Until recently, I pedaled.
I pedaled a lot. Almost every morning
I pedaled my trusty, (but admittedly slow) bicycle down the area sidewalks and
along a nearby four lane highway. At 10 miles a day, in the course of five
years, I amassed an amazing 12,650 miles. (More than halfway around the world).
However, during that time period, I accumulated five (count ‘em 5) “Peter Pans;”
off the front of my two-wheeled conveyance. (While that works out to only one
“spread eagle” every 2500 miles, and some might consider this a rather
commendable record, asphalt and sidewalks are unforgiving and can definitely
mess you up).
As a result, I have recently resorted
to walking.
But to regress a bit.
While I was riding, (rather than
walking) I experienced a host of, well, experiences of which I have previously
written. However, upon examining that particular journal this morning, I
realized I had left something out.
As a result, I intend to address that
oversight at this time.
I suppose the year was 2015, possibly
2016, and I was engaged in my usual 4am routine of pedaling my bicycle along a
busy thoroughfare near my house. As I was nearing the completion of my ten mile
ride, and within half a mile of my house, I slowed to examine a small form to
my right. And since it was rather dark at that time of the morning, it was
impossible to determine exactly what I was looking at, ‘til I slowed to a stop.
And with this, these two eyes of mine
and the brain behind them understood a living, breathing creature lay just feet
from my bicycle. As close as I was now, I discerned an emaciated mini-Doberman
tied to a lightpole.
Pt. 2
Given the general state of the poor
creature’s health, I admit not having used the slightest of caution, as I
reached out to stroke the head of the pitiful dog. However, as my hand neared
the tiny Doberman’s snout, she drew back in fear, and cowered as far from me as
her bonds allowed.
Although, I already owned my
perfunctory one small dog, I wasn’t about to leave the emaciated pup tied to
that lamppost. That simply wasn’t gonna happen. Reaching out again, I took the
little canine in my arms, and proceeded to untie her from the pole; leaving the
tattered rope affixed to her neck.
This time around, the emaciated
creature cooperated. Sensing my goodwill, she more than cooperated. And little
Tramp, (for this is the name I subsequently bestowed upon her) suddenly rested
her head against my shoulder. As I began to walk, I attempted to hold the ten
or twelve pound vagabond under one arm, and push my bicycle with the other. As
I crossed the four lane road, and entered Shadow Wood Lane, the street upon
which I reside, the operation was becoming a bit tedious.
Having had a few minutes to
contemplate the status of the dog, I surmised that Tramp had once been tied up
in someone’s yard, had managed to break loose, and had roamed the countryside
for days, and perhaps weeks, without the benefit of much food and water;
dragging its old rope behind her. Apparently, someone had crossed the pathway
of little Tramp that very morning, and given his or her inability or
unwillingness to take her in had tied her to the lamppost; expecting that someone
would rescue her; once the sun lit up the environment which surrounded her.
By now, holding a dog under one arm,
and pushing my bicycle with the other was becoming a bit cumbersome, and I bent
to put her down on the pavement; intending to lead the pooch along with her
makeshift leash. Well, I can tell you Tramp would simply not tolerate what,
otherwise, would have been a logical way to address our joint dilemma.
Pt. 3
And, as her feet touched the asphalt,
my newfound canine friend threw her front legs up against my left shin, and
attempted to clamor up my leg, and “would not be denied.” And I thought, (and
may have said aloud), “As hesitant as you were to trust me when I first tried
to pet you, you certainly have changed your tune.”
With this, I once again lifted Tramp
into my arms, and proceeded to replicate my rather unsteady “walk and roll,”
and we negotiated the ten minutes which still separated us from our quest.
Odd, how quickly the emaciated,
possibly abused animal had invested trust in this creature who had appeared in
the ethereal darkness of the morning, and who was easily twenty times her own
stature and weight. However, it occurred to me that had she the ability to
think properly about the scenario, (and perhaps she did) she might have
reflected,
“Well, there just ain’t no future lying
next to a lamppost in the dark with no food and no water. What, after all, do I
have to lose by going with this stranger?”
I could see my porchlight now, and now
we walked up the incline of my driveway. Parking my bicycle under the overhang,
I pulled the key from my pants pocket, opened the door, and strolled in with
the hapless, little pooch.
