Dog Named Leaf (2 page)

T
HE DAY STARTED LIKE ANY OTHER DAY
. I
SAT AT MY DESK AND GAZED
at a cloudless, azure sky from my fourth-floor office window. A couple dozen seabirds swooped in unison over the flat plain of the Minnesota landscape dotted with tall city buildings and oak trees. I started to prepare for a client conference call scheduled for later that morning. I moved a small, framed photo of our dog Leaf’s face to the right corner of my desk to make room for my notes. The image of the jet-black cocker spaniel Linda and I had adopted from an animal shelter seven months prior brought a smile to my face.

The day before, Leaf and I had visited the dog park near our home. I loved seeing the joy shine in his eager eyes and his legs tremble with excitement each time I held his favorite ball in the air. When I threw it the heavens opened up for him. Over and over, he ran after the ball, and his long, floppy ears flapped in the wind. It delighted me when he rushed back to where I waited for him. He’d drop the ball at my feet, then, with his pink tongue hanging comically out of his mouth, he’d wait for the next round of play.

I had grown to appreciate every inch of Leaf’s jellyroll body. The eight-inch legs that sunk into snowdrifts. The paw he’d raise to pat my knee whenever he wanted attention. The curve of his snout, which tipped upward. The wide, black, moist, and ever-sniffing nose that gave his profile a regal bearing. The pungent odor of his perspiration. The stubby tail
that whipped in circles when he greeted my return home. The penetrating coal eyes that sparkled with personality when he’d peek at me out of the corners of his eyes or intensely examine my face for clues to my mood. All these aspects of my complex dog were becoming more welcome with each passing day.

His trust in me was not complete, though. Far from it. Even this morning he still hadn’t wanted a hug or even a pat before I left for work. The cautious and guarded way that he demanded affection only on his terms made Leaf more catlike than usual for a dog. His body stiffened if I patted his head. He flinched when I tried to approach him directly or unexpectedly.

Despite his initial distrust and fear, Leaf was taking baby steps into becoming a more reliable and fun canine companion. At times he’d plop down at my feet and take in the scenery at outdoor cafes. While driving in the car at night, sometimes I would call out, “Rabbit.” Then I’d point
out the white-tailed bunnies I saw while Leaf’s legs quivered against my shoulder.

I had left him relaxing on the couch that morning, carefully licking his furry right front paw. After the right was completely licked, he started working on the left one. I looked at him and said, “I’ll be back.” Whether he actually understood or not, he listened intently to my promise. I sensed that to a rescued dog, the intent behind my words meant a lot.

That morning, though, I wasn’t just thinking about Leaf and how he was adjusting to life with us. I was also thinking about the puzzling bouts of dizziness I’d been having for the past few weeks. A couple of times the spells were so severe that I’d had to hold onto the wall as my body involuntarily slid down to the floor. Sensations of vertigo, claustrophobia, and spinning were happening more and more frequently. I tried to brush them off as symptoms of an inner ear infection that would heal in time. But combined with a series of disturbing dreams I’d had lately about catastrophe striking, all of this made me apprehensive about my health.

When I told Linda about my concerns, she fixed on me with her blue eyes. In an unwavering voice, she insisted that I see our family doctor right away. I thought she might be overreacting, but I’ve learned during the course of our marriage that if Linda is determined that something will happen, it will happen. I knew Linda would keep asking about my dizziness until I could say, “The doctor says it’s nothing.” And so I made an appointment to see Dr. Scott.

An older, no-nonsense fellow nearing retirement, Dr. Scott listened to my symptoms and did a thorough medical checkup. He made no comment and did not flash one of his rare smiles. “I want you to see a specialist to eliminate other reasons for your symptoms,” he said. Without further explanation, he referred me to a neurologist.

The next week I went to see the neurologist, Dr. Lucas, a man in his midfifties, who sported a bushy black-and-gray mustache. He ordered an MRI-CAT scan.

