A Toy Dog

A dog . . . at least, that's what his whole existence told him until the teeth of doubt crept up on him and danced around his tail­-more like a dog than himself, chasing its fluffy ball of a stuffed tail. Little Spot just peered at the dangling likeness of a patched scut. Then, his eyes dropped upon it, or dropped off of it more like. He didn't have a fourth paw . . . nor a fourth leg at all. He was made that way.

Spot always dreamt of the day he would find his person, the day he could run and fly across the sweet grass with mud all in his paws-the day he had four legs. Spot sat, pondering for a moment, his ear tufts laid back as if deep in thought themselves. Why not dream of the one who made him this way? Why not make that dream come true?

So, sheepishly, he dawdled off-a ragged, stuffed animal that no one wanted to play with, or that no one could play with. Spot sighed. His head bowed to the white snow of a newly lit winter. Crisp drifts of wind scarred his already frozen nose. Figuring that he might as well keep moving on account of the icy shocks shivering up his scruff, his three misfit feet scuttled along the slick pavement with a ta-tap-ta-tap-ta-tap-ta-with nothing left to finish the noise as the dangling nothingness, meant to be a paw, tripped upon listless sound-silence. Spot's thatched head poked itself upward spryly as another burst of snowflakes wiggled his wiry whiskers awake.

He scurried as fast as he could in the opposite direction of the cold breeze, but of course his three, knobby legs just wouldn't allow that quick motion to stand. Spot fell with a plop upon the top of a snow pile, plummeting into a thick ice that blanketed his fur. A tear slowly wound its way down Spot's chilled snout. Why?

Just when that tear splashed to the ground in a muffled plight, Spot's eyes caught something rather hopeful-the only warm thing he had stumbled upon in a while now. It was a cottage, the kind of cottage that set every inch of your body wagging with that stub of a tail behind you. Spot's tongue thrust itself from his mouth, trying to taste the vision that tumbled into sight. Spot scurried, three-paw style, toward the welcoming door that stretched upward for ages as if waiting to frame a certain spectacle of a person in its emptiness. His tiny paws wavered as they hit the pine logs that spanned toward the entrance. He wiggled his toes, snow climbing from his white paws as he stammered in a shivering yelp.

The glow once behind that jewel of a door seeped out like honey into the wintry night's cool grip. Spot's exhausted form wobbled on its legged three-some and then collapsed as his mouth fell open, his heart pittering faster and faster. His eyes imbibed every inch of the strong man in front of him-a silhouette of pure strength. There was comfort in that moment, a resting minute away from all of the pains of tireless worries, harmful wishes, and shattered expectations. Dreams came to meet this architect of toys. The warm hands scooped little Spot up, holding him so close to the pine-sweet shirt that was drenched in the smell of cocoa and wood chips. He relaxed, a hum exuding from his lips.

"I've been expecting you," a voice deeper than the rush of the ocean soared into Spot's eardrums, beating them in a tingle of rhythms. "What is it you wish to ask me, my child?"

Spot's big eyes dropped from the chiseled features of perfection and onto the worn tabletop. He licked his lips, wondering if his wish could come true.

"Sir . . ." Spot tried. "Could you make me a fourth leg?"

The Toy Maker's eyes searched Spot's so deeply that Spot almost felt ashamed at his question, but the man's eyes still held the color of love and a hint of compassion.

"My child . . . just wait, and you will see great things." The Toy Architect lifted his hand to rub Spot's patched head.

It was then that Spot noticed a picture, folded just beside the Toy Maker's palm . . . an image of a boy, a boy with a crutch in his hand.

"Let be and be still, and know (recognize and understand) that I am God." -Psalm 46:10

"But as for me, I watch in hope for the Lord, I wait for God my Savior;

my God will hear me." -Micah 7:7