Surviving Henry

Taylor Young Erin

Description

You don't always know what you're getting into when you bring home a puppy. Enter Henry, a boxer who suffers from Supreme Dictator of the Universe Syndrome. He vandalizes his obedience school, leaps through windows, cheats death at every turn, and generally causes his long-suffering owner Erin Taylor Young to wonder what on earth she did that God would send this dog to derail her life.Through his laugh-out-loud antics and escapades, Henry will steal readers' hearts. Anyone who has ever owned a dog, especially a canine catastrophe like Henry, will enjoy this lighthearted book about a dog who brings new meaning to the concept of unconditional love.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Natural history

Informations

• Publié par: Baker Publishing Group
• Date de parution: 29 juillet 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781441246233
• Langue: English

Extrait

© 2014 by Erin Taylor Young
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www . revellbooks .com
Ebook edition created 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-4623-3
To the memory of Glen Leroy Young, a humble giant in farmer’s clothes. 1922–2013
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
Acknowledgments
I always thought my first book would be dedicated to my husband and sons, but the passing of my dear father-in-law compels me to go back a generation. Would my husband, my sons, and I be who we are without Glen’s legacy of service, generosity, and love? He lived with a gleam in his eye and the light of Jesus in his heart, and he impacted not just his family but his entire community. Thank you, Glen.
To Alan, my long-suffering husband, who believes in me enough to pay for writing conferences, loves me enough to protect my writing time, and always, always encourages me to follow God’s call on my life—I love you. You are my noble hero.
To my sons, Jacob and Jonathan, who love Henry and willingly became part of this story—I can’t wait to see the stories God has for the rest of your lives. Love you guys!
Thanks to my parents, Darrell and Marjorie Taylor, who always made me feel like anything was possible, including this book. You’re the best. Your love has been a pillar holding me up all my life.
To Ruth Young, my second mom and wife to Glen—they say behind every great man there stands a woman. You have a legacy every bit as significant as Glen’s, and then some. Thank you for always making me feel like one of your own.
To Holly Smit—as both critique partner and friend you are a God-given treasure. How would this book have ever grown up without you? You push me to be ever so much more than I think is possible. Thanks for walking this road with me, for praying it with me too, and for believing in nuggets and nothing wasted.
To Karen Ball—that God paired us for this ride is a great and awesome wonder to me. Thanks for being a steady rock of wisdom and for digging into this manuscript with me. By God’s grace I’m blessed to call you both agent and friend.
Thanks to my writing buddies at OCFW. You make me grow. Thanks especially to Robin Patchen, Regina Jennings, and Sharon Srock, who read and critiqued Henry’s story way back when.
Thanks to Rene Gutteridge, friend, mentor, and super-genius writer, who taught me, encouraged me, and kindly informed me I was a humor writer.
To Steve Laube, pastor to so many, many writers—you have shaped my career more than you know. Thank you.
To those who’ve prayed me through this process—Judy Dancy, Sue Isaac, the Heritage Baptist Church prayer team, and a certain way-cool underground Sunday school class (you know who you are)—I’m forever grateful.
To the amazing publishing team at Revell—y’all are gifted. And you make this fun. Thanks for letting me join the team.
Thanks to the most excellent staff at the Patience S. Latting Northwest Library. I couldn’t ask for better or more encouraging co-workers.
Thanks to Gayle Roper, teacher extraordinaire and wise counselor, who guided me in just the right direction at just the right time.
To Angel Soriano and the folks at K9 University—God bless you for loving Henry and all the other dogs that pass through your doors.
To my God and Savior—this is an astounding journey. You make water come from the rock and send manna in the desert. Soli Deo gloria.
Note: Some names of both people and animals have been changed, including Henry’s true sire and dam (though I’m sure all their other offspring are perfectly normal).
Author’ s Note That You Probably Won’t Read but I’m Going to Write Anyway So No One Sues Me
T his is a true-life story, not a word-for-word transcription of our life with Henry. It’s not like I run around with a digital recorder in my pocket. I’m reconstructing events and providing dialogue based on my memory of the gist of what happened to shape this into an experience you can share with me. Read this for what it is—my entertaining spin on the real-life predicaments Henry blunders into.