That medical test was an experience I do not want to repeat—ever. My head and much of my body entered a metal tube with no more than inches of space around me. Strapped in and sweating, I felt claustrophobic. The only thing that eased my nerves was to visualize walking along an oceanfront beach with Leaf. While the loud MRI throbbed, I imagined him running in the surf, chasing birds, with no intention of catching them, and always looking back over his shoulder to make sure he didn’t stray too far from me.

As I left the hospital, I told myself that the test had only been necessary to eliminate possibilities. I was probably just having too much stress at work. The strange symptoms were a fluke. Before the MRI-CAT scan results were in, my dizziness ended as mysteriously as it had begun.

Still watching the swirl of birds in the sky and preparing for my conference call, I heard the receptionist’s phone buzz outside my door. She sent the call straight through to me, and I picked up.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. Who is this?” I asked. I assumed it was one of my clients.

“Dr. Lucas,” the voice on the phone answered. “I’m calling about your test results.”

Ah, it’s the neurologist making a courtesy call, I thought.

“Allen, we found something on your CAT scan.”

I quickly reached over from my desk chair to close the door. I grabbed the nearest pen, which happened to have red ink, and printed the name “Dr. Lucas” across my yellow notepad.

Dr. Lucas remained silent for a moment, letting his words sink in. “It appears from the CAT scan that you have an unruptured brain aneurysm.”

“Where?” I asked.

“In your
brain,
” he said, emphasizing the last word.

If it hadn’t been such a serious subject, I might have laughed.

Dr. Lucas continued somberly, “The aneurysm is located on the interior carotid artery. If you place your finger between your eyes, at the base of your forehead, it’s about one inch deep.”

I held the phone receiver with one hand and touched my forehead with the forefinger of my other hand. I quickly moved my finger away, as if I’d placed it on some odd spot where it didn’t belong.

Dr. Lucas added that I was one of the fortunate few. My aneurysm had been discovered before it ruptured.

I grasped on to the word “ruptured,” rolling it around in my mind. The doctor began talking about the aneurysm’s size, the need for more detailed tests, the percentages of fatalities (fatalities!?), strokes, and severe disabilities from ruptured aneurysms.

Dr. Lucas said that my episodes of dizziness were not a symptom of the aneurysm. He had no explanation for why the vertigo had occurred or what made it stop. But he was glad that it had prompted me to make an appointment.

My voice broke a little when I said, “Thanks for letting me know.”

“No need to panic. But this is worthy of concern,” Dr. Lucas replied.

In an instant I latched on to “worthy of concern” as my first ray of hope. Lots of things are worthy of concern. Maybe a brain aneurysm was not so serious after all. I was about to thank the nice doctor for taking time out of his busy day to chat with me. Still somewhat confused by the news, I wondered if the doctor had gotten the wrong test results. Some poor man with a brain aneurysm would not know about his fate.

I asked Dr. Lucas if there was anything else I needed to do in case the dizziness returned. He said, “Dizziness is minor and not the problem to focus on right now.” Sensing that shock had dulled my senses, he added with a more forceful voice, “Allen, this is serious. You have to take care of it!” He gave me the name of Dr. Nussbaum, an expert neurosurgeon, to call for further testing.

“I’ll call Dr. Nussbaum’s office and make an appointment,” I told him. I could hear Dr. Lucas sigh on the other end.

I placed the receiver back in its cradle and stared at the deep blue, cloudless sky. The swooping seagulls were gone. Minutes passed until I realized I needed to pull myself together and get some air.

I staggered down the hall toward the elevator. As if my body and mind were no longer connected, I slumped to the floor and wrapped my arms around my knees. The barren hallway with its subtle, printed, tan-wallpapered walls started closing in on me. All I could think of were the people I had met when I was a cop who had had brain damage caused by injuries or strokes. Many of them led miserable lives. Would my aneurysm rupture before it could be repaired? Would brain surgery leave me helpless and confused or reliant on others for daily existence? I recalled the desperate wolflike howl Leaf made whenever he was afraid. I wanted to howl too.

