The Dog With the Old Soul (9 page)

Sue Pearson

Family and friends each wrote goodbye notes
and put them inside a grave marker, a memorial box that read Beloved Friend. One handwritten note read, “We will love you and miss you forever.” My granddaughter’s note read, “We will never forget what you did for so many, especially me. Thank you.” I tucked in a faded piece of newsprint, a story from almost a dozen years before. The first line read: “When life is moving very fast but everything seems to be in slow motion, you can be sure nothing good is happening. The events speed up the action. The fear slows it down.”

Holding the delicate newsprint in my hand, I could still see it all so clearly—Nick was still a puppy then, really—a Lab not yet two years old. Adam was the twelve-year-old friend of my son, Evan. What began as an adventure on a mountain river on a bright, warm, sunny June day was to take a sudden dark
turn. It was the day before the first day of summer and the river beckoned. I told the boys they could only go wading and only in one shallow section of the river, upstream, and only if I went with them. It was that compelling an idea to them, even if Mom had to come along, so off we all went, including Nick the dog, to sample the first of summer’s refreshments. We arrived at the spot I had dubbed “safe” and the boys proceeded to roll up the legs of their jeans. Nick splashed along the shore, enjoying the cold water rushing by but in no hurry to join the strong currents bent on finding a more tranquil home in the valley. I had taken Nick’s leash off to let him play and I stood on the shore, watching the boys and the dog.

Life couldn’t be better. Everyone was having one of those moments of simple pleasure that we look back on years later and realize was in fact a treasured memory…one of the reasons life is so sweet. The next moment Adam was joking with Evan…giving him a twelve-year-old’s challenge. “Go all the way under, Evan. I dare you!” Evan was laughing and hesitating. Suddenly it was Adam who was all the way under. He’d slipped on the rocks. He was immediately swept into the unforgiving current. In those split seconds, which have now become vivid snapshots of terror engraved in those parts of my brain reserved for life-and-death reactions, I remember thinking I was watching a tragedy unfold. I ran to the edge of the water and yelled for Adam to catch the dog leash I was about to throw. I missed. He missed. He went under water again, surfaced and looked up at me. His eyes, wild with fear, seemed to plead, “Help me!”

I saw paramedics arrive after Evan ran back to the cabin to get help from his dad. I saw them pull Adam’s lifeless body from the chilly water and work on him for an hour. I saw Evan sobbing on the shore, forever changed. I called Adam’s parents. There would be no birthday party next Saturday. Instead a funeral. I could never forgive myself for letting the boys go in the water. Adam’s loss would weigh us all down for the rest of our lives. None of us would love the little cabin in the mountains again. This landscape would be a tangle of pain and grief and sorrow.

But none of this happened. In those split seconds of heightened awareness I saw a blur of yellow fur flash by. It was Nick. He jumped in the water and swam to Adam as the current thrust the boy away. I saw Adam grab a handful of fur and skin like his life depended on it. It did. Nick never hesitated. He swam to shore, pulling Adam with him. Adam climbed out of the water, shaken and shouting at the same time, “Nick, I love you!” Nick shook himself off and casually walked over to me and sat down.

Thank you, God. And thank you, Nick—for saving us in the nick of time from a lifetime of grief, deep sorrow and regret.

My hero dog, Nick, lived to be thirteen, and not only was his a good life in the country, with ten acres to explore and rule, but it was a life full of more heroic deeds. He had that courage in his DNA. In the years after he saved Adam’s life, he was always on duty to perform more acts of courage on behalf of everyone nearby, casually nudging a toddler out of harm’s way near a bucking horse, defending a neighbor against an attack
by another dog, helping my granddaughter overcome a fear of dogs. He was most dramatically protective of me. When a visiting dog rushed me at full speed, catching me behind the knees to flip me into the air, Nick was there. I landed on a hard slate patio…heard something snap…my femur. The dog was on top of me instantly, mauling me. A snarling Nick with his hackles up bit the dog, pushed the dog away and then kept it at bay until help arrived.

