Yesterday I hit Morgan in the eye with a golf ball sized wiffle ball--a line shot from about fifteen feet away, as I practiced batting using my little wiffle ball pitching machine. He typically goes berserk, running to and fro, barking frantically, every time I turn that stupid machine on. I've hit him with line drives many times and he hardly reacts; he just keeps barking and running. But this time, he yelped a little and scratched a bit at his eye, and then went back to running back and forth and barking. Last night, though, once the adreneline high wore off, he could scarcely open that eye, and I could tell he wasn't feeling well.
Can you imagine the guilt I felt? This creature has given me more joy these past eight years than I could ever document. And now I've blinded him with a wiffle ball?
Is it misguided for me to pray earnestly for healing--to lay hands upon a dog and ask God to make him well?
No sir. For the breath of life is in him even as it is in me.
The good news is that Morgan is a quick healer, and today, his eye, while still a little bloodshot, seems much better. I trust that all shall be well.
