I often write about my childhood dog, Happy, a beagle-lab mix we’d found lost and starving in the woods. He was by my side from kindergarten through high school–that’s more than many of us can say for some human relationships. He was my best friend.
One Halloween when I was about eight, I went out trick or treating, dressed as a scarecrow. This was the most frightening costume I would wear. I was a bit of a scaredy cat, and all the fun-sized m&m’s in the world still didn’t make Halloween my favorite time of year.
I wasn’t even sure God approved of it, even though my thoughts lay solely on pumpkins and candy corn.
As I went outside to join the group of neighbors, my mother reminded, “Don’t let Happy out!” You might think that this was obvious, but in those days there were no leash laws in my community.
Everyone just opened their doors in the morning and let the dogs out, and somehow at dinner time, the dogs appeared back on the doorsteps.
I hesitantly joined the neighborhood group, a parent or two lagging behind to chaperone. Their presence wasn’t enough to calm me–how would it look if I hung back with the grownups and preschoolers?
Ghosts, skeletons and mummies were everywhere. I didn’t really think they were real. Well, not most of them. Walking around in the dark, all the spooky costumes and loud noises–my imagination got carried away. And all I wanted to do was run away, myself.
That’s when Happy trotted up the sidewalk and nudged my straw-stuffed leg. Someone must have accidentally let him out, and he’d searched the neighborhood until he found me.
“Happy, what are you doing here?” I asked, simultaneously breathing a sigh of relief. Happy wagged his tail. Looking into his eyes, I felt safe. Clearly God had sent my dog to remind me that I was always cared for and protected, even on this most eerie of evenings.
A scarecrow bent down and hugged her faithful hound, and then together they walked bravely into the night.