As we closed the memorial box with our notes, which we’d tucked into a plastic bag to keep time and weather from destroying our tributes, we held hands and prayed at Nick’s final resting place in a sunny spot on my ranch. “We thank you for this guardian angel who saved lives, chased danger into retreat and washed away fear.”

Standing there in the sunlight now, I try to imagine what heaven is like for dogs. I know one exists, because God wouldn’t let these loyal creatures go with no reward. It must be a place with not just ten acres, but a million acres, with an eternity of holes to dig and smells to sniff. If it turns out there really are pearly gates to heaven, I see Nick waiting there for me, leash in his mouth, looking forward to another long walk.

Chris Fowler (Roller Derby name: Cherry Madness)

It was a Wednesday, a chilly October afternoon,
as I worked quickly to unload supplies in a pre-WWII warehouse in downtown Sacramento. This cold warehouse with redbrick and lead-lined walls is the proud home of my team, the Sacred City Derby Girls, a women’s flat-track Roller Derby league. It is said to have originally been a WWII ammunition storage facility, then a candy factory sometime in the sixties. Its history is then lost for a few decades. After several years of neglect it was home to a “bounce house turned rave nightclub” venue. We acquired it at an auto auction a few years ago and now
had a training ground for a team exuding feminine strength and endurance, a team of derby girls. On this blustery fall day, three members of Sacred City were brought to a stiff standstill with the softest “meew” from inside the walls.

“Stop!” I suddenly yelled to my husband, Clayton. He was affectionately known within our derby world as Mr. Madness. My friend Michelle stopped, too. She skated under the handle “Her Meechness.” She had these amazing, long, strong legs that made her an asset to our team. They both froze, looking at me to figure out what I wanted. “Did you hear that?” I whispered.

“Meew.”

There it was! Oh, it was so small. That was the precious, squeaky sound of a newborn cat. We moved softly to the east wall of our building and waited for one more.

“Meew.”

There it was again, the sound of a tiny new kitten, coming through the half-a-century-old brick and mortar. We stopped unloading the truck and instantly became a Roller Derby kitty rescue team. This kitty needed our help. As the team medic, that is what I do—I respond to those who need me, whether on the track or, now, in the alley.

But where exactly was this cat? In the wall? Yes, and we were on the other side of the wall, separated by a long enclosed alley. To get there we’d have to move a gigantic sliding steel door that had come off its rusty old track. It took all three of us to muscle that heavy steel door open enough for one of us to slide through. It made a horrible scraping noise on the concrete floor. We stopped. There was silence.

“Meew.”

It was still there! Slightly louder now, letting us know of its whereabouts. I slid through and was in the alley, surrounded by almost pitch blackness at first. My eyes adjusted. I felt along the cobweb-covered wall. There were no lights. The dim afternoon haze thru the cracks in the roofline was no help.

There were two white, midsize industrial trucks parked in the alley. They came into view quickly and I recognized them as belonging to our neighboring business. It was a tight fit, a shimmy to squeeze by, and I got dusty webs on my clothes as I brushed against the wall. I could hear Michelle as she was sliding along the same wall, following me on this rescue mission.

We had not heard a sound for a few minutes. I made my way down the alley, softly calling out, “Kitty, kitty, kitty.” I hoped we weren’t too late…. Finally, there it was. One final sound was all we needed to locate our target.

“Meew.”

Just behind an oddly shaped alcove in the alley was a very slight, very hungry jet-black kitten. As I later discovered, a girl. She seemed hesitant to emerge from the wall, but she was curious. She did not object as I reached into the wall for her. She was so small. She looked at me with her green eyes. I might have been the first human she’d ever seen.

I snuggled her against my shirt. We shimmied our way back down the alley to the steel door and slid through. Once back in the well-lit warehouse, we did a full survey. She was darling. There were no apparent injuries, but yes, a flea or two. And now that she’d been rescued, she would not stop talking.

“Meew, meew, meew, meew!”

It was a constant flow of sound, like an infant’s attempt at communicating. It was as if the kitten was saying, “This baby needs to be fed and bathed! Prompt attention please!”

