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How bad or how often does someone have to screw up to make them beyond redemption? What does it take to redeem oneself after showing really bad behavior? What do these questions have to do with a dog?

After years of happy strolls through our local dog park, Minnie, our beloved Beagle/Australian Shepherd mix, reclassified small dogs as wild game. As if she had been trained for months, she'd leap out of the car, cast a quick eye across the landscape and pick out the smallest, weakest and best groomed dog to chase, terrify and pin to the ground.

"Minnie! Minnie! MINNIE!," we'd yell, my husband and I feigning expressions of surprise as if this was the very first time she'd ever shown such behavior. It made me remember the "oh dear, whatever are they thinking?" looks I'd conjure up when my toddler boys would be seen by the neighbor peeing in the bushes next to our house. "Stop it! Don't pee in the bushes!" (Why are my sons peeing in the bushes? Why is my dog eating that frou-frou dog with the bow?)

I'm the third child, not the first, so I shouldn't have this overblown sense of responsibility about everything. I should be carefree, used to being taken care of, enjoying the loveliness of low expectations and living life so clearly off the hook that nothing should bother me. That is so not the case. I worry about getting a flat tire when the tires are new, about running out of gas with a full tank and about my dog being charged with dogslaughter.

Anyway, so my husband announced yesterday that it was time to go back to the dog park. He said we needed to give Minnie a chance to be a great dog. He's very much into dogs, communicating with dogs - or so he says, seeing meaning and purpose in dogs that the rest of us don't see. He's different. He was set on our taking Minnie back to the scene of her terrible behavior. He said that we needed to give Minnie a chance to redeem herself. I was sick with worry.

"I'll stay in the car," I said, figuring it the best way to avoid the inevitable bloodshed and keep a distant perch from which to second guess and criticize after the fact.

And then it occurred to me, the path to redemption could be paved with hot dogs!

We took a class at the Humane Society once where the instructor had us cutting hot dogs into tiny pieces, stuffing them in a little pouch that we were to keep hanging from our belts (who wears a belt?) and between holding the leash and using the clicker to signal various commands, we were to dole out the hot dogs. It was nuts, requiring so much manual dexterity that I wanted to sit down and smoke a cigarette.

So we went to the grocery store where we bought the cheapest pack of hot dogs possible ($2.41), and then we drove to the dog park. Before we let Minnie out of the car, we showed her wonderment greater than any fluffy frou-frou dog with a bow. We each had a whole hot dog clutched in one fist. She took off. We called her back. Each time, she got a chunk of hot dog. Sometimes she just trotted along sniffing our hot dog hands. She'd run ahead and come back when we called. Chase a dog or two, sniff a little dog (scary!) and come barreling back down the trail when we yelled "Minnie."

I'd wave my hand in front of her nose and she trotted alongside. Honestly, I felt like Cesar Milan, the dog whisperer, but with a little hot dog crutch. Now, I want hot dogs on me all the time, wherever I go with this dog. I want permanent hot dogs in my hand, in the glove compartment, in my coat pockets, hanging in links around my neck. The hot dogs made her a perfect dog.

Is this redemption? Would we call this redemption? Maybe it comes under the category of "assisted redemption." (HDAR - Hot Dog Assisted Redemption)

All I know is nothing terrible happened. That's good enough for me.

- Jan Wilberg

Jan Wilberg writes about everything from national politics to outwitting rats in the basement with the help of her two sons. She is a mother, grandmother and a formerly hearing impaired person rejoicing in the miracle of her new cochlear implant. Her blog Red's Wrap has a tagline that says it all: Happiness. It's relative.