I dropped mama off at her house and logged another twenty something miles to mine. The two of us had gone to Dallas to see my sister Rhonda and watch my nephew play ball. The weekend had been good, and long. It felt good to pull in my drive. I wanted to see Phil and Dixie Belle. Dixie met me at the top of the hill. Phil met me at the door.
After thirty years, I can read the man like a book. I knew something was wrong. It was Dixie. While I was gone she’d somehow managed to get into some rat poison belonging to our neighbor. One emergency trip to the vet and several hundred dollars later, all signs were pointing to a full recovery. Phil reassured me she’d be fine, provided we gave her the three pills a day that would prevent her developing a serious blood disorder. If that happened, it could be fatal.
Phil and I said it then, and we’ve repeated it a few times since. We’re both glad he noticed the empty packaging. Had he gone hunting that afternoon without seeing it, Dixie could’ve begun bleeding internally and— well, I don’t want to think about it. Let’s change the subject.
Can I tell you that the culture we believers live in offers us deadly packages twenty-four, seven. It’s called entertainment but much of it would be more accurately called poison. Often times you can consume it without any visible signs; at least none that are immediate, but that doesn’t mean it’s not damaging your soul. That’s the bad news. The good news is the Great Physician still makes house calls. If you’ve been dining on what could be deadly, please call Him before it’s too late.