Scrambling around the warehouse and rummaging through our cars, we found a few things. Kitty was placed in a cardboard box with a soft blanket and some water. The water spilled within moments as she wanted to leap and jump and play. She was so small, we were afraid she would get wedged in another nook in the warehouse. So we closed the box and watched it hippity-hop around the floor as she objected to her confinement.

We’d all planned to work on the building that afternoon, but now those plans were canceled. I loaded up our impatient orphan and took her home. Once she was bathed and cleaned up, she settled right in with a litter box and some food. It was time to search for a loving family. I love cats, but I already had two. A third addition was not a wise option. Someone else would have to be persuaded to take this kitty in.

I thought of a solution. Another Roller Derby girl, Tiffany, with raven-black hair and the skate name Pink Devil, had a penchant for wayward animals. A dog with one ear and a kitten with one eye were just two of now five animals that shared her home. Maybe she needed a tiny black kitten…. I convinced her to come over for a visit. I was certain if I could just get her to meet this little wallflower, she would be smitten. Unfairly, I cajoled her with text message pictures and tales of the kitten’s rescue.

She responded quickly, and soon enough we were all three sitting on the floor of the garage. I watched Tiffany and the new
kitten interact. She’d recently lost a beloved pet, and it was clear she was quite taken with the midnight-colored feline. Our gentle little rescue walked over to her adoptive mom and climbed into her lap, snuggling into the folds of her skirt. I described her rescue from the wall the day before, and Tiffany nodded in approval as I detailed how we had all moved the steel door together. She stroked the kitten as I talked.

“So,” I asked gently, hoping to seal the deal, “what do you want to name her?”

“Well, it is October,” she said. “She is black as night. Her day of rescue is very fitting. We shall call her Wednesday.”

As Told to Morton Rumberg

This is the story of Hammer.
He was unconscious when I met him for the first time. Our animal control officer had seized five pit bulls, charging their owner with being an unfit caretaker and with cruelty to animals. The house they lived in had been condemned because of accumulated filth, debris and fecal matter. The animal control officer took the dogs to a veterinarian for examination. Four were young dogs: one young male, a breeding female and two young females. They were moderately to severely underweight, filthy, and infested with fleas, hookworms and whipworms. The male had numerous bite scars, especially on his legs and head, but all the dogs were friendly and surprisingly trusting. And then there was Hammer.

Hammer was attached to a short, thick chain that could easily be used to tow a truck. The chain weighed twenty-seven pounds. The spike anchoring the chain to the ground weighed
another ten pounds. Hammer was the guard dog, the fierce protector of the only home he knew. The owner said that he had to keep Hammer chained because he was so aggressive. Hammer had to be tranquilized to enable the veterinarian to examine him safely.

Hammer was a pit bull; a large, full-grown, heavy-boned dog, but he weighed only fifty pounds. Every part of his body was witness to the hell his life had been. The details were grim. He was emaciated—every rib, every bone in his spine was clearly visible. Bite scars were visible all over his body. His ears, severely cut in the “fighting crop,” were swollen, inflamed and badly infected. A fist-sized growth, probably an untreated tumor, protruded from his side, and several smaller tumors were located elsewhere on his body, including in his groin area. He had an open abscess on his front leg.

His entire abdominal area was blackened from a long-term, untreated bacterial infection. His neck and throat were raw, inflamed and infected from pulling against the chain. He had an unforgettable rank odor of filth and infection. His canine teeth were broken, and all his other teeth were worn down almost to the gums, probably from chewing on the chain. It was impossible to estimate his age, given the condition of his teeth and his overall physical condition. He could be anywhere from five to fifteen years of age. That was Hammer.

Their veterinary exams completed, the dogs arrived at the shelter. I carried Hammer, still unconscious, to a run that I’d padded with blankets to keep him from hurting himself when he awoke from the tranquilizer. Through that long evening the
youngsters were photographed, vaccinated, dewormed, bathed and dipped. They accepted it all trustingly. And then there was Hammer.

