Pistol

He was the dog I always wanted. But he came with baggage, a little like me

- JOHN HANEY

A crisp autumn morning at Charles­ ton Air Force Base. American flags waved gently in the breeze.

“Be safe, babe,” I said to my wife, Ashley, holding her tight. You’d think these goodbyes would get easier. Ash­ ley and I were Air Force pilots. This was the third time in less than 18 months that one of us had been deployed. Ash­ ley would be on a four­month tour of duty, flying C-17s in the Middle East.

“Good luck with the pup,” she said. A look of concern crossed her face. “You’re going to need it. I’ll be pray­ ing for you.”

Ashley was referring to Pistol, the five­year­old golden retriever we’d adopted just 12 hours earlier.

I’d been asking God to bring a dog into my life for eight years, ever since my beloved childhood dog, Shammy, had died of old age.

Maybe Pistol wasn’t the right dog. He’d looked so sweet in the picture from the rescue agency. He turned out to be a 75-pound terror.

Picking him up from the foster family, Ashley and I watched Pistol crash around the family’s living room, knocking over furniture and ignor­ ing commands. We should have paid more attention when the family’s dog hid behind the sofa every time Pistol tried to get her to play.

Finally the family got him on a leash and turned him over to us. He pulled so hard, he almost passed out.