It was one of those rare days for early April in Wisconsin - warm temperature, the sun shining brightly in an almost cloudless sky--the kind of day that draws children outdoors to play, reluctant to ever go inside, wringing every minute from the fading daylight.  But up and down the block and around the cul-de-sac, not a child was to be found.  They were in Pickett's bathroom where Molly was giving birth to her pups. They watched attentively as each pup was delivered. Molly's "mom," Sandra Pickett, a nurse by profession, stood by, ready to help in an emergency, but Molly instinctively knew what to do. She licked each pup clean as it emerged, anxiously but skillfullyattending to each of her six tiny bundles. As she bathed each one with her tongue, that pup would begin to move--slowly at first, eyes still shut, but beginning to find its way in the world. Now, the Picketts had not believed us when we told them that our dog Snuffy was the father. After all, he was 17, lame, blind, and nearly deaf, but they had not been around when Molly came calling at our house. They had not witnessed the amazing transformation that took place in Snuffy when Molly came by. They had not seen him leap to his feet and run to the door, feet sliding out from under him when he hit the kitchen linoleum, barking all the way. One time, Molly came over at 3:00 in the morning. Snuffy, who slept under our bed at night, leaped up hitting his head on our bed frame with a loud clunk. Undeterred, he raced for the door, barking at the top of his lungs. The Picketts thought he was too old to father Molly's brood, but when they took one look at her babies, they knew. Molly, you see, is a beautiful snow white cocker bichon.  Snuffy, on the other hand, was a scruffy-looking "Heinz 57 variety"-type dog with a distinctive dark patch on his head. The pups inherited that patch. It was, as they say, a dead give away. In his 17th year of life, Snuffy had produced heirs. As the "grandparents" of his offspring, we were offered one of the puppies, a male. We named him "Snickers." He inherited the best traits from his parents. He is outgoing, friendly, and curious about things like his father and he has his mother's sweet disposition. Snickers quickly won a place in our hearts and, with his enthusiasm and zest for life, he helped us through our time of grief when Snuffy passed away later that year. We promised our children $5.00 for each trick they taught Snickers. Our daughter Jessica taught Snickers to pray. That makes sense. I am a minister, which makes Snickers a "PD," short for "preacher's dog." The trick is simple. Jessica gives the command, "Pray," and Snickers sits up on his haunches and holds both paws together in a prayer-like pose His fame as a praying dog has spread far and wide. One time, we were sitting outside on the patio with Snickers when the neighbor children brought their guests over and said, "Our cousins from Florida want to see your dog. They have never seen a dog pray." In our household we have several ironclad rules for mealtime-no television, no reading, no Nintendo, and absolutely no feeding the dog at the table. This last rule stood for twenty years at our house, strongly enforced by my wife. Then, one evening as we were eating the last bites of our supper, Snickers went to the side of Linda's chair, sat up on his haunches and held his paws in prayer. He looked so cute that, well you can imagine the rest. As a result, we can expect Snickers to show up for every meal. He has the uncanny sense of knowing when the meal is winding down and Linda has a few scraps left for him. Unhesitatingly, Snickers assumes his favorite position by her chair, even resorting to barking if she does not respond quickly enough. Snickers never gives up. If Linda doesn't give him something at one meal, Snickers will be back at the next. He has this feeling that the worst that can happen is that Linda will say, "No." Snickers never hesitates to pray because he knows that we will always respond to him out of love whether we say "yes," "no," or "not now." Isn't that something we can learn from Snickers' prayers for our own praying? --John Gugel