It was December, 1993. Owen, our youngest, was one year old. Katie and Holly were seven and five, respectively. A puppy was on everyone’s (at least all of the children’s) Christmas wish list. Being the practical parents that we were, and recognizing that we always visited (out-of-state) family for about a week immediately after Christmas, we decided that the responsible thing to do was to ask Santa for an “Invisible Fence” (since the yard was not fenced) instead of a dog, and a note instructing us to adopt a puppy from the local animal shelter after we returned from our holiday travels.
Whoever wrote, “Life is what happens while you’re making other plans.” was spot-on. About two or three days before Christmas, our church’s choir director (who knew of our plans) found an adorable little black puppy abandoned under her tool shed. She called us and asked us (parents only, of course) to come see him. It was love at first sight. The choir director offered to keep him before and after Christmas for us. We decided that Santa must have accidentally dropped him out of the sleigh on a pre-Christmas “practice-run” through middle Georgia.
On Christmas Eve, after the children were in bed, Jennie went over and picked him up and brought him home. He was quite filthy, so she decided to bathe him, but she was concerned, since the bathtub was between the children’s bedrooms, that any barking, crying, or whimpering would wake them up and spoil the surprise. As if he understood the predicament, he didn’t make a sound.
The next morning he slept in the big cardboard box beside the back door and went unnoticed while the children unwrapped the Invisible Fence. Instead of the originally planned “post-holiday animal shelter adoption” note under the tree, there was one telling the children to look in the big box in the kitchen. After that it was pure puppy pandemonium. Since he was a Christmas dog, we couldn’t think of a better name than “Gabriel.” He chewed and destroyed everything he could find, and it took him nearly six months to grow into the hefty collar that went with the Invisible Fence, but eventually he learned how to stay home and avoid the shocking perimeter of the yard.
Gabriel endured all of our moves—from Fort Valley, Georgia to Fourth AVE, Fayetteville, TN, then to Lovers LN—and adjusted well to the addition of a “sister” (Gloria) in 1998 and a “cousin” (Gracie, the cat) in 2004, always eager to find attention, fur-rubbing, and food, but not necessarily in that order.
Our friends can tell you some wild “Fourth of July” and “New Year’s Eve” stories about Gabriel. We’re out of town on most of these holidays, so others have often been in charge of the pets’ care. Gabriel was deathly afraid of fireworks, and if he were left outside during the neighbors’ celebrations, he would do anything possible to find somewhere to hide. One New Year’s Eve a few years ago, he wedged himself under a small car in the driveway, and couldn’t get out. Our friends had to jack the car up to help him escape.
His once-entirely-jet-black fur gradually turned white around the edges as the years went by, his hearing left completely about a year ago, his back legs eventually led a near-complete mutiny that sometimes rendered him painfully and fearfully immobile, and his digestive system began an increasingly-successful revolt. On November 21, 2009, with advice from our veterinarian and family agreement, Gabriel was relieved of his physical suffering and laid to rest. His grave is marked by four stepping stones, in the far corner of the back yard. Sixteen years is a long time for a dog to live with a family and vice versa.
I’ve heard it said that dogs offer humans a near-perfect example of God’s unconditional love. For sixteen years I’ve also experienced it. Thank you, Gabriel.
© 2009 Todd Jenkins
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