A View from the Buggy (23 page)

“Penny,” I said, and stroked her short little ears. She showed her gratefulness with more wagging and rubbed against my leg.

It seemed like Penny liked people because she then trotted over to the group of neighbors and “smiled” at everyone, wagging her tail all the while.

Soon we started to unload the truck. The household items were in boxes of varying sizes, so we formed a line and simply passed boxes from person to person. Someone removed a window from the basement and box after box of canned goods was squeezed through the space.

By lunchtime everything was unloaded except a few small boxes in the cab of the semi. Everyone washed up at the sink and got in line to fill up their plates. Almost everyone ate outside under the trees, because the day was clear and sunny with only a mild breeze. Penny was sound asleep in the middle of the group, her head between her front paws, the picture of contentment.

I heard somebody laugh and looked over to see everyone point at Penny. On top of her head was a toy helmet with the “D” of the Detroit
Tigers. Penny liked baseball, it seemed, because she only peered out from beneath the helmet, wagged her tail, and went back to sleep.

The next Sunday the little doggie came to church too. She smiled and begged to be petted. Everyone smiled back even though it was unusual for a dog to come to church. Penny soon became a regular guest at church and all other community gatherings. She simply trotted along behind the buggy wherever her family went.

Anyone who took a minute to say hello was her friend for life. Cries of delight from the toddlers usually welcomed her on Sunday morning. One Sunday our white-haired minister pointed out lessons from the life of the apostle Paul.

“We can see from Paul's epistles that he loved everyone he met. You know, maybe it's like that little dog that comes to church so often. She loves everyone, and no one is left out,” he said with a smile.

One winter day our English neighbor Bob drove up in his black Ford. On his lap, looking over the wheel, was Penny. For once it seemed someone didn't like her. The neighbor across the road fed wild deer, and Penny would run over and bark at them. The neighbor didn't appreciate his deer being chased off. “Get rid of her, or else!” he warned.

And so, for the sake of neighborly peace, Penny's family asked if we would take her. We were delighted, of course. We always had a dog or two around, and Penny was a perfect addition.

This was of course no easy choice for the family. One of their sons had died in a farm accident some years earlier. Just before they left Iowa, they had all visited his grave site. When they arrived, two little beagle pups were sitting on the grave. One ran away, and the other one was Penny.

And so this very special dog came to live with us. She was about a year old that winter of 1998. The following spring, five puppies arrived, followed soon after by litters of seven and eight. Twenty puppies in less than two years was too many, so when Wendy, our neighbor, offered to take her to the vet to be fixed, we made an appointment and off she went. Penny was delighted with the truck ride and the new friends she made at the vet's office. By then she liked to ride in anything that had wheels, as long as she could see out.

Over the next few years Penny gained a little weight and continued to make a lot of new friends. Seemingly, she had an agreement with the local UPS driver, because she would wait right outside the truck door while the driver took the packages inside. Before he left, the driver would toss out a treat, and Penny would happily trot off with her prize.

When we had chicken for supper, Penny loved to eat the scraps. Often she would carry off the bones to bury somewhere. Usually it was in the garden. The dirt was soft, which meant it was easy to dig. Much to Mom's dismay, she would often find the bones the next spring when she planted peas or radishes.

In the winter of 2003, Penny adopted a more sedentary lifestyle. She slept behind the woodstove, which became her favorite pastime. Dad's recliner was another favorite spot. She no longer ran along behind the buggy, but started to ride inside. As soon as we'd start to hitch up, Penny would begin to whimper and plead until she was lifted into the buggy. She wanted the door to be open enough for her to look out. This made an unusual sight, as Dad's old, slow, “retirement horse” clomped along with Penny's head peering out the side.

Sometimes when we visited neighbors, she got confused about where she was or would become too busy at play to go home. When this happened, Penny seemed to know where all the married siblings lived. She would go to the nearest one's doorstep. They would hear a little scratch and open the door to see Penny wag her tail apologetically. She seemed to say, “Sorry to bother you, but could I stay here for the night?” They would make a little bed on the floor and Penny would gratefully curl up and go to sleep. They would leave a message for us and the next day we would pick her up.

Along with her sedentary lifestyle, she developed a fondness for people's food. And not healthy food, either. Cookies, ice cream, chips, you name it. If we ate it, Penny begged to try some. Our attempts to make sure she ate enough real dog food became a challenge.

For example, she once stayed overnight at my sister Myriad's house. Mom and Dad had dropped in to say hello, and Penny was too busy at play with Rob and Myriad's hyperactive cocker spaniel named Jake to notice when they left.

The next morning they offered her a dish of dog food for breakfast. They said she sniffed it a little and turned up her nose. They then mixed in a handful of crumbled Oreos, and that did wonders. Rob declared, “She ate the whole thing and then licked the bowl!”

As the years went by, life continued to be one big party for Penny and her two doggie buddies we had acquired: a snorting pug named Duke and a long-eared basset named Jean.

Salesmen, the mailman, friends, and neighbors, all were welcomed by that motley trio. None of these canines ever thought of being watchdogs. Any burglar would have been welcomed with wags and smiles, just the same as anyone else. Especially if he had Oreos.

Most of my nieces and nephews can credit at least part of their ability to walk with Penny. Her back was the perfect height for them to grab on and pull themselves up. She patiently took small steps as they tottered along. All of them adored her and would play with her for hours.

The last two years of Penny's life were marked by declining health. The first sign of her age was her hearing loss. Then the effort to get up onto Dad's recliner became an ordeal. She would stand in front of the recliner, look up, and take a step forward or back, trying to gauge the distance. Then with all the effort she could muster, up she went. Sometimes another jump would be required to make it. Once upon the cushion, she would sigh with relief and settle down for a long nap.