I could easily count every rib on the
pitiful mini-Dob’s dark, furry frame. She was pitiful to behold. Whereas, feral
cats often negotiate their environment, while eating lizards, and frogs, and
other vermin, the vast majority of dogs begin to lose weight, and unless they
are rescued in fairly short order succumb to the elements.
Pt. 4
As Tramp and I walked into the living
room, I grabbed one of Queenie’s two dog beds, laid the former of the two in
it, covered her with a towel, and momentarily stroked her head; while
whispering some long-forgotten words in her ear.
With this, I grabbed a pack of Caesar
dogfood from the box on the counter, tore off the paper cover, dropped it in a
bowl, mashed it up, and set it on the floor in the kitchen. It is a foregone
conclusion, I didn’t have to beg poor Tramp to partake of the dearly departed
bovine. She was out of the dog bed, and into the bowl before I could ask the
rhetorical question,
“So, are you hungry?”
(She was).
As the skinny pooch quickly devoured my
fleshy offering, I added some water to Queenie’s bowl, and the unfortunate dog
greedily alternated between the two receptacles; ‘til her filet minion flavored
breakfast was gone, and the water bowl was sufficiently emptied.
And as I have previously inferred, as
cute as this little tyke was, and as much as I was naturally inclined to keep
her, my steadfast rule was, is and always will be, “One dog at a time;” (and a
small one at that). And with this, I checked the internet for a phone number, picked
up my cell phone, called animal control, made a report, and requested the
assistance of one of their officers. The phone attendant informed me that
someone would stop by in the next few hours.
However, in the meantime…
I happened to spend a few minutes on
my social media page, and as I scrolled down the homepage, I ran across a
familiar post. Erika, a friend from church, had written some non-descript
something in the past couple of hours, and seeing her name and post, I
remembered that,
…Erika and Bill operated a no-kill
animal shelter. Having recalled this rather important tidbit, I thought,
“Well now, that’s a ‘big duh’” (and)
“Why didn’t I think of this before now?”
Pt. 5
Dear readers, I lost no time in clicking
on my social media message feature, and typing out a message to Erika; (hoping
by this time, about 6am, she was awake). At approx. 100 wpm, I relayed the
information to her.
I had found this pitiful creature tied
to a lamppost in the wee hours of the morning, had brought it home, had fed her,
had contacted animal control, but could she find it in her heart to give her a
chance; which she might not receive at the county dog pound. (I recently read
that 4,000 dogs are euthanized on a daily basis in this country).
As it fell together, Erika responded
immediately, and asked me about the breed, gender and general condition of the
animal. She, subsequently, asked if I could forward a photo of the mini-Dob to
her. However, given my lack of understanding about such things, (and my use of
a flip phone, rather than a smart phone) I responded in the ‘negatory.’
Ultimately, Erika agreed to accept the
pooch, and meet me later that day to retrieve her. As a result, I once again
dialed animal control, reported the change of plans, and asked their officer to
“stand down.”
About this time, my wife woke up and
spotting a hither unknown pooch lying on one of Queenie’s doggie beds asked,
“what in the world was going on.” I recounted my convoluted story of the
previous morning, and promised the emaciated little pooch would be transferred
to Erika’s care in the coming hours. (Suffice it to say that Jean is just as
keen on “the one dog at a time rule,” as I am).
Ultimately, I found my way to our
appointed meeting place, stepped out of the car, gently placed Tramp in Erika’s
outstretched arms, shared a few parting words with my momentary furry friend,
thanked my human friend, and “left them to their own devices.”
Afterward
Over the next few months, I “kept up
with” Tramp’s progress; at least from a distance. Bill and Erika referred to
the little pooch as, “Lizzie,” but my only concern that she was alive and well,
and gaining weight; which she proceeded to do, and plenty of it.
Eventually, the former “Tramp,” turned
“Lizzie” was adopted out to someone whom I’d once met, and with whom I’d
briefly interacted. However, as I understand it, that particular placement
didn’t go well, and the lady, ultimately, decided to do what I had almost done.
She drove the helpless, hapless pooch to animal control, surrendered the
animal, turned on her heels and drove away.
In the meantime, Erika became aware of
this latest development, set a course to animal control, explained the
situation to the attendant, paid the required fee,
…and transported Lizzie back to her
furever home.
By William McDonald, PhD. From "Animal Stories." Copyright 2017.
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