It was a Saturday, some time in the last half of the 1800s, the famous London preacher by the name of Charles Spurgeon was walking through his garden thinking about his sermon for the next day when he encountered a dog digging among his flowers. I’ll let Spurgeon tell you what happened:
“There was a dog which was in the habit of coming through the fence, and scratching in my flower-beds, to the manifest spoiling of the gardener’s toil and temper. (One afternoon) I saw the four-footed creature — rather a scurvy specimen — and having a walking-stick in my hand, I threw it at him with all my might, at the same time giving him some good advice about going home.
“Now, what should my canine friend do but turn around, pick up the stick in his mouth, and bring it, and lay it down at my feet, wagging his tail all the while in expectation of my thanks and kind words? Of course, you do not suppose that I kicked him or threw the stick at him any more. I felt quite ashamed of myself, and I told him that he was welcome to stay as long as he liked and to come as often as he pleased.”
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