This time of year, America’s celebration of our independence, always brings back memories of celebrations past. This memory is about a little dog that was mine alone. We called him Poco.

Poco Cervato

I thought back to the night my late husband, Bill, and I had spent at a benefit auction for my school. Poco had come into my life as a cute little Chihuahua puppy on the auction block.

The bidding began just after Bill and I finished a sumptuous dinner. The bid sheet offered a week in a Puget Sound cottage, a deep-sea fishing trip, a stay at a bed and breakfast in the mountains, jewelry, and even monthly cheesecake delivery for a year. A teenage girl in a purple lettermen sweater cuddled a tiny dog in her arms. She threaded her way through the tables to display the dog to potential bidders. As she stopped by each table, he shrank back into her arms, frightened.

I’d never bid on anything and sat as still as possible. What if I made an unexpected movement and the auctioneer thought I was bidding?

After a flurry of bidding, the auctioneer asked the girl to hold up the puppy. He was fawn-colored with white markings—it looked like a can of white paint had spilled on top of his head and run down both sides of his snout. “Here’s a fine, full-breed Chihuahua for that special dog lover. Do I hear a bid?”

Bill turned to me with a smile. “I think you need a dog,” he said. “What do you think?”

It was clear that Card, our black Labrador, really belonged to Bill. They worked hours each week together, retrieving ducks and geese. Bill even entered Card in hunting tests.

Still, I wasn’t sure about getting another dog.

Then again, the puppy was darn cute. Out loud, I wondered if he’d fit in a backpack for a hike.

“I guess you could try,” said Bill.

I heard a voice on the other side of the room. “Three hundred!” “Do I hear three fifty?” the auctioneer asked.
Bill raised his hand. The auctioneer nodded in acknowledgement. “Do I hear three fifty-five?” It was quiet “Going, going, gone for three-fifty!” The auctioneer slammed his gavel down with a clatter.

“You’ve got your own dog!” Bill declared. His full name in Spanish was Cervato Poco because of his resemblance to a deer fawn. To be honest, I wasn’t that excited to train another puppy. But he caught on to our house rules quickly and Poco and I became the best of friends.

Now, two years later in my very quiet home, I was grateful for his presence.

That was, until . . .

Boom! The sound of firecrackers shook the air. Mortar shells and giant sparklers were released into the darkening sky. It was Fourth of July weekend, when city laws permitted a week of fireworks before and after the celebration day. The night sky was filled with colorful displays of light and sound. As always, it was great fun for the adults and kids, but animals feared the commotion and noise. Poco was one of them.

It had been five months since I had said my final goodbye to Bill. I had the bonus of a four-day weekend and decided that I’d paint my living and dining room. I’d been painting for hours, the doors flung open to disperse the strong smells. It was after eleven on that hot July night when Poco quietly wandered through the house.

I called for him, expecting to see the little dog with ears pointing straight up, curious about I wanted. I clapped my hands. “Come on, Poco-boy. Time for bed!” He didn’t come when I whistled.

“Come on, Poco—come here!” I called again, with impatience in my voice. I walked outside and looked around. No dog. I threw up my hands, exhausted from a full day’s work, and went to bed.

Morning came and Poco was still gone. I began to get concerned. I had a shopping trip planned but I left the back patio door open just in case he wandered back. When I returned in the late afternoon, Poco wasn’t there. I started making lost dog posters. I shared the news with my two grandsons, seven-year-old Andrew and five-year- old Caleb, who prayed diligently that we would find him.

That evening, my family and friends joined me as we went door-to-door in pairs, asking if anyone had seen my little pooch. We walked several hours but did not find anyone who’d seen him.

While I was at work the next day, my daughter and her four children distributed posters farther away from my home.

A lump settled in my throat and I began to feel sorry for myself. Why? Why do I have to suffer not only the loss of my husband, but my little companion and the playmate for my grandchildren?

Poco loved my grands–here’s Poco with Emily…

After Bill died, I had given Card to my son and since Card lived with Todd, Poco had been out of sorts. It had been amusing to watch the two dogs together; they were like brothers. Card had the typical good nature of his Labrador Retriever breed and was a calming influence on the feisty six-pound Chihuahua. If the doorbell rang, Card perked his ears up curiously before relaxing and putting his head down. In turn, the Chihuahua did not bark or yip as his breed normally would. Poco would simply back up next to Card, who lay flat on the floor, and place his hindquarters on the Lab’s warm, shiny black back.

Now it seemed as though our prayers weren’t being answered. Little did we know, Poco was having his own adventure. When I arrived home from work the next afternoon, I tossed my keys on the kitchen counter and noticed the answering machine was lit up.

“My name is Bob Johnson,” played the message. “I think I know where your dog is. Call this number for more information.”

The above is an excerpt about the only dog I owned who truly was my dog. You’ll have to wait until next week to hear what happens to Poco.

I’m reminded of how Jesus often taught his followers through stories. One is in the gospel of Luke:

“Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders  and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent” (Luke 15:4-7 NIV).

Last week I told you about my journey home….back to a relationship with God.

This morning, when I read the above passage, I realized there had been rejoicing in heaven when I journeyed home. Honestly,  I didn’t place myself into the story until this morning.

The Bible is written for us. I was that sinner who had wandered away……When I returned, there was rejoicing. Wow! Might  you be in that story?

I’m so glad I still can learn new things written just for me! It’s written for you too.

Next Friday, I’ll tell you the rest of Poco’s story……Hope you join me!