill—a song written in the early fifties. “(How much is That) Doggie in the Window?”
1985—proved extremely busy for me. I quit my job, moved our family to Waco, had a baby, and opened a business—in that order. On top of that, my oldest daughter was headed to Baylor University, while still mortified and furious her mother had attended her high school graduation while pregnant with her youngest brother. My middle daughter was enrolling in a new high school, plus learning to drive. She pleaded to take the baby with her every time she left the house, unable to understand my concern about her being a young driver. My thirteen-year-old son was in junior high and just happy the baby was a boy and not another female. It was apparent that God had a hand in redirecting our path and keeping us sane that year.
Well, fast forward one year, and I mean fast.
One day, my thirteen-year-old son, Kenneth, burst through the front door shouting, “Mom, Mom! Where are you at?”
“In the kitchen!” I yelled back. “What’s wrong?”
Darting into the kitchen, breathing heavily, and gasping between words, he said, “Aaron and I went to the mall after school today. Guess what? They have a St. Bernard in the window at the pet store. I’ve always wanted a St. Bernard.”
“Why have I never heard about that?” I said, picturing a horse, not a dog.
“Because it’s my dream, not yours,” he said, stretching his arms out with his palms turned upward while wrinkling his brow.
The move from Dallas to a place closer to my hometown had been a significant change. I worried about my three older children adapting, so I was probably less strict with my answers and decisions than usual.
“That’s a huge animal, plus it’s an expensive animal,” I told him while continuing to prepare the evening meal.
“It’s just a pup,” he said. “The guy in the store said since the puppy needs a home, he would give me a good deal.”
“Puppies grow up very fast, and even with a price reduction, it would cost too much.” Firmly affirming my skepticism, I said, “We don’t need to spend money right now.”
Falling to his knees and locking his hands together, Kenneth pleaded, “If I earn the money, can I buy it?”
I was dealing with a young man who could sell vitamins to Superman, but I saw what I thought was an out. He can’t possibly raise enough money to buy a very expensive, adorable puppy before it sells. I grinned while thinking myself clever and not remembering that pride comes before a fall.
“Sure,” I said, taking the easy way out and not having to be the bad guy. He seemed satisfied, and I was confident the matter was over. I went about my busy schedule.
A few weeks later, I received a letter stating that we must cease advertising in the neighborhood mailboxes. The note went on to say that it was against the law. The mailman probably has the wrong house, I thought. But I’d better check it out. I asked the kids if they’d put anything in the mailboxes on our street. Kenneth admitted that he and Aaron left a couple of notes. Concerned, I explained to them that anything left in a mailbox must have a stamp.
Well, the next day, the postman knocked on our door. He handed me a stack of mail and then showed me a flyer. The words on the flyer read, “Movies for rent—free delivery,” followed by an extensive list of films and a phone number. He explained that he’d seen my son riding his bicycle through the neighborhood. Then, he reached for my hand and placed the flyer on it. Smiling like a Cheshire cat, he said, “I saw him stop and tape this paper on the outside of a mailbox.” His smile faded as he stared sternly at me and said, “Please take care of this matter.”
I apologized and told him it would not happen again. After closing the door and leaning against the back of it, I took a deep breath. “Thank you, God,” I said, lifting my eyes upward. “I’m grateful we did not get fined.”
With the flyer in hand, I went to the back room, where we had stored boxes of videos from a movie store we had recently closed. The movies were unboxed and neatly organized, with several empty slots. Hmm—my son is a little entrepreneur, I thought proudly. Although admirably, he had the initiative to work hard, but he still had broken the rules.
Later that afternoon, the school bus’s squeaky brakes signaled my son’s arrival. “Please, God, help me discipline him without breaking his spirit,” I prayed before meeting Kenneth at the front door.
Spotting the flyer in my hand, Kenneth immediately explained, “I didn’t put the flyer in the mailbox. I taped it on the top of the mailbox.”
“Mailboxes are the property of the Post Office,” I lectured. “You cannot use the mailboxes at all. You better thank God we didn’t get fined. And who gave you permission to use our videos?”
“Mom, you just called them our videos. When I helped you put the movies in the storage closet, you said you needed help with our movies. I thought they belonged to us.”
“Don’t play word games with me,” I said, slightly annoyed. “You knew to ask permission—you just didn’t think it out.”
“I’m sorry, Mom, I should’ve asked,” Kenneth admitted. Then, changing his tactic, he pleaded. “Please, can I use the movies?”
After deciding that experience might be the best teacher, I said, “Only if you agree to the following rules. You cannot go out at night by yourself. You will let me know where you are at all times. By the way, use the door, not your window. I will put all the rules on paper, and you will sign it. Do you understand?”
I still wasn’t convinced Kenneth could raise enough money to buy the dog. I hoped he would not be too disappointed, but I valued his determination to try. After all, Babe Ruth struck out 1330 times. Sometimes, we learn more from our mistakes than our successes.
Two months later, Kenneth opened the back door and placed a St. Bernard puppy on the floor. I stood motionless, mouth open, in a state of shock. My toddler wiggled out of my arms and hit the floor running while screaming, “Oggie, oggie.” He grabbed the little fur ball by the ears and kissed the pup’s tiny black nose. Needless to say, we all fell in love with the puppy. Lots of names got batted around, but Oggie stuck. The lady who was not allowed to have an animal of any kind in the house while growing up now housed a growing puppy—a puppy that could not handle the outside Texas heat.
A short time later, we discovered why the salesman had reduced the price of the loveable little fur ball. Oggie had a kennel cough and other health problems. After vet bills, a special kind of dog food, and loving care, he survived and grew and grew and grew and grew.
We learned a lot about and from our high-maintenance Oggie.
- For instance, he liked to give bear hugs but could knock you over if you were not careful.
- If he jumped out of the pool, ran to you, stopped, and shook the water out of his coat, you had to change clothes.
- Cleaning the pool became a full-time job.
- Two people were required to take him to the vet: one to drive and one to ride in the back with Oggie and cover his mouth with a diaper. Yes, he was the breed that drooled, and believe me, you did not want to be driving with Oggie in the front seat. When he turned his head quickly, the driver or the windshield could get majorly splattered with slobber.
- I learned to appreciate my son’s abilities, and I learned to take time to gather all the facts.
- I also learned that God must love dogs. I know that because we are made in His image, and my son loved Oggie so much. He worked hard to rescue a dog and provide him with a home.
Of course, Kenneth is grown now. He lives in Houston with his wife, Jessica. Their grown kids all have dogs. But the dog that follows my son around these days is a squatty little stout-built English bulldog that walks around with a cigar in his mouth—a squeaking toy cigar. Kenneth still loves dogs and volunteers with a rescue in Houston to find homes for English bulldogs—another high-maintenance dog.