Dogs have a way of becoming part of the family. They draw us in with their wagging tails and hopeful, adoring eyes. We brought our miniature dachshund, Jingle, home almost 13 years ago, and I can’t imagine life without her. That’s why Monday night was so scary.
My dad and I are sitting in the living room, watching football, and Jingle is whining, hoping for a handout. All of a sudden, she just falls over on her side and starts seizing. She shakes and shakes and throws up a little. My dad holds her upright for the last few seconds of the episode. Jingle shakes her head, as dogs do, sending puke and mucus flying. I wet a washcloth and bring it to Dad to wipe off her face. Dad barely touches the washcloth to Jingle’s head before she snaps at his hand. I realize the cloth is tangled in her claws, so I quickly free her paw, thinking that’s why she snapped. Then she stares at me and growls. A deep, menacing growl. Now, I realize most of you don’t know Jingle, but she rarely growls and never bites. Something is very wrong. It’s as if she doesn’t recognize us. Dad backs away and warns me not to let Jingle bite me as the tears start falling down my cheeks.
For the next hour, Dad, Mom and I sit in the living room, watching Jingle. She hasn’t moved. It seems she’s lost control of her back legs. Any time one of us moves, Jingle growls and follows us with her eyes. It’s absolutely awful.
I text my brother, Ian, and he drives over from his house. When he opens the front door, I can tell he’s been crying, which only breaks my heart further.
We try to get Jingle to eat an aspirin hidden in a dollop of peanut butter, but she’s not interested. She just keeps growling whenever anyone moves. We talk to her in soothing tones and beg her to take the medicine, to drink some water. My mom and I murmur prayers, pleading with God to heal her or end her misery.
Finally Ian gathers his courage and begins inching closer to Jingle. She doesn’t look happy, but she’s not acting as aggressive. Ian covers his hand with his shirt sleeve and reaches toward her slowly. With a lot of coaxing and a great opportunity when Jingle opens her mouth, Ian gets Jingle to swallow the aspirin. Then he tells her to “go get the bunny”–a game we often play with Jingle–and he runs to the back door. Jingle barks a few times and leaps up, wagging her tail, and chases Ian to the door.
Dad, Mom and I can’t do anything but stare, mouths gaping open at the sudden change. Jingle dances from person to person, wagging like crazy, licking us and jumping all over the place–the way she does when we get home from vacation.
A miracle.
As my family rejoiced and celebrated, I couldn’t help thinking about all the times in the Bible when Jesus healed people. How might the spectators have reacted? What must they have felt? Were they laughing and shaking their heads like my dad? Were they stunned silent like my mom? Were their eyes wide and mouths agape like mine?
Okay, what happened to Jingle isn’t exactly like Lazarus being raised from the dead or a man, crippled for years, being able to get up and walk. But for me and my family, it’s a miracle, and we will thank the Lord for every day we have left with Jingle. We tend to think of miracles as Bible stories, things that occurred a long, long time ago, but I believe that miracles are happening all around us. Each day, the sun rises and sets, babies come in to the world, friendships are restored, and broken lives are made whole in Jesus Christ.
May your eyes be opened to the miracles in your own everyday life.
