I’ve loved dogs my whole life. From our family’s Australian shepherd who gladly directed our car up the driveway to the stuffed toys with floppy ears lining the floor of FAO Schwartz. I liked most anything with four legs, and horses held a strong allure, but there was just always something about a dog. I was fortunate enough to have parents who let us have a menagerie of pets, and when I went to college, I was constantly seeking out ways to spend time around animals.
After hitting a particularly rough patch and getting burned out with the endless volunteering and in the trenches service work I was doing, I began dreaming of a dog of my own. I was in the last portion of my college journey, broke, and living in an apartment. The idea of a dog, a dog with vet bills and needs beyond Cheerios and string cheese; a dog who likely wouldn’t be satisfied in these four small walls felt silly. And yet, my heart and God’s nudging persisted, and I started looking for the right dog. I knew nothing about bird hunting or really hunting in general, but had always liked blue tick coonhounds speckled coats, and was drawn to the ticking pattern of the German Shorthairs. The more I learned about them, the more interested I was.
I reached out to multiple breeders explaining what I was looking for. Ultimately, a “reject” dog. Just something that needed a person as much as I needed a dog. Dark Horse Gun Dogs in Erwin, North Carolina reached back out to me and told me about a little dog named Karma.
She was standoffish and businesslike, curious but not willing to admit it, and generally acted refined and like she had a mission. She was loyal to her people but didn’t need multiple of them; happy to give you the cold shoulder as you fussed over her if you were not her chosen one.
I thought she was terrific.
After months of details, she finally came to live with me on the campus of Furman University in South Carolina. She barked at every noise made by drunken neighbors, chased squirrels and retrieved empty beer cans from the woods (Bud Light was her preference). She was terrible at walking on a leash and ate everything in sight like a Billy goat.
So we met a dog trainer. Keith Pittman of Pinelog Kennels. A very special dog trainer who saw potential in her and eventually in her owner too. Karma began to learn manners during visits home to NC and Keith introduced us both to the world of bird hunting. Karma was glad I was catching on to her true desires, and I was beginning to recognize my own desires as a friendship grew between this special man and I, although its early stages began with my panicked phone calls to him when Karma would eat multiple menthol cough drops or a whole pack of Post-It Notes and I was worried she wouldn’t survive the night. Keith always knew what to do, and would save the day before returning to the actual saving work he was doing by day: breast cancer research.
Karma introduced me to friends on campus and helped me discover the hidden fields nearby. She dealt with temporary roommates of two baby squirrels, and a quail named Boomer. She went into lecture halls on occasion and kept me company on many a long drive home. She even growled at a few potential dates, forever sealing their fate.
Keith would drive long hours to hang out with the funny little, short tailed dog and I, bringing boxes full of quail as was expected by the dogs of their “candyman.”
We started field trials and she showed her abundant talent in yet another arena, earning her amateur championship through Keith’s good guidance.
Karma went where I went. I even turned down a job as a youth pastor when they wouldn’t allow Karma in the housing they offered. We were a team and she was my best friend. Until Keith. Then we became a family and added a “few” more dogs to the picture.
When we got married, Karma was there. Each night in the bedroom, Karma was faithfully by our side. Other dogs came and went, but Karma knew she was the permanent fixture. The night my world came crashing down, Karma tried to eat the paramedics. As I drug her away and crated her on their orders, I knew the next time she came out of that crate, our family wouldn’t be the same anymore.
The next time was palliative care. Karma in the hospital bed with he and I, and then hiding on the couch in the corner, the machines intimidating her in this strange, cold world.
She’s been to the cemetery and to the bird field we used to spend quiet time at together. She’s sat on the grave and in his empty truck, wanting to go for a ride with her daddy.
She’s been there for me every step of the way, and continues to greet me like she never saw anything better than me walking through the door.
Last weekend, I took her to the beach for the morning and showed her the ocean for the first time. I know Keith was there in spirit, and know he was smiling too about the fun our little dog was having.
I always hear folks talk about people God put in their life for a reason, and I’m thankful for the folks he has put in mine. But every day, I’m especially thankful for a little brown speckled pup named Karma.
And that God gave her to me to teach me about love. First through her, then through Keith, and always through Him.
