Sundays are hectic at my house, especially when I’m the designated teacher in my Sunday school class.  I like to prepare my Sunday dinner on Saturday evening or night, but sometimes that just doesn’t work—like yesterday, for example.  So, I arose at 7:15 this morning to put a hash brown casserole in the oven to bake before I went to church. I planned to do cabbage, sausage, rutabagas, and cornbread when I returned because those dishes wouldn’t take long.  I like to look back over my lesson one last time before I go off to teach it, but before I could do that, I had to feed my dogs.  

Feeding dogs is not ordinarily a complicated task.  Millions of people feed millions of dogs every day without many problems.  I once fed dogs myself—not millions of them—without a problem, but that was before my dogs got a bit older like their owners and developed all these maladies.  You see, Clyde has developed inflammatory bowel disease, and Dr. Padgett prescribed two different pills twice a day for him. Josephine, our youngest rescue who’s now a beloved part of the family, was spayed and received her own prescription of two different pills a day.  Then Charlie injured his shoulder and started limping like the old-man dog that he is. X rays revealed his problems, and Dr. Padgett prescribed more pills.  I brought them all home in a big paper sack and started the process of dispensing them to my black dog, who’s notorious for refusing his meds.  We have one healthy dog; Sally requires no pills at all—not today anyway.

The good doctor told me.  “Even Charlie will like these.  They’re flavored and dogs like them.”

Charlie doesn’t.  I offered him one, told him how delicious it was, and watched as he turned up his nose and walked away.  If I pick up a pill bottle of any kind, he hides behind the couch, the big heavy one not easily moved to retrieve a hiding dog.  We hit upon the idea of adding just a tad of packaged food with gravy to the bowls.  Charlie’s tough, but he cannot resist gravy.  We made sure the gravy covered his pills and gave him his dish.  It worked.  He was medicated.  Once I’d medicated the whole pack with their various meds and checked each bowl to make sure all the pills had been ingested, I had ten minutes to look over my Sunday school lesson.  Good thing I studied yesterday.  By this time the casserole was perfuming the whole house, and I had to leave for church.

Inside the church, things calmed down considerably.  We got through the lesson rather well, I thought, and may have even learned a little something about Moses and his problems.  I enjoyed the preaching service, but when I left the church, problems arose again.  I had to go by the grocery store for more cabbage.  The small head nestled in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator would not be enough.  I opted for our new grocery store just a couple of blocks from the church, but as I pulled into a parking space, I heard a terrible commotion.

“Meow, meow!  @#&%^* MEOW, MEOW!”

The hood of the car was speaking to me, screeching and caterwauling.

“Oh, no,” I thought, grabbing my purse.  “Some poor cat has gotten under the hood, and the motor has nearly killed him.  What do I do now?”

I hurried inside and asked the nice lady if there were some man in the store who might help me look under the hood.  So much for gender roles.  I needed a man.  Dwain Davis rescued me and the cat.  He raised the hood and there, underneath, was a gorgeous yellow cat, yowling at us.  He didn’t wait around to see what we’d do next.  He shot out of there and disappeared, grumbling all the way out of sight.  When did he get under my hood?  Did one of the feral cats out in our neighborhood ride all the way to church with me?  Did he get on board while I was in church?  Who knows?  I do know I was delighted to find him unhurt.  

Sunday dinner is finished now, and my bed is calling me for a nap.  I’d better grab one while I can.  It’ll soon be time to feed and medicate the dogs again.