The Barkangel Gabriel

Hi, I'm Jared, and this is my German Shepherd Dog, Gabriel.

Gabe is just a normal German Shepherd—he loves people and kids, he gets along with other animals, he's saved three lives, stopped a house from burning down, he's afraid of pink float tubes for small children, he loves everything about life, and he is, in a way that you are about to read, my little brother.

In Gabe's life, two people have tried to kill him for no reason other than horrible people like to destroy beautiful things. Those people don't matter though, and neither do the thousands of hours I spent rehabilitating him or the 51 times I donated my blood plasma in 191 days to make ends meet, and so that I could manage a schedule that allowed me to work full-time, rehabilitate him, and pay his bills don't matter—those monsters lost and Gabe won, and that's all that will ever matter.

But now Gabe has two more monsters after him: two tumors that his vet found at his yearly exam on July 10th. One is severe but operable, and he will be having it removed on August 21st, but the other is in his neck, beneath his thick fur and muscle, which is how it went unnoticed until it was as big as a lemon. It may or may not be malignant, but it is inoperable, and as a college student in my final, tenth-straight quarter, the care he has needed up to this point has depleted me financially, and paying for his surgery is not something I can do without help.

Gabe has enough stories to fill a library, and one day they will. But, for now, I'll just share one that I wrote a few years ago when I needed him the most, and he, just like my dad told me, was there for me. It's just one example of how intuitive and special he is.

*****

I took a day trip one time with my dad and his German Shepherd, Gabriel, to a buffalo farm just outside Kalispell, Montana.

This was in early January 2016, and anyone that has ever been to Montana during winter knows how it takes just seconds for the cold to seep into the marrow in your bones.

Somewhere along the way, right off Highway 93, at a roadside diner that seated maybe 20 people, I had the best tuna melt of my life, and as we continued to the buffalo farm, we passed through a town called St. Ignatius.

"Pull off here,” my dad told me.

I looked around and saw nothing but an unremarkable, sleepy town.

"Why?" I questioned.

"Just pull off.”

I obliged.

We drove about a block, then he pointed to the right and said, "Turn in here."

It was then that I realized we were pulling into a church parking lot.

Oh great, I thought. Here comes another find-your-faith talk.

I did not want to get out of the car, but under the influence of his bright, coaxing smile, and matching, jaundiced eyes, I reached into the back seat and scratched Gabe under his chin,

told him to wait there, and be a good boy, then I stepped out into the wind.

"You know that if I step inside this place I'll burst into flames, right?" I said, pulling my collar up.

He grinned. "You're a real punk—you know that, right?"

“Like father, like son,” I retorted.

He scoffed, laughed, and shook his head, then turned and walked toward the church.

It is a wonder that we never came to blows, but we were always too smart to need small

miracles.

I followed him up the steps and in through the solid wood doors, through the vestibule,

and into what can only be described as a work of art.

The pews had been cast aside for some sort of maintenance, but my dad found a place to sit anyway and, while he prayed, I walked around and admired the century-old paintings.

A few minutes later, a man entered through one of the pulpit doors. He was wearing coveralls and work boots. He was older, and he looked tired, but he smiled at us just the same, then started moving the pews back into place.

Pews are massive, heavy, and awkward; I cannot stand to watch people struggle while I stand idle, and neither could my dad.

My dad and I looked at the man, at each other, then back at the man.

"Let us help you," my dad insisted.

For the next ten minutes, we set about moving and aligning pews under the direction of

this stranger and, when we were done, the man left through the same pulpit door with just a few

words of thanks.

We were alone again. You could hear a feather hit the floor.

He sat down on a pew, and I found a place next to him.

"Look up," he said.

I looked up to see one of the dozens of impressive murals adorning the ceiling.

"That's Archangel Gabriel,” he told me. “God's messenger to man.”

I took in the mural.

"Archangels are busy folks," he continued. "They only come to you when you need them

the most. And when they do, you better listen to them."

My dad died not long after that and his archangel became mine, and he has since carried

me through some of the darkest moments of my life.

And tonight, as I sat feeling sorry for myself, with a head full of bad and a heart full of

hurt, that archangel jumped up on the couch next to me. He lay with his head in my lap, then

rolled onto his back and looked up at me with his amber eyes overflowing with love and hope

and shining a light on the promise of a better tomorrow.

I better listen to him.

*****

This is who our father was and what he did for a living. After he retired, he promised to never train a dog in such ways again. He kept that promise, and Gabe is evidence of that.

Gabe of on IG (@gsd_gabers) and YouTube (@TheBarkangelGabriel