This cutie pie is the fur baby of a sweet young lady I've know for a long, long time. Her name is Juney. The fur baby. Yesterday, Juney had an adventure. The maintenance people came to her apartment and she took off. Turns out Juney just wanted to see Santa because she was found at the Santa Village by a sweet librarian who helped arrange an (I'm supposing) emotional reunion late last night. My heart hurt when I learned Juney was missing and my heart rejoiced when I learned she had been found. It reminded me of the time our Fluffy had a similar adventure.
Fluffy is an apricot poodle and was just a few months old at the time. We were doing a little home renovation (recurring theme around here) and had purchased sleek new black appliances to replace the harvest gold ones original to the house. To be fair, they matched the harvest gold, avocado green and tomato red vegetable-themed wallpaper really well but I was itching to get this place out of the 70's. During the delivery, Fluffy escaped. We didn't realize it for a few hours so he was long gone by the time we started searching. We fanned out from our street on foot and in cars, calling out for him. A really good friend laid aside his 6'2" burly dignity and rode a bike around the neighborhood yelling with his deep bass voice, "Fluffy!" He later informed us that if he was to ever be a part of a search party again we had better come up with more manly names for our pets.
Everybody was upset but I was inconsolable. A friend who's a nurse came by and when she saw the state I was in, asked if I needed a sedative. I declined. She told Hubby she thought I was worse off than I had been when Mama died a few months prior. I sobbed. "I know where Mama is! I don't know where Fluffy is!" Bedtime came and still no Fluffy. Didn't sleep a wink all night and when it got light enough the next morning I started wandering the streets near our house wearing my nightgown, house shoes and Steve's old plaid bathrobe. Crying and calling for little Fluffy. I imagined the worst - run over and in a ditch. Or at the very least cold and hungry and scared. It was awful. Looking back I sure am glad none of the neighbors called the police. I would have been taken for an asylum escapee no doubt.
A couple of hours later the phone rang. "Have you lost a puppy?" Some little girls a few streets away found him in their yard. Cold and wet and dirty. Their Daddy got our phone number from the tag on Fluffy's collar and called. Steve and the boys hopped in the car to fetch him home. I started baking a cake. Chocolate pound cake to be exact. Because those little girls and their Daddy deserved a reward. And chocolate pound cake seemed just the thing. They didn't know what to think when I showed up at their door a little bit later with it - still warm from the oven. They weren't from around here. Southern gratitude frequently comes straight out of the oven.
When I though of Juney last night, and Fluffy those many years ago, it brought to mind the Shepherd looking for his lost sheep. And Jesus looking for his stray children. Little lost things all of us. Scared and shivering. Dirty and disoriented. And there he is, glory laid aside, wandering along the highways and byways, calling out for us by name. Maybe wearing slippers and a robe. Maybe with tears running down his cheeks. Come home. You belong with me. I miss you. My heart hurts without you. I won't stop pursuing you. I love you. And then, when we turn and stumble toward him, he sets out running - arms wide open, a warm-as-chocolate-pound-cake welcome. And the celebrating begins.
"In the same way, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents." Luke 15:7
Fluffy is eighteen-years-old now. Mostly blind and deaf. Frequently incontinent. Still beloved. Juney, may you live to be so blessed. Dallas, may you never forget the way you felt when he was returned to your arms. And know that's the way Jesus feels about all of us vagabonds far away from home. Selah.
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