For the sake of story, I sometimes combine several conversations, characters, or events into one and do a little skippy-do through time. You don’t care about the mundane details of my existence, so isn’t it best that I spare you? Furthermore, this isn’t a full account of the good and bad of Henry. Publishers balk at a 560,000-word epic. I mean, Tolstoy could get away with it, but my real-life War and Peace doesn’t need that sort of elaboration.
For the sake of humor, allow me some comedic exaggeration here and there, and we’re good to go.
Enjoy.
1
O ur dog has special needs, the greatest being the need for a lobotomy. After that, he could use a good dose of Prozac. Add some Ritalin and he’d approach the vague semblance of a well-adjusted canine. Feels almost doable.
Except for his trail of freakish accidents and half-baked suicide attempts.
Sometimes I think if Henry—that’s the dog—had ended up in a different family, we’d all be better off. Some combinations just don’t mix. Take Mentos candy and diet cola. Put them together, and you get a carbonated geyser blowing your bottle cap.
Pets are supposed to be fun. A pleasant enrichment of your life. Dogs especially. Loving, loyal, sleeping by your feet.
Henry is the anti-dog.
I don’t believe in divine misprints. But life with Henry makes me wonder.
Today, for instance, I find myself careening through my neighborhood at Mach 5, clinging to the handlebars of a wobbly, electric scooter tied to a brawny dog whose sole desire—I discover a bit too late—is to tow me pell-mell across the Yukon and back. Lemme tell ya, they don’t make brakes strong enough for that.
Contrary to what you might believe, I did not wake up this morning and wish for death. I was simply implementing yet another wear-out-the-dog plan. Henry is a purebred boxer, a bundle of muscle who makes other high-energy dogs look comatose. We try to counteract his spirited enthusiasm—otherwise known as maniacal hyperactivity—with massive doses of exercise. Better behavior through exhaustion, and all that. But we never tire Henry enough to achieve one piddly bit of better behavior. Walks don’t do it. I could hike until my feet blistered out of my sneakers, and Henry might consider panting. I, on the other hand, would need a skin transplant.
I’ve even taken up jogging to drain this dog’s endless stamina. I’m not in horrible shape, but running with Henry is downright discouraging. Even for a boxer, he’s lean and leggy with a gait that stretches forever. I huff beside him in a brisk jog, and he barely breaks out of a walk, which bugs me, so I keep speeding up until my tongue hangs out farther than the dog’s. When we come back from our three-mile torture tour, I’m on the verge of cardiac arrest, while Henry’s wondering when the real exercise starts.
Borrowing my son’s electric scooter is my latest genius scheme. My kid can sail around on the thing like it’s an extension of his limbs. Surely I can manage it.
The plan is to stand comfortably on this fully powered vehicle and, with a twist of my wrist, roll about the neighborhood while Henry trots alongside. No sweat.
Literally.
Sooner or later Henry will wear out. Well, I guess the scooter battery could go first, but I’ve given it a full charge. It ought to be good for a two-hour trek.
I step onto the parked scooter and wobble like a novice tightrope walker. It’s been thirty-plus years since the fifth grade, when hanging ten on my skateboard was like breathing. As I wave around searching for my inner surfer dude, a hint of foreboding tingles in my gut.
I squash it—I am not too old for this. If I get rolling, my balance will magically wake from hibernation. Still, I tie the leash to the handlebars so I can keep both hands clamped to the grips. Can’t be too careful.
I inhale a deep morning breath, sweep my gaze over the neighborhood hills, and pin my focus on Henry. “Are you ready to go for a walk?”
Henry runs his sniffer over the scooter and looks up at me, a wary expression creasing his velvety brown forehead.
“What? You don’t like the scooter? You’re not going to ride it. Just trot along beside it.”
With one foot, I shove off, and my wrist gives an expert I-used-to-own-a-motorcycle twist to the throttle. The motorcycle was only twenty-plus years ago, so my wrist is more in the groove than my balance.
The scooter whines to life and the chain kicks in, jerking my head back and about ripping my grip from the handlebars. I don’t have time to recover before Henry gets an earful of high-pitched motor squeal and breaks into an Olympic sprint.
Guess what? Henry can run way faster than the scooter manufacturer’s recommended safe speed.
My hair whips in the wind, and my mouth freezes in a Dear-Lord-please-help-me grimace. I think I might be screaming too. In a parade of near misses, I whiz past a mailbox, a lamppost, a parked car. My eyelids alternate between popping wide in horror and squeezing tight to shut out the fast-forward-gone-awry view.
Every muscle under that dog’s fur bulges with locomotive power. His flattened ears and reckless stride scream his burning need to escape the horrifying contraption eating ground behind him.
Futile, since I’ve fastened him to the scooter.
I consider my options, feeling like a disaster movi