It is about Scooter Sublime of Heron’s Key. But, hang in with me here . . .

It was Hagar, the sexually exploited Egyptian slave-girl belonging to and abused by Sarai, the half-sister and wife of Abram (in fairness, behaviors acceptable in Iron Age morality). Hagar, whose name means “foreign thing,” herself became strong and significant, wins applause, hands down—if applause can be done, hands down. Hagar holds a key to Scooter’s training.

Hagar was the first and only person in the biblical canon to give God a name.

“El Ro’i,” God of Seeing,” she declared, then asked, “Have I seen the one who sees me and lived to tell of it?” (Genesis 16)

My mind jumps to Scooter, the fuzzy foreigner in our home.

“I see the one who sees me,” says he. “I need her attention and I know how to get it.”

“Just watch!,” he urges. “I grab pairs of her rolled socks from the closeted sock stack. I choose one particular pair and run like a rocket from bedroom to living room where I slide under the rocking chair (my favorite naughty spot). I whine a brief “Look at me!” to gain the attention of the One Who Sees Me. When she looks, I wiggle my joy, and solidly set my teeth into the soft socks. I love it!”

[Aside: now, at 20-weeks, our 14.6-pounder’s 28 milk teeth (two of which rest on my desk) are giving way to 42 permanent teeth. When he catches my hand in his mouth, it’s hard to tell which set cause the greater pain.] But back to Scooter’s story . . .

“I settle. I wiggle and whine my message, ‘Please, let’s play a challenge game.’ She notices. Ah! She sees me! She’s too calm. She opens the refrigerator and fetches a bite of apple cut especially for such moments. She thinks differently than I. She is convinced we are in a stage that will pass. And she, unlike Abram or Sarai, means never to use anger, abuse, or aggression along the way to my obedience (Let’s admit it; she’s not perfectly trained). 

“‘Scooter,’ she sings. She has stretched on the floor in front of me, my level, but much longer than I. She makes me focus on her eyes. She slips her right hand under the rocker. My space. I snarl, fiercely, but briefly because I smell a bit of apple held in her left hand. 

“Release,” she says, resting her hand on the jaw-clamped socks braced between my fuzzy front feet —the feet we poodle-produced pups use as tools. “Release,” she repeats without yielding our locked gaze. 

“I release. I’m happy to. I know ‘Release’ well, and usually, even without coercion, I obey. She credits two reasons for my doing what she asks. She may be right. 

“First, and perhaps most importantly, she sees me. She comes to me. She meets my need for her attention. She engages me—I need that. My tail-twitch betrays my joy in being seen.

Then, there is that apple. Eve may well have been the first to notice its desirability, but my superior sense of smell “saw” it coming, and I know the difference between cotton socks and sweet apple. The exchange pleases each of us. She pats my head, praises my obedience, hands me an appropriate toy, puts the socks away, and closes the closet door. I watch for opportunity.