The other day when I parked my Subaru Outback — affectionately named The Millennium Subaru — at work, I opened the door carefully. The adjacent vehicle had all its windows cracked open, and a German Shepherd assessed me from within.

I was no immediate threat, still on the good side of doggo life — or as I’ve come to call it, K-9 Karma.

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The Business End

But I didn’t start there.
I started on the business end of Canine Karma.

One of the few ways to make money as a 13-year-old in Mountlake Terrace, Washington, was with a paper route. I delivered The Enterprise, a biweekly newspaper, and part of my duties was to collect donations for the month’s service. One particular house stood out — a high fence, a narrow path, and a screen-door-over-glass-door setup leading to a large wooden door.

A little old lady lived there with a German Shepherd who didn’t like anyone, least of all me.

One day when I came to collect, she couldn’t hold him back. He busted through the screen door and latched onto my leg, biting dangerously close to my groin. Instinct took over — I swung the rolled-up newspaper at his head, meaning only to swat, but my knuckles connected hard. He released his grip, and I bolted for my bike.

At home, my dad saw the torn pants and the bite mark. Furious, he grabbed his .30-06 rifle, tossed it into the car, and demanded I show him the house. He wanted to put the dog down himself. Cooler heads prevailed only because I convinced him not to.

From that day forward, dogs and I had an unspoken understanding: they didn’t like me, and I didn’t blame them. The scar on my leg faded, but the invisible one lingered — dogs could smell “the bad guy,” and somehow, that was me.

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MAX-imizing My Chances

Year after year, that uneasy pattern held. Any time I was near a dog — whether with friends, family, or girlfriends — they’d growl, bristle, or back away. It broke my heart. I’m a good guy, but they didn’t see it.

Then came 2003. My wife at the time, Charlene, mentioned to a coworker that I could dog-sit since I was unemployed in the wake of the 9/11 attacks. “You’re doing nothing anyway,” she said — voluntold into caring for a creature that probably wouldn’t like me.

The dog’s name was Max, an Australian Sheep Dog. And I realized this might be my Heavenly Mother’s chance to redeem myself with the Canine Community.

It was supposed to be a one-week gig. At night, Max was kenneled in the basement — a cold, lifeless space where his whimpers echoed through the house. After a couple of nights, I couldn’t take it. I grabbed a pillow and blanket, crept downstairs after Charlene had fallen asleep, and lay down beside his kennel. He settled almost immediately and drifted off.

In the mornings, while Charlene went to work, I took care of Max. Walks meant he dragged me more than I led him. I picked up poop with HOA-mandated plastic bags. I fed him, talked to him, endured his random leg-humping while I filled out job applications online.

And through all of it — not a single complaint. Not out loud. Not even in my head. I knew God, Mom, and the Lord of Dogs were watching. I was patient, gentle, and steady. It felt like an atonement in motion.

At the end of the week, Max was picked up. No fanfare, no thanks. Just gone. But something in me knew the trial was over — my canine karma had been reset.

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The Moment of Truth

Years later, when we lived in Bothell’s May’s Pond community, we often shopped at the Lynnwood Walmart — Wally World, as locals called it. Parking lots there were a gallery of lifted trucks, each with a dog waiting inside, panting behind cracked windows.

Every time I passed one, the pattern repeated: barking, growling, leashes pulled taut. The allergy to pet dander didn’t help, either. It was like a cosmic reminder that I was still on probation with the dog world.

Then one quiet Sunday, Charlene and I drove her red Kia Sephia to Wally World. We parked far out in the “South 40.” As we walked past a lifted, midnight-black pickup with chrome toolboxes, a pit bull’s head shot up like a Jack-in-the-Box. It startled both of us.

The dog locked eyes with me. I froze. Time slowed. He sniffed once, twice… and then did nothing. No growl. No bark. Just calm.

He lowered his head again like Cerberus at rest.
Charlene and I looked at each other, stunned.

Did that just happen? Had my Canine Karma finally shifted to good? Was this the moment of peace after decades of tension?

The answer’s in the question.

And by virtue of my quiet encounter with a German Shepherd yesterday — the one who judged me and found me harmless — I’d say yes. My atonement was complete.