Why are Bad dogs Bad?

The room looked like a bomb had exploded. Bits of plastic blinds lay scattered across the carpet. Mangled and bent blinds slats still hung in two windows, hopelessly unable to blind anyone to anything anymore. The entire window sill was ripped off, exposed nails pointing like daggers from the wall, piercing my Savings Account.  Sawdust and shards of chewed and splintered wood dotted the floor like snow. I turned to look at Lucky who hung his head. His tail was down and he peeped through tangly wild terrier fur at me.

"Bad dog," I groaned.
It seemed a gross understatement.  

I know what you are thinking. I had locked him in the room for 4 days and 4 nights with no food and water, and in starvation and desperation he was seeking to escape to survive. Or perhaps I had neglected him and he had not had a walk for a thousand days and I made him pee in tin cups. You would be wrong. He had been shut in the bedroom for 2 hours while I taught my art class so he wouldn't escape out the open gate my students came through.  And we had just returned before art class from a one hour walk in a brand new place where he had been allowed to sniff to his heart's content.

Honeybun looked at me and at him. She wagged her tail. She had been in the room too, but it was clear who the guilty party was. The convict lay down and began licking his paw, which seemed to be sore. No doubt cut by wood, nail, or sharp severed plastic blinds.

"Why did he do that?" asked Asherel, amazed by the destruction caused by one dog in a mere two hours. I could sooner answer that than I could tell you how the earth remains suspended just the right distance from the sun to maintain life.  And why did he do it right before Xmas, right before Matt and Karissa and Anders walk in the door, the beloved ones we have missed so much? They will enter their Xmas vacation, hoping for delicious meals, clean homes, happy parents with a little extra money to spare for special treats.

But instead of concocting sugar cookies dotted with red sprinkles, fudge, and Chicken Cordon Bleu, I will be measuring windows, drilling, sawing, sanding, painting, and hanging new blinds.....
Lucky glanced up at me again, his tail still lowered.
"Let us reason together," I beseeched him, "I am not a perfect dog owner, but believe me, on the scale of dog owners, I tip to the 'better than some' side. You, on the other hand, on the scale of good to bad dogs, tip more than a little to the bad dog side.  Do I beat you for this crime? No. But I am sorely disappointed and there must be consequences. You will pay for this damage."
"How will he do that?" asked Asherel.
"We are selling him to a lab that experiments on brains to find the source of deviant behavior."
"Can we wait til after Xmas?"
Unfortunately, it was time to feed the dogs before my anger had worn away. I have been told dogs don't remember much more than the brief nanosecond after they have been very very bad, so punishing them does no good. It is just cruel. So gritting my teeth, I called out, "Who wants to eat?"

Honeybun raced to her bowl, screeched to a halt, and sat down, waiting obediently and joyfully. Lucky disappeared. And then he reappeared with a bone in his mouth. He trotted over and dropped it in my hand, tail weakly wagging, still lowered. It was his offering, his begging for forgiveness.  He did not seem to have forgotten his crime.

I don't get it. Lucky has led a charmed life. Walks twice a day, sometimes more, unlimited access to his large forested back yard, lots of attention from the loving Asherel, his sister, Honeybun - a playmate who admittedly tried to kill him when she first entered the home, but is gentle and kind now. He gets good food, lots of treats, and has more sweaters than any dog on the block with the exception of Honeybun. Why? Why does he feel the need to be so incorrigible? It is as though he really doesn't want to be bad, but he just can't help it.

Surprisingly similar to how I feel. I don't want to be impatient....but I am.  I don't want to raise my voice....but I do. I don't want to say stupid things....but they flow out of me like blood from fresh wounds. I want to love always....but I fail.....    The list goes on and on.  Over and over again, the hopeful prayers of good intentions in the morning are scattered like feathers in the wind by nightfall. 

Maybe some folks are better at being consistently good. Like some dogs. And some, like me and Lucky, try really hard, but then, we blow it. And no matter how sorry we are, there is always wreckage to be mopped up.  It is a difficult part of life. That is why God has to mention some permutation of "forgive" over a hundred times in the Bible. We are not forgiven because we deserve it....we are forgiven instead of destroyed because if we weren't, there would be no one left to forgive. And if we refuse to forgive others, the Bible warns us the same hard-heartedness will be applied to us. It is hard to forgive when we have been wronged...when window sills of our souls are ripped from our hearts.... but perhaps it is when it is the hardest to forgive and yet we do, that we manage to understand just a little of the character of God.

"Good dog," I told Lucky, as he crept over to me this morning. He held up his tail and wagged it happily.

Psalm 25: 11, 17-18, 21
¹¹ For the sake of your name, LORD,
   forgive my iniquity, though it is great. ¹⁵ My eyes are ever on the LORD,
   for only he will release my feet from the snare. ¹⁶ Turn to me and be gracious to me,
   for I am lonely and afflicted.
¹⁷ Relieve the troubles of my heart
   and free me from my anguish.
¹⁸ Look on my affliction and my distress
   and take away all my sins.
²¹ May integrity and uprightness protect me,
   because my hope, LORD, is in you.