Images of my father began to rise to the surface. Although there were good memories of boating with him and learning photography from him, I had endured his mixture of anger and ridicule toward me. I felt that I was never all he wanted in a son. Then he’d had a massive stroke while I was serving in the Air Force. As the ambulance took him away, he whispered to my mother, “I’m not even fifty.”

For years he lived on as a severely disabled invalid in chronic pain. He needed constant care, and his anger erupted over no longer being independent. I felt sorry for him but also recoiled from his rage.

When his death neared, almost a decade later, Linda and I stood next to his hospital bed and witnessed the end of a shriveled and barely conscious man with a brain that had limited function.

Would I end up like my father? Would I become an invalid and resent having to be taken care of?

I bowed my head, covered my face with both hands, and acknowledged that my life as I knew it had ended. My body, my brain, my good
health had failed me. Furious at my brain, I could never trust it to work right again. I looked at my right hand. It trembled slightly, as my father’s had after his stroke. I began to chastise myself for being a wimp. For giving such a dramatic display in the hallway at work. I heard the elevator approaching. I’d have to pull myself up off the carpet. No one should see me like this.

S
EVEN MONTHS EARLIER
L
INDA AND
I
HAD BEEN GOING THROUGH
another ordeal: the loss of our beloved yellow Labrador retriever, Taylor. We missed hearing her paws padding along the sidewalk beside us and her tags rhythmically jingling as she trotted up and down the stairs. How I longed to have Taylor crawl like a seventy-five-pound infant onto my lap, press her head against my chest, and listen to my heartbeat. Always secure in the love of our family, she insisted on snuggling and being touched.

After the sights, sounds, and smells of Taylor faded from our home, we tentatively began discussing whether we were ready to adopt a new dog. The thought of having fur pressed against my skin once again and playful eyes pleading for me to toss a ball in the air made my heart leap with childlike expectancy. However, this anticipation was dampened by the dread of facing another loss. Dogs, with their much shorter life spans, die far too soon. I didn’t know if I could ever let myself love so fully again. Rudyard Kipling said it well: “Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware / of giving your heart to a dog to tear.”

I didn’t really want
another
dog. I wanted
Taylor.
She adored me. In her worldview I could do no wrong. Her devotion gleamed with purity, simplicity, and completeness. At times, when I needed to rest and relax from my days of travel, clients, and stress, it felt as if she was the only friend who made no demands on me and had no expectations.

After Taylor died I had come to a standstill. I missed the deep connection I felt with a dog who loved me unconditionally. But always, my next thought was to remember how devastating it is when that love goes away.

Loss had become an unwelcome presence in my personal life and writing career. During the months before and after Taylor’s death, Linda and I had written our most difficult book to date. In it we explored the subject of animal rescue. A large portion of our book focused on the tragic losses when Hurricane Katrina bore down upon the Gulf Coast.

Because it was the fifth time that year weary residents had been urged to evacuate, many believed they would be gone for a few days, return to clean up the storm’s mess, and resume life as usual. Thousands of people, with few pet-friendly hotels or homes to welcome them, had left food and water out for pets inside their homes or tethered outdoor dogs to doghouses. Consequently, the devastating hurricane had precipitated the largest animal-rescue operation in history. An estimated ten thousand volunteers and animal welfare agencies rushed to the Gulf Coast to save hundreds of thousands of pets and farm animals.

I would never be the same after chronicling the experiences and plights of good people who had endured emotional, physical, and financial pain. I admired and was inspired by those I interviewed. Talking to animal rescuers put me in the company of noble people who left their homes to save animals on the Gulf Coast, where civil unrest was the rule instead of the exception. They risked their lives and financial well-being and suffered personal losses in order to be there for the animals and their fellow human beings.

