Photo courtesy of Laurie Stiegelmeier
By Laurie Stiegelmeier
Murphy was my faithful companion for 15 years. His mother was a coyote, his father was a farm dog and Murphy contained both natures. He was a gentle, obedient dog who played with his wild relatives. He howled like a coyote when he had a deer or rabbit on the run (and when he dreamed about it) but barked like a dog at unknown vehicles pulling into the yard. Eventually his dog side dominated, and he drove the coyotes away.
He was a reminder to me that we are two natures—physical and spiritual. We struggle to follow God while we work and play in the world, but our intellect and conscience help us know what to drive out of our lives if we love our Master and choose to remain close to him.
While never a house dog, Murphy knew exactly where I was when I was indoors. In the morning, he was under my second-floor bedroom window, then walked to the other end of the house to wait outside the bathroom. When I got to the kitchen, he’d come around the corner of the house, looking up at me through the window with his characteristic “smile.” Murphy followed me throughout the day when I was indoors; outdoors, he never let me out of his sight, always on duty as my “bodyguard.” At night, he’d lie down under my bedroom window as I got into bed.
When I had guests, Murphy was especially vigilant. He made sure everyone knew he was watching and ready to leap through the window to defend me if needed. He kept his eyes on me while occasionally tapping the glass with his toenails, and quietly barking what sounded like “mom, mom” so I knew he was still on guard. Always a source of actual grace, Murphy reminded me that God always sees me; he’s always with me, always ready to defend me from evil.
At one point I was hospitalized for a long time. Eventually, Murphy stopped eating and drinking and just laid on his side, unmoving. Thankfully, I was transferred to rehab in time to save him. My daughter told the staff, “My mom’s dog needs to see her,” and I was taken to glass doors in a wheelchair as I was still unable to walk. Murphy saw me through the glass a half block away, pulled away from my daughter, and raced to me. He never jumped on people, but when the doors opened, he was nearly on my lap crying with joy. He stood by my wheelchair during our entire visit. It was good for me to see him, too.
The last two years of life were difficult; Murphy struggled to lie down and rise again, but he wouldn’t leave my side. I was doing some home renovation and made countless trips back and forth from the garage to the house. No matter how long I stood by the workbench in the garage, Murphy stood beside me ready to follow wherever I went next. He’d follow me to the house and wait by the door so he could move with me to the garage. It was exhausting for him, but he was resolute in staying by my side.
He also insisted on following me on horseback. Weak and nearly blind and deaf, he followed mostly by scent, falling far behind but never losing our trail. It broke my heart to see him traveling miles in a dark, silent world only because he knew I was ahead of him somewhere.
Attempts to leave Murphy home were futile. A collar and leash caused him to growl, snap, and pull out of it to follow me. I locked him in the garage; he tried to chew through the door before digging under it to find me far out on the prairie. Nothing could keep him from me.
Memories of Murphy’s amazing nature come back to me often. But as I was praying, nearly a year after his death, I remembered him standing by me, ready to move with me. I saw him walking slowly through the fields, following the faint trail my horse and I left. Suddenly I knew what Murphy taught me: I need to be on my feet, ready to follow God. I need to follow his will even when I can’t see or hear it—even when it is hard. I need to be as faithful to God as my dear Murphy was to me, rejecting anything that would separate me from him.
“Be on your guard, stand firm in the faith, be courageous, be strong.” (1 Cor 16:13)
