In the latter part of 2022 a Blue Heeler of unknown origin joined our family. She found the porch at the vacant house where my mother grew up, then charmed her way into our hearts. 

Harriet loved roaming the nearby woods, but paid no attention to property lines. A shotgun blast sent her limping home. That’s why she’s confined by a fence in our back yard.

It’s a nice setup with shade trees and a garage apartment, but a major downgrade from chasing deer and splashing through streams. That’s why I couldn’t refuse when she begged to wallow on an armadillo carcass. 

There are multiple theories why dogs love reprehensible matter. The most plausible seems they are masking their scent, a throwback to wolf ancestors who hunted for survival. Masking helped them sneak up on dinner. First though, here’s some background.

Armadillos relentlessly dig holes in our yard, so for much of the year I set traps, the humane kind of course. Captives are mercifully ushered into the hereafter with a long-barrel 22 pistol. I’m no Matt Dillon but have an almost perfect record from eight inches. The only exception is when I fired four blanks.

Some loose cartridges had been left in an abandoned house on our farm. I didn’t realize they were lead free until that armadillo began doing the hokey pokey. Later I used the faux ammo to scare pigeons from roosting under our farm shelter, but that didn’t work for long. Birdbrains may be underrated.     

I haul the dead armadillos down a makeshift road through planted pines and toss them in a small clearing. It’s like a food truck for coyotes. When I return after consecutive nights of successful trapping, nothing remains except the shell. There have not been enough leftovers to attract buzzards.

When Harriet and I take walks in the warmer seasons we don’t go near the armadillo graveyard. It’s grassy and I have snake allergies. But after I closed the traps for winter and the grass had died back, she tugged on her leash and I followed.

The first carcass she came to was like finding the vault at Estee Lauder. She spent ten minutes rolling on her back absorbing the fragrance. She’d get up and sniff, then paw the shell lightly or tug with her teeth and return to rolling. As we ventured deeper into the graveyard, other carcasses were not quite as appealing. Harriet stuck with that routine for several weeks, sometimes testing other remains while gradually reducing her roll time. Quick sniffs are now the norm.

That’s probably more than anybody wants to know about such matters, but as Harriet was masking her scent, it occurred to me that people do a similar thing. I’m not talking about camouflaged hunters. That’s another story. I’m thinking of how as Christians we mask our faith to blend in with the world.

Mr. Emmett Stephens of Vienna was known for his clever takes on life. One of the jewels he shared in his latter years was, “I’ve finally gotten old enough to stop setting a bad example and start giving good advice.” Among the many ways I have set a bad example, blending in may be the most common.

There’s no need for a list of how Christians mask our faith. It ranges from outrageous conduct to the silence of timidity. There’s not much benefit, however, in dwelling on yesterday’s mistakes. What’s more important is today.

Harriet loves masking her scent and that’s okay with her pretend master. Masking our faith, however, is not okay with the one, true Master. I don’t know if it makes God angry, sad, or disappointed. What I do know is that he loves us enough he’ll forgive us if we ask. 

When Peter heard the cock crow the third time, he remembered what Jesus had told him. Thankfully that wasn’t the end of his story. It was a new beginning. No matter how many times we’ve heard the cock crow, we can make a fresh start. 

Sometimes I still set a bad example, but I’m confident today that I’m giving good advice.