Linda and I were determined that our book would pay tribute to the sacrifices so many animal rescuers had made. There had been little recognition or praise for those who went to the front lines of a devastated area when everyone else was fleeing it. We also had a goal of compiling information and lessons learned that would prepare everyone for preventing such massive tragedies again.

While I was working on this book, I often pondered the question, “Do dogs make us better people?” After talking with rescuers and Gulf Coast residents who had waded through flooded streets, searched disease-filled houses, camped on parking lots in unsafe conditions, and spent hours on the Internet frantically trying to reunite pets who had been separated from their families, I knew the answer was a resounding “yes.”

Thoughts of Taylor and other families who had lost their beloved pets were uppermost in my mind on a crisp autumn day as Linda and I found our car heading toward a local animal shelter—just to
look
at the rescued dogs. I drove past oak and maple trees that released their multicolored leaves to carpet the stiffening cold ground. Dry, cool air, a royal-blue sky, and sunshine conspired to create a perfect day.

After Linda and I arrived at the animal shelter, I noticed that little had changed since we both volunteered there years earlier. The lobby was a mix of shelves, bins, and displays of retail pet supplies. A long, high counter dominated the entry area. Shelter staff assisted people with adoptions and pet supply purchases. Posters that hung in the background behind the counter showed images of adorable dogs and cats. They served as reminders of how joyful life would become if only people adopted the charming animals and gave them “forever homes.”

Volunteers from all walks of life waited eagerly to escort would-be adopters to visit with rescued dogs, cats, rabbits, and birds. Because we were familiar with the adoption routine and layout of the facility, Linda and I headed on our own toward the section that housed the adult dogs. Nothing had changed. I took in the familiar tiled walls, dividers, and heavily wired fences and gate in the dog area as well as the chain-link fencing.

I began to walk down the middle row of dogs. They barked or cowered in cages on both sides of the aisle. We asked a volunteer if we could spend time with two different dogs. When I tried to throw a ball for a
little retriever, he ran to the volunteer for a hug and seemed to only have eyes for her. The other dog we asked to see, a terrier mix, cowered at the end of the dog run and trembled if I approached her. I felt sorry for the dogs but was secretly relieved. The universe might be telling us it was too soon to adopt a new dog.

After we returned to the kennel for one more look around, out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed an ink spot of fur in an adjacent row. Distracted by alarm calls from energetic, confused dogs and trying to escape the innocent desperation telegraphed in their eyes, I found it easy to ignore the tiny, furry black ball.

But Linda had noticed him too. I winced when she asked me, “Did you see that little rolled-up piece of carpet over there?” By the time we walked to the dog’s kennel near the front door, the little guy was gone. “Guess someone wants to adopt him,” I said. I joined Linda at the dog’s empty cage and read his information card. In bold print it said: Abandoned.

As we started to walk away to look at other dogs, a middle-aged volunteer dog-walker returned the black cocker spaniel to his cage. Linda’s face immediately lit up. I felt my stomach clench. I wasn’t in any shape emotionally or mentally for the full-time commitment of raising a rescued dog.

At Linda’s urging I joined her to come closer to the dog who had captured her attention. His shiny, ebony coat had been groomed into the standard cocker style. The short, thick fur on his upper torso flowered into a mass of longer curls on his lower body, legs, and long ears. I whispered to Linda, “How do you think such a cute dog wound up in an animal shelter?”

I found myself focusing on the dog’s face. The curve of his snout ended in an upturned nose and the widest, blackest, gleaming canine eyes I’d ever seen. He had an innocent expression that made him extremely huggable. This dog and my wife were making an instantaneous connection. My mind scrambled to organize reasons for caution.

Linda gazed into the pup’s intelligent face and asked, “Do you want to come home with us?”

To my relief, the dog didn’t leap into my wife’s arms. Instead, he studied her face as if to say,
I’ll think about it.
Abandoned as this little guy had been, it made a lot of sense for him to be wary of entrusting his fate to humans.

