I used to have a Fox Terrier named Stormy, so named by my father, because we got her during "Desert Storm." Come to think of it, my dad named every single pet we ever owned: Stormy, Beezer, Katie, Goldie, Kate, Franklin, and even Spikey the cockatiel. I realized with the last animal, Kate, that my dad got to name her because he was the one who didn't want her. So, for fear of alienating him, my mom let him name the new puppy. What I have come to realize is this: My father really did want every pet we ever owned. He loves all kinds of animals. He has just been pretending that he doesn't want them all these years so that he gets to name them! What a rip-off!
But back to Stormy. Stormy was my Fox Terrier and she never bit or even snapped at a person. She was a terrible watchdog because, when it came to burglars, she would rather use her tongue than her teeth. When it came to other dogs, however, let's just say that Stormy never learned how to "play nice." She almost killed our neighbor's poodle, and pound-for-pound she was the best fighting dog that ever lived. Unfortunately, she only weighed fifteen pounds.
One day our friend's German Shorthaired Pointer (read: larger than a Doberman) swam into our backyard because that's what hunting dogs named Pluto do, they swim into your yard. I happened to be in the yard at the time so I glanced at Stormy just long enough to see the fire already burning in her eyes. Her heckles raised and her lips drew back into a snarl as I screamed at the top of my lungs, "STORMY SIT!!!"
What she heard was, "Stormy ATTACK!!!" She launched full speed at the intruder, who, when not being attacked by a fifteen pound weakling, is normally a very nice dog. Pluto, in what I believe to be an act of pure doggy grace, wrapped his entire mouth around Stormy, lifted her bodily from the ground, and threw her into the canal! Stormy swam as fast as a doggy paddle permits back into the yard and ran full speed directly into the house, cowering with fear.
After drying my dog inside, I turned my attention to the backyard and the behemoth beast that was looming at the door, tail wagging. Within a few minutes I had returned him to his rightful, yet slightly disturbed, owners and received at least forty apologies and assurances that they would pay for any vet bills. I politely declined claiming, "If your gonna be dumb, you'd better be tough," which I felt summed up both me and my dog nicely.
As it turns out every one was fine and we all learned a valuable lesson that day. The only problem is I can't remember what it is. So I turn to you, faithful readers. What deep spiritual lesson did we learn that day?