Dogs, Excavators and the one lady at the stoplight

About the Author: Rev. Sharon Smith is a pastor, writer, teacher, and reluctant expert in lifting large dogs with one arm. She lives with her husband and a rotating cast of beloved animals. She is a minister at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church, and a college professor, teaching writing and literature to students – including those who are incarcerated at the Thumb Correctional Facility. Whether she’s leading a Bible study, enjoying her friends at Food for Families ministry, or navigating a green light with grace, Sharon believes kindness is a habit worth practicing daily.

People can be jerks. But people can also be incredibly kind. And whichever one we choose to be makes all the difference to the people we encounter.

This was certainly true for me one miserable Friday in May.

My elderly dog Yaeger had been declining for months. I’d babied him along with supplements, medications, and regular injections from the vet. He was basically on the canine equivalent of a spa package: vitamin chews, mobility sessions, massages and gentle exercise.

But that Friday morning, he couldn’t walk, had lost his appetite, and looked at me like he was gently letting go.

I had always said that quality of life would be the deciding factor, and it was clear he no longer had it. So I made the dreaded appointment.

My husband was out of town, so it was just me – one woman, one 100-pound dog, and one arm. (The other was recovering from shoulder surgery, which really limits one’s dog-lifting options.)

After forty-five minutes of pushing, improvising, and making odd noises, I managed to slide Yaeger up a ramp into the back of the car. It wasn’t elegant, but it was effective.

Because Yaeger couldn’t walk, the vet, Dr. Bobbie, came out to the parking lot to administer the final shot. His passing was very peaceful. She hugged me, told me how sorry she was, and stood with me for a few moments to make sure I was okay. That small act of compassion meant so much.

Afterward, I drove up north to our property, where my husband had thoughtfully pre-dug a grave a few weeks earlier.

Unfortunately, he had grossly underestimated just how much space a 100-pound dog would take up. I stared at the too-small hole, found a shovel, and prepared to dig – with one good arm and a heart full of grief.

That’s when I spotted a man who had been doing some work nearby and parked his excavator on the far edge of the property.

I approached, introduced myself, explained the situation, and asked if he could help move Yaeger from the car to the grave. His name was Brandon. He was clearly a fellow dog lover and said, “I’m so sorry,” multiple times.

When we got to the grave, he saw the problem immediately. I started digging awkwardly and Brandon, saint that he is, offered to bring over his excavator.

With the precision of a surgeon and the kindness of Mr. Rogers, he carved out a grave that fit perfectly.

We gently laid Yaeger to rest, and Brandon covered the grave with care. Before he left, he said, “I have a three-year-old dog now, and I’m already dreading when it’s his time.”

Brandon was a complete stranger. But that day, his kindness was a gift.

Later, driving home, I found myself behind a car that was stopped at a green light.

The driver was deeply engrossed in her cell phone, possibly solving world peace or rewriting Hamlet, based on how long she sat there. After about 30 seconds, I gave a light, polite “ahem” of a horn tap.

In return, I received a dramatic, one-fingered salute – a full Broadway production of rudeness starring her middle finger.

As I said, some people are jerks.

And yet, later that day, my dear friend and wonderful colleague Kaylee called to check on me. She didn’t try to fix anything. She just listened and said all the right things. Her empathy was balm for my bruised soul.

Dr. Bobbie, Brandon, Kaylee, I thank you. Your kindness mattered more than you know.

Here’s the thing: We’re not born kind or rude. We’re not locked into one category. Every day, we get to choose. We can choose compassion or contempt.

We can choose patience or petulance. We can flip someone off at a red light – or we can flip their day around with a gesture of kindness.

Kindness isn’t grand or flashy. It’s quiet, steady and deeply human. On our worst days, it’s what makes the unbearable a little more bearable.

So the next time you’re out in the world, at the vet’s office, behind the wheel, beside someone who’s grieving, remember that you get to decide.

Be the person who helps bury the dog. Be the one who calls. Be the hug. Be the excavator operator.

Because when the dust settles, kindness is what really digs deep.

Contact Sharon at tct@pageone-inc.com