Another volunteer, an amiable woman of about sixty with a name tag pinned to her navy blue apron, asked, “Would you like to know more about Harley?” Linda nodded. I stood in the background, secretly waiting for this speed date to end. I wanted to get out of there before we made a disastrous mistake.

The volunteer gazed fondly at the dog as she filled us in on his scanty history. The shelter had expanded its reach by annexing other suburban community animal shelters, which were now operating as satellites. A security camera at one of the shelter’s satellites had recorded a man and woman riding into the parking lot on a Harley-Davidson motorcycle and leaving a little cocker spaniel and another dog at the overnight drop-off
area. The facility was closed, so the staff had no background information on the orphans. The intake person named the cocker spaniel Harley because of the vehicle that had brought him to the shelter.

Before Harley left the satellite shelter, he was neutered. After recovering from surgery, he’d been placed on the kennel floor for a week. When no one adopted him, the staff decided that he might have a better chance of finding a home if he were sent to the main shelter.

“How about a private visit with Harley?” the volunteer asked. Without waiting for our answer, she expertly lassoed a blue leash around the dog’s neck. Within minutes Linda, the volunteer, Harley, and I entered a small room about the size of a walk-in closet. A wooden bench faced a glass window overlooking the hallway. This quieter environment was supposed to help people get to know an animal better, away from barking dogs and wandering onlookers.

I wondered how many others had taken the next step of bringing Harley to one of these private rooms but had decided not to adopt him. As I observed this hyper, scattered ball of energy hop around like a rabbit, I noticed a couple of kids walking past. They stopped to press their faces against the window and watch “our dog.” Yes, for a split second I felt possessive, even protective, of Harley.

From what I could tell, though, the feeling wasn’t mutual. Harley’s stump of a tail whirled as he stretched and hurled his tiny body against the windowpane in an attempt to play with the children. “Do you think he wants to be with a family that has kids?” Linda asked the volunteer. “He’s just excited,” the gray-haired woman assured her.

Harley essentially took no notice of me. I thought about the clinging, somewhat needy Taylor. I’d resolved that if we ever adopted another dog, it would be good to find one who was less attached to me. I had been Taylor’s world. Her total devotion was reassuring when I needed a creature to adore me. (Wives don’t quite fill that requirement.) But by being “my dog,” Taylor’s happiness also became my responsibility.

Harley’s initial reaction to us indicated that this dog was an individual. He did not throw himself at any person who came along. I had no doubt that the process of evaluating whether or not we were good matches for each other was a two-way street. Determined to take my time, I quietly sat and watched the dog’s actions and reactions. What would he do next?

Linda started talking softly to Harley. He gradually allowed her to gently run her hand along his back. The volunteer, as if reminding us of what a find this little guy was, said, “He is so cute. We think he’s about a year old.” To me, he looked fragile, small, and a lot younger than the shelter staff’s estimate.

Was I projecting my own broken heart onto this dog? It must have been devastating to be snatched away from everything and everyone he’d ever known. All the people, sights, sounds, and familiar surroundings of his first year of life had suddenly vanished.

I sat rigidly on the bench, watching Linda talk soothingly to the dog. “Aren’t you going to pet him?” she asked. The thought of touching Harley made me feel I was being disloyal to Taylor. Tentatively I reached down and carefully stroked the dog’s back. Harley’s body stiffened. In the next instant, he relaxed a little into my fingertips. The change was subtle. But I sensed that with the gentleness of my stroking from his forehead down his spine, something had shifted in him—and in me. Moving my hand along the pup’s sleek body, I felt our first spiritual connection as a hard lump of fear dissolved.

Harley was different from any dog I’d ever had in my life. All my other dogs were female. During our marriage neither of the two dogs Linda and I had brought into our home was older. Raised from puppyhood and knowing nothing but love, they had easily become secure pet family members. Harley was also much smaller than my other large-breed dogs. With the hope that perhaps two lonely souls had met in the journey of life, I gave myself permission to look forward to a new adventure with a new friend.