Shepherdess: The mangy angel

Dear Shepherdess: The story of ''The Mangy Angel'' in the July issue of Guideposts greatly appealed to me. How good to know that "sheltered, protected, no evil can harm me; Resting in Jesus I'm safe ever more. "

As a young wife and mother I was often alone every evening far into the night, since my pastor husband had a large congregation scattered throughout a large city. There were committees and meetings almost every evening. As I sat and rocked the children, I sang such comforting hymns as "Under His Wings, "being sure every shade was pulled tight so that no one could peer into the house! I sat and sang, often fear fully, until suddenly I realized my folly. I was singing of God's care and protection, and yet I was frightened at being alone, scared that some misfortune had befallen my husband when the hour grew later and later. Then, thank God, the beautiful truth dawned! I found I could trust and believe and commit myself and my family to the omnipotent Father.

I carry this quotation in my Bible. "If we believe God's Word, we will not carry a load of anxiety day after day. We will leave everything in His hands, knowing He will guide our feet in the path that is best for us. " My prayer is that you, too, will feel His arms of love encircling you. With love, Kay.

Cold March showers pelted my face as I stepped from the warmth of the church and threaded my way across the lot toward the parsonage.

Thursday evening's meeting of the women's missionary society had finally closed, and as the pastor's wife, I was the last to leave. My husband had gone to a general conference in Detroit, and the children and I were alone. I half expected to find the parsonage cloaked with night, for the hour was late and the children should have been in bed hours ago.

Letting myself in quietly, I was surprised to find the kitchen light still burning. Ted, our oldest, his dark head bent over his books, was studying at the table. He looked up as I came in.

"Hello, Mom. Wet out, isn't it?" "It's a wild night, all right," I said wryly, peeling off my dripping coat and boots.

He went back to his homework.

As I turned to leave the kitchen I looked down. Then I gasped. Our huge mangy dog lay stretched out at Ted's side!

"Ted! What's Brownie doing in the house?" I demanded. "You know he's never stayed inside be fore."

Ted glanced up from his book and shrugged. "Why, he just wanted in, so I let him in. Then I decided I might as well bring my homework down here."

Brownie wanted in! That, in itself, was utterly incongruous. For that matter, so was everything else about that dog.

Black, brown, and smelly—and of undetermined breed—he had wandered to the parsonage one day and simply decided to stay. He adopted our family and was fiercely protective of us in every way. In fact, he loved us so much that he wanted to be where we were. Yet, once we'd let him into the house, he developed a peculiar claustrophobic streak. He would race in terror from window to door to window until we'd let him out. No amount of bribing or petting could persuade Brownie to remain indoors. Even the dreary drip-drip of rain from the eaves failed to lure him inside. He preferred the most inclement outdoor weather to being enclosed.

Until now.

There he was, lying calmly beside Ted in the kitchen, like a very ordinary house dog.

I remembered his previous fierce possessiveness of us. Our large, red-brick parsonage sprawled comfortably on a big grassy plot behind the church and opposite the public school. Children often cut across the church property and through our yard when hurrying to and from school. We didn't mind. In fact, they were our friends. Against our better judgment, we often had report cards thrust at us even before parents saw them.

That is, until the dog came. He growled threateningly at anyone who dared cross our yard. Yet Brownie always came when I called him off.

Still, with people dropping in at our parsonage at all hours of the day, I was afraid that some day I wouldn't get him called off in time.

I tried desperately to find another home for him, but with no success. Once I even called the Humane Society.

"Sure, lady," they said. "We'll get him. But you gotta catch him and shut him up for us."

Shut Brownie up? Impossible! One might as well try to imprison a victim of claustrophobia in an elevator! Until a better solution presented itself, he would have to re main with us.

And that's how things stood that wild, stormy night I came home from church.

Shaking my head at Brownie's strange behavior, I went down to the basement to bolt the door that leads to the outside. I came back up directly and retired to the living room with the paper.

Ted already had gone up to bed, and I decided to turn in too. The dog still lay on the kitchen floor, his shaggy head resting on his front paws.

Better put Brownie out first, I thought as I entered the kitchen to lock the back door. Rain still drummed steadily against the windows.

But when I tried to get the dog out of the door, he refused to budge. I wheedled; I coaxed. I pushed and pulled. He remained stationary.

Going to the refrigerator, I took out a chunk of meat and tried to bribe him to the door by dangling it in front of him. He still refused to move.

With a bewildered sigh I picked up his hind end, yanked him toward the door, and out of it. Like quicksilver, his front end slid back in!

I grabbed his front end, and the back was in. His four feet seemed like a baker's dozen. Stubborn, determined, yet somehow placid. Talk about Balaam's donkey—I knew exactly how Balaam felt!

Should I call Ted to help me? No, the hour was late, and Ted needed his sleep. I decided to shut all the doors to the kitchen and leave the dog inside. Then I went wearily to bed.

The next morning the dog reverted to his true nature and frantically tore out of the house.

A puzzled frown ribbed my fore head as I went down to the basement to turn on the furnace. What had made Brownie behave so strangely? Why had he been determined to re main in the house this one particular night? I shook my head. There seemed to be no answer.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I felt a breath of cold, damp air. Then a queer, slimy feeling swept over me. The outside door was open! Was someone in the basement?

After the first wave of panic had drained from me, my reasoning re turned.

Someone had gone out of the basement!

Limp with the reality of that fact, I looked around. The windows were as snug and tight on the inside as ever. Whoever had gone out of that door had been in when I had gone down to bolt it the night before! He apparently had heard my unsuccessful attempts to put the dog out and knew he had to come up through the kitchen and face the dog—or go out the door he had come in earlier.

That smelly, stray pooch had known this, and God used him to keep us safe. Why didn't he growl or bark? I don't know. Maybe he knew he didn't have to.

I had always believed that God has definite work for His holy angels, and that as His child I could lay claim to the verse in Hebrews 1:14: "Are they [angels] not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation?"

But His "ministering spirit" had taken a peculiar form that wild, stormy night. Instead of glorious, dazzling wings, the Lord had given our guardian "angel" four stubborn, mangy feet!