According to the folklore of my Southern family heritage, there are three things in life that make a man whole: A pick up truck, a wife and a dog.
I suppose that’s why in the spring of ‘89 I found myself in hot pursuit of a dog. I had bought a truck a couple of years before, I was recently engaged and my bride-to-be had rented a house where I could finally keep a dog.
I had my heart set on a beagle and being fundamentally cheap set my sights on finding a pup from a pound. It wasn’t an easy task. I’d called about every animal shelter in the Kansas City area. There were labs, collies, schnauzers, halfs of this and mixtures of that, but no beagles.
Then one Sunday morning I saw a simple want ad in the Kansas City Star. “Free dogs,” it stated, “All Varieties. Purebreeds.”
“Any beagles?” I asked when a lady named Martha answered the phone.
“Oh yes,” she replied. “We have lot’s of beagles.”
“Can I come see them?”
“Oh no. We don’t have any right now. But we get them all the time. I’ll call you soon.”
She wasn’t kidding.
The next day my phone rang at work.
“Mr. Tucker, I know you want a beagle but I have the most precious terrier mix. She needs a good home.”
“No thanks, I have my heart set on a beagle.”
The following day, Martha offered a lab. The day after that a sweet sort of a mix.
Most days I received one call. Some days two.
And soon I came to realize that “her dogs” that she so passionately loved were the death row inmates at each and every shelter for miles around. She knew every one of them. By breed. By name. By execution date.
One day she called me in tears. “I have a lab mix,” she begged, “can you just take him for two days.”
“Why two days?”
“This is his last day. I can’t find a home. They won’t let me take any more to my house. I’m sure I can get him into another shelter by week’s end.”
I mumbled some excuse about calling me back as a last resort.
She did. Overjoyed. She had found a permanent home.
The daily dialogue continued for a week or so. And then my call arrived.
She pulled me out of a meeting. “I don’t know how I missed them,” she said frantically. “You’ve got to be in Independence by five. And you have to have a receipt from a vet for a prepaid rabies shot.”
“Do I have to go today?” It was 4:15 and I was on the completely opposite side of town.
“Yes. They’re scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
“They?”
“Yes there are two. Can you get there?”
“I’ll try,” I replied. “But I really can only take one.”
There was a vet’s office near work. The receptionist found it odd that I wanted to pay for a rabies vaccine for a dog that didn’t exist and a shot that wasn’t given. But I talked her into it and within ten minutes was flying across town.
At 4:59 I walked in the Independence pound front door.
“Here for the beagles?” the person greeted.
“Yes, that’s me.” Martha had called.
We walked back through the cell block. I began to understand why Martha cared so much. Dog after dog after dog begging for someone to take them home.
We came to a small pen with two beagles and I chose one and took him home.
And I couldn’t sleep all night.
Martha had gotten to me. I kept thinking about the dog I’d left behind. And the fate that awaited in the morning.
I placed my first call around 6 a.m. The second around 7. “I’ll come for the other dog,” my messages stated.
Finally, I reached the office at eight.
“Don’t worry,” the officer said. “Another man has already been here.”
About an hour later Martha called. “How’s your dog?”
“He’s great!” I replied. “We named him Olmar. Thanks so much for all your help.”
“I’m just so glad you could help,” she said. “And I found a home for the other one too.”
Why had I ever doubted that she would?
In Matthew 18, Jesus tells us that our Father in heaven is not willing that anyone should be lost. I find that very comforting. For through Martha I’ve seen first hand what passion to save the condemned can do.
What an awesome God we are privileged to serve.