Hope, Faith and Peanut Butter

By Carolyn Graham, Vidor, Texas

As appeared in

My son Brandon wearily lifted the last box of his things from the back of his truck and carried it toward my house.

His marriage was over, and he was moving back home. Brandon’s forlorn expression said it all.

My eyes fell on the dog trailing after him. The year-old mixed breed was cute enough: her face a cross between a beagle and Chihuahua and her coat a creamy brown worthy of her name, Peanut Butter.

She turned to me—her big brown eyes pleading. For what, I wasn’t sure. I backed away, shooting her a warning look.

She had been adopted by Brandon and his wife—his ex-wife, that is—and just reminded me of how their marriage had failed. How our family’s woes seemed to pile up every day. Lord, I don’t need another burden right now.

Sometimes I wondered if God was listening. A few months earlier my 14-year-old son, Wesley, had been terribly injured in a dirt-bike accident, and he missed so much school I worried if he’d ever catch up.

Then the plant where my husband, Martin, worked came under new management, and he suddenly had to put in long, irregular hours. Even nights and weekends I might not see him. Now I had to clear out my home office and turn it back into a bedroom for Brandon and his dog.

Brandon noticed me glaring at the animal. “PB will be fine,” he assured me.

“She’s very well behaved.” We’ll see about that, I thought. I had my own dog—Missy, a Border collie-Australian shepherd mix who was mostly an outdoor dog.

Brandon had insisted Peanut Butter stay inside. I wasn’t thrilled, but I couldn’t say no after all my son had been through. The dog quietly followed Brandon to his room. I breathed a sigh of relief. Until I noticed the carpet. A trail of dirty paw prints. Great.

The next day Brandon took Peanut Butter to work. But that evening, when I heard Brandon’s truck pull up and Peanut Butter’s accompanying bark, I braced myself for more trouble. I opened the front door and saw the two of them running around on the lawn. “How was work?” I asked.

“Okay, I guess,” Brandon said. “Having PB with me is great. She keeps my spirits up.” As an equipment-repair technician, Brandon spent a lot of time driving from client to client by himself. I guess it’s good he has the dog so he doesn’t feel so alone, I figured.

I put Peanut Butter in the backyard with Missy while I set the table for dinner. I’d barely begun when a loud yelp startled me. Then growling…Oh, no!
I ran outside.

Missy was chasing Peanut Butter. She caught up and they started to scuffle. I darted between them and pulled Missy back. “Bad girl,” I scolded, but I couldn’t blame her. Missy was my guard dog; she was just defending her territory. I shook my head. God, didn’t you hear me? I think he had the volume turned all the way down on me.

Now I had a new worry. How to tell Brandon Peanut Butter couldn’t live here for long. In the meantime, I kept the dogs separated. Peanut Butter seemed to know how I felt. When I watched TV, she’d stay across the room, her eyes tracking me warily.

One Saturday night Martin was called in to work. I found Brandon on the couch watching TV, Peanut Butter napping on the floor at his feet. Now was the time for a heart-to-heart talk with my son. I sat down next to him. “You never told me how you got Peanut Butter,” I said.