Proof The Bible Is True

A strip of glossy paper, torn from yet another magazine, dangled from our little black cocker spaniel’s clenched teeth. I knelt down to tug the soggy, rectangular scrap from his mouth. “Come on, boy.” He relaxed his jaw and looked up with innocent eyes. I glared at him, frustrated.

Now? Why are you doing this now? Nothing, it seemed, could stop Leaf’s new bad habit. And he’d always been such a good dog! I held the slimy slip he’d dropped into my hand up to the light, reading the disjointed words and numbers printed on it as if they held some clue to his odd new behavior.

Each time he pulled this stunt it was the same thing: a slip of paper, not chewed or shredded, which he brought to me. “Ready to go?” my wife, Linda, asked, interrupting my inspection.

“Leaf’s at it again,” I said, showing her.

Linda slipped an arm around me. “Don’t worry about it. You know how scared he gets. He probably just doesn’t want you to go.”

Neither do I, I thought.

The hospital. That’s where Linda and I were headed. A sterile monolithic building where a surgeon was going to operate on my brain. I’d complained of headaches and blurred vision. Doctors had found an aneurysm, fatal if it ruptured.

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