The shelter staff checked on him often as he began to wake up. He followed our every move, as if he was trying to understand what was happening. Finally, we finished our initial care for the youngsters, but we hadn’t vaccinated Hammer. Even the friendliest dogs can be unpredictable as they’re waking from anesthesia. Common sense said to forget it, and just leave him alone, but that was not our way. One staff member held Hammer’s head in a bear hug while another vaccinated him. He barely struggled and we began to wonder how vicious he really was.

Our animal control officers, the veterinarians and the Commonwealth attorney did an outstanding job putting the case together against the dogs’ owner. The court upheld our petition to have the owner declared unfit to provide proper care for the dogs, and awarded their custody to the animal shelter. A few weeks later, in criminal court, the owner entered a plea of guilty to the charge of animal cruelty. But the wheels of justice moved slowly and the dogs would be with us until the case was finally closed.

Meanwhile, at the shelter the dogs had been put on a special feeding regimen for malnutrition. Hammer’s food was laced with antibiotics for his many infections. All five dogs gained weight steadily and their condition visibly improved from day to day. The youngsters were friendly with everyone on staff. And then there was Hammer.

Hammer would jump on his cage door as people approached, barking with his distinctive deep, yet hoarse voice. He used his food and water bowls as Frisbees, shaking and tossing them around. We gave him heavy, tip-proof water and food bowls and a thick rope toy to shake. He demolished the frame of his metal dog door one day by constantly barreling into it. He didn’t want to stay outside during inside cleanup or be inside when we cleaned the outside. His weight and his strength improved daily, but his ears needed topical medication on a regular basis and his skin needed medicated baths. He still smelled horribly.

As lead officer for Hammer, I visited him after hours, when the shelter was quiet, plied him with dog biscuits and talked to him, trying to earn his trust one step at a time. It took a while, but I finally was able to pet him through the bars, then enter the kennel with him and finally medicate his ears. He began to trust me and it was a wonderful feeling.

One night I put a slip lead around his neck and led him through the empty shelter to the grooming room. I invited him to jump in the tub. He had no idea what to expect. The next step could be dangerous. I reached under him to pick him up. Would he let me? We were both surprised it went so smoothly when I placed him in the tub. He looked very warily at me when I turned on the hose, but he let the warm water cascade over him. Owners sometimes encouraged aggression by turning a hose on their dogs, so I was alert to any sudden move he might make, but he put up with it. Perhaps he understood I was trying to help him. He grunted and groaned with delight as he was lathered and massaged, turning different parts of his
body toward me for more massaging. The next thing I knew, his huge front paws were on my shoulders and this fierce guard dog was giving me sloppy doggy kisses. I had a new friend named Hammer.

One by one he learned to know and trust several other staff members. We gave each of the pit bull youngsters big rawhide bones. They devoured them in record time. Hammer’s teeth were so worn down that he couldn’t really chew his, but he loved to carry it around. We began taking him to our fenced exercise area after hours. At first he’d run a few feet and stop, expecting to be jerked back by his chain. Little by little he began to explore and leap and run. When we called him, he would run to us for belly rubs, rolling in the grass on his back, giving us big openmouthed groans of pleasure. He didn’t know how to fetch or play with toys, but he loved the attention and the freedom. He continued to gain weight, soon weighing in at sixty-two pounds, with no protruding bones and a shining coat. He was enjoying his new life.

Too soon the final date for the owner to appeal the court ruling arrived. The following day we held Hammer’s head tenderly while we euthanized him—his story could end no other way. He was what he was: a large, powerful dog who had been taught to fight other dogs and distrust people. This disqualified him from ever being adopted. At the shelter we had a friend named Hammer. We’re proud that we were able to let him know love and trust and simply enjoy being a dog, if only for a short time. We’re proud, too, of our other animals, the ones adopted by loving families.

This is what we do. Everyone who works at an animal shelter has stories like Hammer’s. Our work may not be understood or appreciated. We do it for the animals because we are all they have. We take them in, give them food, a clean place to live and medical care when they need it. We try to place them with people who have a lifetime of love and care to give. We enjoy them for the time we have with them, and when we say goodbye, whatever the circumstances, we say it with love. We may never change the system or society or the world, but if we continue to care and to take pride in what we do, we
can
make a difference—one day, one animal, one life at a time.