Another Inka Lesson

I’ve recently had a revelation: I am just like my dog.

It’s a little eerie, actually, how similar we are. Eerie, and also maybe a little embarrassing.

Inka is, in essence, the embodiment of all my true feelings and desires.

We both like warm, soft blankets more than almost anything else in the world. We’re both shy, and while I don’t generally ignore people I’ve decided I don't want to instantly be friends with after gingerly sniffing in their direction, sometimes I wish I could. We both like walking, and neither of us are keen on being left all alone for long periods of time. The rain makes us both want to crawl back into bed for a few more hours. We both complain a good deal more than we should, and we love car rides. We tend to err on the side of the dramatic, and we’re occasionally prone to stubbornness. We both want to be safe and comfortable and loved. But more than anything, we’re identical in that we’re both scaredy cats.

There was a savage housefly terrorizing her. Hiding under the bed was the only option.

Inka is scared of almost everything. I say almost, only because she has overcome several fears since the time when she was scared of every-stinkin’-thing.

When we first adopted our dog, she was scared of toothbrushes. She was scared of pineapples. She was scared of pigeons, sneezes, rain, brooms, people, and any anything that made a noise louder than a whisper.

Roughing it while camping: Inka had to make-do by stealing the picnic blanket.

Justin and I now find it kind of amusing to recall the amount of and the seeming randomness of the things that frightened her, but at the time, it was challenging and heart wrenching to see. For the first few days we had her, she would fall asleep standing up because she was exhausted but would not relax enough to sit or lay down. It was weeks before she would sit willingly, and then only with her back against a wall. Months passed before she would comfortably sit down in the middle of a room, with nothing ‘protecting’ her backside.

Inka is part Whippet, a breed prone to nervousness. But the fear that our little dog had at the beginning of our time with her was due to more than just her breed. It was rooted in abuse and neglect, resulting in a deep lack of trust.

As I’ve mentioned in a blog a couple of years ago, what was most helpful in Inka eventually learning to trust us was, ironically, terrifying circumstances. When Inka was uncomfortable or afraid of something, she learned to come to us for protection and comfort. While we didn’t go out of our way to make her scared, we sometimes allowed her to endure things that were a bit difficult and frightening, knowing that it would be the only way she would overcome them. Time and time again, she came out a less fearful and more affectionate dog.

An unflattering picture of an extremely relaxed dog.

This year we brought our dog from Canada to Japan. It was a very difficult process in more ways than one, but perhaps the hardest part was literally sending Inka onto the plane. I don’t know how much “emotion” dogs really feel relative to what we as humans know as emotions. However, I do know my dog was terrified when, after days of being away from home, we locked her up in a kennel in that strange, stainless-steel room, and then walked away.

I cried. I really cried once we were back in the car, because watching my puppy experience such fear again without being able to comfort her was an extremely hard thing to do. I couldn’t tell her that we would see her on the other side of the 16 hour trip. I couldn’t tell her we’d be sitting right above her when we hit heavy turbulence. I couldn’t tell her we had a brand new toy and a bunch of delicious food waiting for her once we landed. It was a horrible plane ride for Justin and I.

Seeing Inka again, quivering in her kennel amongst crates of cargo in an airport warehouse in Tokyo, was one of the most relieving moments I’d experienced in a long time. Our journey wasn’t quite over yet, but now she knew that we had never left her. She hadn’t been abandoned again. This was all a part of our plan.

I’m happy to report that after the incident Inka was no worse for the wear. After a warm bath, a soft bed, and a good, long sleep, our little stinker was back to her old self. Inka Deer Hiebert is a tough little dog. She has survived living on the streets, an abusive home, over a year in a shelter, and two international moves.

She is not brave, but she is becoming strong.

You see where I’m going with this.

Sometimes I’m scared. Sometimes I’m tired. Sometimes I’m lonely. Sometimes I don’t understand why. Sometimes I just want to give up. Sometimes I feel like Inka in her kennel, wondering what’s going to happen and if I’ve just been abandoned.

I think we all know what that feels like.

Someone said something to me a couple of months ago that I just can’t get out of my head. They said something like this:

What if God allows us to endure difficulties, not because we made a mistake or as a punishment, but to refine us? Because he loves us so much, because we are so precious to him, he doesn’t want to let us just stay the way we are. 

Like gold in the fire. Like the pruning of a tree. Like the cutting of a diamond.

What if we go through difficult times not simply because it’s just the way life goes, but because we are so tremendously loved? Because someone sees our glorious potential, and doesn’t want us to stay what or where we are?

It seems counter-intuitive maybe, but I bet it didn’t occur to Inka as she was being shaken about in turbulent skies that she was there because Justin and I love her. 

I am not brave. I trust, though, that God is helping me to become stronger.