The Unlikely Messenger: A Slice of Life with Debra Brown
Trauma had left the black dog on high alert. Someone pushed him out of a truck, dumping him like trash at the Coastal Georgia marina development where I worked. They sped away, dust swirling, without a backward glance.
He trembled at the river’s edge, where the dark, sticky pluff mud lay exposed at low tide, filling the air with its tangy marsh smell. Gray showed in his muzzle. He moved slower. His head drooped, eyes dull.
Ren, the developer, joined me, shaking his head.
“People discard dogs on the coast all the time. It’s shameful. But I think it was this dog’s lucky day.” He walked closer, and the dog backed up. “He looks like a Rottweiler and Chow mix, but he’s gentle.”
We discussed names, and Lucky seemed a good fit.
At first, he crouched low, crept forward, and then bolted away. I set out bowls of food and water and stepped back. Within a week, he stayed long enough to finish a meal. Within two, he lingered after eating, watching me with wary eyes that softened.
Within a month, he showed his tender side. He befriended Miss Goldie, the neighborhood cat. I often looked outside and found them curled up together in the shade.
The rest of the time, he stayed close to me like a shadow. We walked the two-mile loop each morning through the quiet neighborhood. Lucky trotted ahead, tail high.
On those morning walks, sunlight shifted across the marsh, turning it gold. Lucky sniffed flowers, chased squirrels, and paused to investigate whatever caught his attention.
One day, he proved he still had some fire when he barked at a German Shepherd during our walk. The huge dog charged toward us. Lucky spun around and sprinted home, leaving me to deal with the German Shepherd alone.
By the time I caught up, he sat on the clubhouse porch, tongue lolling and panting, as if nothing unusual had happened.
Ren shook his head, patted Lucky’s back, and laughed. “Some big, bad dog you are. Outran that youngster, didn’t you?”
But Lucky couldn’t outrun his fear of storms.
At the first crack of thunder, he howled, trembled, and paced. His eyes pleaded. His whole body shook.
Unable to bear his panic, I led him up the steep wooden steps to my office on the top floor of the clubhouse. His nails clacked on the hardwood floor. Rain lashed against the glass, wind whipped the palms, and buoys clanged against the dock below.
Lucky shoved himself into the tight space beneath my desk and wedged himself behind my legs. Wet fur brushed against my calves, and warm breath pulsed against my ankles. I slipped him his favorite treat with a quiet, “Good boy.” His tail thumped once against the floor. In time, his shivering eased, and he grew still.
Smuggling Lucky inside became our little
secret. He knew he would find refuge beneath my desk until the storm passed. Soon, my office turned into his favorite place even on sunny days.
Ren found us one afternoon and laughed. “Just keep the floor swept. He sure can shed.”
Lucky never lost all his wariness. He wouldn’t climb into a vehicle, no matter how I coaxed him with treats. I suspect he feared we’d abandon him like before. When he needed a veterinarian, Doc came to him instead.
Lucky lived seven years, safe and loved, knowing he belonged. Once discarded without a backward glance, he left this world as a treasure, knowing he mattered.
I used to think I gave Lucky a safe place to feel secure, under my desk during storms and behind me when strangers approached.
Looking back, I realized Lucky taught me something much deeper.
We all need a refuge. Life’s storms may look different from Lucky’s thunderstorms, but fear has a way of sending each of us searching for shelter. I’m grateful we could give Lucky a place where he felt safe. Even more, I’m grateful God offers each of us the same refuge, with a place where we are welcomed, protected, and loved.
God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble” – Psalm 46:1.
Debra Brown’s motto is “Be the Spark.” She has a passion for family, her 3 cats, flowers, pretty food, and health & wellness. Debra is an author, UGA honors graduate/The Citadel MBA.