Donald and the Muddy Paws

Donald came walking through the kitchen,

Head held high like nothing was wrong,

Four muddy feet, one dirty belly,

And half the backyard tagging along.

I said, "Donald… where you been?"

He looked left, then looked right.

I said, "Don’t even try it, boy—

Your feet just testified."

He looked down like he’d just noticed,

Like those paws belonged to someone else.

I said, "You gonna tell me the truth?"

He said, "Dad… looks like you already told yourself."

Oh, Donald and the muddy paws,

Leaving evidence down the hall,

You can hide behind the couch,

But them tracks are gonna tell it all.

You can blame the rain,

You can blame the yard,

You can act like you don’t have a clue—

But getting right starts getting easier

When you just tell what’s true.

I said, "Boy, honesty matters.

A lie just makes the trouble grow."

Donald cocked his head and stared at me

Like, "Dad, you sure you wanna go there, though?"

I said, "What’s that supposed to mean?"

He yawned and scratched his ear.

Then gave me that look that seemed to say,

"You humans get muddy too, from what I hear."

I said, "I ain’t tracking dirt through this house."

He looked at my boots by the door.

I said, "Donald, that is different."

He looked at the floor.

Well...

Maybe he had a point.

Donald and the muddy paws,

Leaving evidence down the hall,

You can hide behind the couch,

But them tracks are gonna tell it all.

You can blame the rain,

You can blame the yard,

You can act like you don’t have a clue—

But getting right starts getting easier

When you just tell what’s true.

Funny thing about mud—

Water washes it away.

Funny thing about truth—

Gets heavier every day you wait.

And the Master ain’t asking

’Cause He don’t know where you’ve been.

Maybe He’s standing at the doorway

Waiting for you to come clean again.

I looked at Donald.

Donald looked at me.

I said, "You understand any of this?"

He wagged his tail.

Then walked across the clean floor again.

I hollered, "DONALD!"

He froze mid-step.

I said, "We just talked about this!"

He gave me that Golden Doodle face

That says his brain had temporarily quit.

Then he walked back toward the doorway

With every muddy foot in sight.

And somehow that dumb dog reminded me:

Being caught

ain’t the same thing

as getting right.

Getting right is turning around.

Owning what you’ve done.

No excuses.

No hiding.

No running from anyone.

Donald and the muddy paws,

Yeah, the truth leaves tracks behind.

You can spend your whole life covering ’em,

Or quit wasting all that time.

Tell the truth.

Take the wash.

Let the old mess lose its hold on you.

’Cause getting right starts right here—

When you finally tell what’s true.

I said, "Donald… anything you wanna confess?"

He looked toward the living room.

I looked toward the living room.

The couch cushion was shredded.

I said, "Donald!"

He took off running.

Guess we’re still working on honesty.