Timber the Shepherd

How the cycle began, I don’t recall, but over a several-month period, our 9-year-old grandson frequently asked me the same thing.

“Tell me a story about Timber, Pa!”

In my youth, Timber was our pet German Shepherd, a bona fide descendant of Rin Tin Tin, full name of “Baron Timber von Schatzy.” We acquired him as a 6-month-old puppy shortly after moving from Niles, Ohio, to the Chicago suburb of Lombard.

The stories began almost as soon as Timber came into our home.

It soon became evident that this shepherd needed some shepherding himself! He lacked the discipline to avoid jumping on people, barking his fool head off, taking for a walk anyone who attached a leash to his collar, and lunging—attacking even—any stranger that came too close.

So, my dad hired a professional trainer. I should say, pretty much wasted his money on a trainer.

On his first visit, the trainer entered our house, and Timber lunged for him in full attack mode, grabbing his arm and ripping his coat sleeve. Let’s just say, Timber got his first lesson: don’t bite the trainer; the pain isn’t worth it!

Surprisingly, the guy kept coming back. Tried to teach him to heel (helped a little)…to avoid jumping (a knee to the chest cured him of that)…not to bite strangers (worked too well—more about that in a moment).

True, the trainer helped some, but Timber never did take kindly to the mailman, who wouldn’t deliver the mail if the front door was open. And certainly, strangers in our yard were met with fierce barking and a definite threat of attack, should he break through the door.

Dad did use that to his advantage once, though.

Our property sat adjacent to the high school parking lot, with a fence separating the two. At the side of our house, a sidewalk went from the cul-de-sac, through a gate, into the school grounds. This was early 1970s, and many students proved as undisciplined as Timber—but in other ways.

Every day during the lunch hour, a dozen or more students congregated in our backyard, sitting in a circle, smoking joints and cigarettes, and groovin’ to the tunes. The aroma of “burning leaves” wafted in our house; cigarette butts accumulated in the yard; Dad got ticked.

He tried to get the school to implement some discipline but to no avail. In frustration, Dad collected a large coffee can full of cigarette butts and paid the principal a visit. Mr. Ryder insisted there wasn’t anything he could do; the kids were off school property. Dad claims that he then dumped the can of butts on the principal’s desk so he could share in the mess (I can’t verify that story; given Dad’s penchant for bravado, it’s likely spurious).

Anyway, however the interview with Mr. Ryder went down, Dad felt that he had to take matters into his own hands.

So one day he happened to be home, unbeknownst to the potheads, and waited until they got good and comfy. Put the 25’ leash on Timber and opened the back door. Timber shot out the door like a thoroughbred at the Preakness, barking wildly, baring his fangs, racing toward teen flesh!

Those who could jumped up and scattered…the stoned stumbled to their feet and staggered away. Fortunately for them, Timber reached the end of his leash before being yanked to an abrupt halt. Don’t know how he didn’t break his neck!

Timber effectively kept the yard clear of the lunchtime smoking club.

That doesn’t mean he was an effective watchdog. More of a disappointment, actually.

One Sunday, our family came home from church and all seemed quite routine and normal.

Until my brother hollered that something was missing. I looked around my room and realized my new portable AM/FM cassette recorder was gone! I had just received it for my birthday! The more we looked, the more stuff we noticed had been taken.

Someone had burgled our house…and Timber lay nonchalantly in his spot by the back door.

On another occasion, after Dad and I arrived at work (we worked at the same place), he found me and said Mom called, wondering if either of us had seen her purse. Said she thought she left it in the living room by the desk. Neither of us had.

Now, mind you, we lived in a fairly small ranch-style house. Again, in the middle of the night, someone pried open the sliding glass door in the family room—just down the hall from the bedrooms—made his way to the living room, found mom’s purse, and left the way he came, closing the door behind him.

And our vigilant, ferocious, stranger-hating German Shepherd slept right through it all in my parent’s room.

There are so many more “Timber Stories” to tell—stories that will leave you wondering how in the world my mother ever put up with the creature! I’ll save some for another time.

For now, consider the contrast between this undisciplined, often reckless, inconsistent shepherd dog with the Good Shepherd, Jesus.

He protects His sheep consistently, allowing no harm to come to them but what is beneficial for their overall welfare.

He shepherds His people gently. Even those who despise Him and want nothing to do with Him experience patience, longsuffering, and clear warning before He uses His rod.

I’m reminded of the Shepherd Psalm—the 23^rd.

In going for a walk, Timber demanded that he lead. Even employing the trainer’s tactics to get the dog to heel and follow the direction of the human had only temporary effects. He insisted on leading.

But he wasn’t interested in leading me where I needed to go, somewhere beneficial for me. He wanted to take me where he wanted to go—to some tree or hydrant or off into someone’s yard.

But the Good Shepherd takes me to the “green pastures” and the “still waters” so vital for my soul’s welfare.

“The Lord is my shepherd…. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul.”

The stories about our German Shepherd are entertaining, but the truths of the Good Shepherd are nourishing!