Moses' Tears It's been almost three years ago that our beloved dog, Molly, died. After an appropriate period of mourning, Diane and Chris went to the library to check out dog books so they could read up in preparation of selecting just the right dog. Then I went out to run one morning. When I returned, a mutt puppy was in our garage. Clearly, he had been dumped and had wandered in. I yelled to Diane to come see. Her eyes grew as big as saucers and she screamed, "Chris, come here!" This was not what I anticipated, and I didn't like where it was going. "Oh, no," I objected. "This isn't our dog. He's just a mutt that someone left here." The two of them stared at me in disbelief. Diane finally said, "Chris has been praying for God to send us just the right dog, and it looks to me that God maybe answered his prayer." So I had a choice: I could hold off for the RIGHT DOG, or I could have a son who spent his life as a believer instead of an infidel. Anyway, Moses (named Moses because he was "drawn from" the garage) is our dog. Our big dog. Our big dog who can't quite get out of the puppy stage and is just a bit too welcoming anytime you go in the back yard. But when I leave town, I feel like he's watching over my loved ones. It's hard to imagine him being mean; but he's smart and fiercely loyal. Now Moses presses his face up against the back door staring at the twelve year old who is his constant companion. Wondering why he isn't coming out to play. Wondering why he's sitting in a wheelchair instead of walking. I think I've seen Moses cry. Or are those my tears I see reflected?