“Beware of the dogs, beware of the evil workers.” —Philippians 3:2 (NASB)
My wife and I are dog people. We don’t currently have one but rather live vicariously through other people’s pets. We had dogs for years, but when they passed (all dogs go to Heaven, right?) we were traveling, making it impractical to have another one.
Even though I love dogs, not all dogs are equal. On my first tour of duty in Vietnam, I lived in the villages working with local militia. There were dogs all around, but I didn’t know they weren’t pets. We had a puppy in our compound that we adopted. This puppy was so ugly that you had to love him. His head was so big in comparison to his body that we called him “Elephant.”
After several months, Elephant seemed sick, moping around camp; then he just disappeared. Shortly after that, we had dinner with our militia allies. We brought some American food and they brought Vietnamese dishes. One dish they served was a little greasy and tough.
I asked one of the militia men about the dish. “Is this trau [water buffalo]?” “No,” he said, “elephant!” I asked, “Did you go to the market in Hue to buy it?” “No,” he replied. “Elephant. Woof, woof. Elephant!” It was quiet around the fire that night, I’m telling ya!
On my last tour, we were patrolling along a river miles away from our village. No one lived this far out because of the Viet Cong guerillas. I saw a thatched hut along the river we knew to be abandoned, but inside was a dim light behind the covered window. Sneaking up and looking inside, I saw two North Vietnamese Army (NVA) soldiers. I kicked the door in to try to capture them, but they brought their weapons up, so I fired first.
There was about 30 seconds of silence before an entire platoon of NVA soldiers across the river opened fire on us. Bullets tore through the thin woven bamboo walls. As I fell to the ground, I fell on top of a dog hiding under a table, and he bit my hand. But as I tried to crawl out the door, I saw the dog shaking, defecating, and foaming at the mouth. Great! I shot the little guy and dragged his and my carcass out of the hut.
The next day, I got the bad news: the dog was rabid. The Army medic said, “We’ll get you started on the 21 rabies shots right away.” I responded, “I thought it was 14 shots?” He replied, “The first two guys who got rabies here died after the 14 shots, so we’re going to try 21 shots.” I survived rabies and the war and came home.
Several years ago, after speaking in Cleveland, Tennessee, I started home when a dog ran out in front of me. I literally stood on the brakes to stop. Not being sure if I hit the dog or not, I got out and went to see if it was okay. There was nothing on the road, but I saw a dog about 10 feet away standing along a guardrail. He looked okay, so I started back to my car.
Like lightning, the dog nailed my ankle, tearing open the skin, then took off. I got the bleeding stopped and went to the emergency room. I called the sheriff’s department, and deputies went looking to see if they could find the dog. No luck.
A jolly African-American nurse asked me what the dog looked like. I said he was cute, looked like Benji. She replied: “Honey, that weren’t no Benji dog; that was Cujo!” So, I got a second round of rabies shots.
The dogs the Apostle Paul warned us about are still out there, barking, yapping, and tearing things down. They never build, only destroy! As Christians, our job is to pray for those who are deceived by the God of this world. Jesus said it best: “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” (Luke 23:34)
Something to pray about!
Semper Fidelis