Then she developed diabetes, and we all knew she couldn't hang on much longer. None of us could bear the thought of parting with her because she had been a part of our lives for so many years. We tried to keep her comfortable with a nice soft bed and a few extra treats. But around Christmastime of 2012, a few sore spots on her leg and flanks simply would not heal. The sores began to bleed, which was certainly not a good sign.

Regretfully, we all knew that the time had come. Penny suffered and no longer enjoyed life. Kindly, our neighbor and friend Terri took Penny on one last ride. Penny had enjoyed many rides in Terri's minivan. Our local vet wrapped Penny in a soft blanket, where she went to sleep.

Thus ended Penny's long and fulfilling life. If a dog's life can be lived well, Penny's life qualified. Her memory lives on in the hearts of our family, as evidenced by this eulogy of sorts written by two of my nieces. At my mom and dad's place, the fridge is sort of a media hub. The doors are covered with a dry erase whiteboard, and it serves well for announcements, poems, and quotes from favorite authors. The girls wrote this the week after Penny left us:

Dear Penny,

We miss you very much and we wish you could come back soon. Please come back. Oh please! But you won't. Don't worry. This evening you aren't walking and trotting around in the kitchen eating Mommy's cookies. We love you very, very, very much. We still miss you because we liked to play with you. Penny, you can just live in our hearts.

Bye-bye, Penny. Bye-bye!

Under Arrest

Omer Miller

For rulers are not a terror to good works, but to the evil. Wilt thou then not be afraid of the power? do that which is good, and thou shalt have praise of the same (Romans 13:3).

O
UR DRIVER
'
S MINIVAN HUMMED ALONG THE
C
ANADIAN HIGHWAY ONE
hot summer afternoon. My traveling companions were the rest of the ministry of our community. We had spent the day attending a meeting in Aylmer, Ontario, and were now on our way home.

I reclined the seat and tried to relax, relieved to be heading home. I closed my eyes for what seemed a mere moment, only to be awakened with a start. The rumbling sounds of the Ambassador Bridge at the border crossing into Port Huron, Michigan, interrupted my siesta. The sight that greeted my tired eyes caused my heart to sink. There were long lines of traffic backed up by each of the border patrol booths.

“We might as well settle down for a long wait,” I announced. The only answers I got behind me were long sighs of resignation. Our anticipated three-hour drive suddenly looked like four hours.

Slowly, we crept toward the border patrol booth. Finally, after we'd inched along for half an hour, we stopped by the booth.

Our driver rolled down his window, ready for the rapid-fire questions. “Where are you from? Are you U.S. citizens? Where are you going? Where have you been? What for? How long were you there?”

Our driver patiently answered the questions and tried not to irritate the officer or cause any undue suspicion. We didn't want to sacrifice more time than necessary, anxious to get home to our families. My son James handed his personal identification papers ahead to the driver. The young officer took them and began to punch his computer.

We patiently waited for him to return our papers and send us on our way.

“He sure is taking his time,” Deacon Omer Schrock noted. The officer didn't peck away at his computer anymore but rather ignored us. Suddenly, out of nowhere our vehicle was surrounded by armed guards. My heart jumped in my throat.

“What's up with this?” James exclaimed. What a sight! Here were five harmless Amish ministers surrounded by security guards who brandished their weapons as though we were some serial killers.

One guard stepped up to my door, jerked it open. “Get out!” he commanded. I got out and stood beside the van, unsure how to respond.

“Raise your hands above your head,” he barked.

I quickly complied. My mind refused to believe this.

“Walk toward the officer over there,” he continued.

I walked toward another officer ten feet behind the minivan, my hands high above my head. A hot wind blew and tousled my hatless head. It also threw my long, graying beard over my shoulder.

The officer glared at me as I approached him. “Turn around,” he snapped. “Lower your hands behind your back.”

I obeyed.

Instantly I heard an ominous
click
. I was handcuffed.

“Walk to the building to your right,” he ordered. Just in case this gray-haired Amish bishop decided to make a break, he moved me along with his Glock.

Suddenly my mind caught up with the events of the last two minutes. I was under arrest! So were my companions, including my son. What a welcome into our own country! Now I knew how our Anabaptist forefathers felt when they were arrested for no crime.

As we moved toward the building, the officer and I had to cross several busy traffic lanes.

This is quite a sight
, I thought as I imagined tomorrow's newspaper headlines would read, “Amish Men Arrested at Border.” At this point I felt more curiosity than fear, so I asked the officer, “What's going on?”

“Keep on moving,” he demanded, and didn't miss a step. The officer wasn't very communicative so I kept further thoughts to myself.

We entered the building where I was directed into a small room and released from my uncomfortable handcuffs. I raised my hands while I received a vigorous pat down.

“Take off your shoes and empty your pockets. Put your things into this basket.” He pointed to a small basket.

Meanwhile, unknown to me, the other four brethren were receiving the same treatment. As one of the brothers was moved toward the building, he heard the officer mutter, “I think this is a mistake.”

After 30 minutes my officer instructed me to put on my shoes and he returned my personal belongings.

I was reunited with my fellow travelers in another room. The officer in charge apologized profusely and explained what happened. “When James Miller's name came up on the computer,” he explained, “it showed he was a wanted man and considered dangerous. Obviously, we caught the wrong James Miller.” They had thought my son was a dangerous and wanted man. How ironic.

The rookie officer in the booth had taken no chances and pushed the emergency button, which caused this exciting scene. Fortunately, the driver wasn't arrested but was instructed to drive his vehicle to a certain spot where they X-rayed it.