Charlie belonged to us all

The following excerpt was part of the trial that coined the phrase, "a dog is a man's best friend," and happened in 1870 in Warrensburg, MO when Charles Burden sued Leonidas Hornsby, neighbor farmers, over the shooting of Old Drum, Burden's dog:

"Gentlemen of the jury, a man's dog stands by him in prosperity and poverty, in health and sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, where the wintry winds blow, and the snow drives fiercely, if only he can be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer; he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounter with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert, he remains. When riches take wings and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens," orated George Graham Vest.

Today, I learned that no dog is singly part of one man's life.  Though an individual man's dog represents solidarity and keenness to his master, when the dog becomes injured and his master is no where to be found, it is up to you and I to take charge, helping him.  

As Ted and I drove back from our leisure day in Eastern Washington, we meandered through valleys and by rivers, gaped at the sun in awe, hoping it arrives sooner than later in the Western part of the state.  We stopped at a state park wherein Ted remembered days of youth with his father, for taffy at a roadside shop where we watched mom and dad coral 6 baby geese, and to peruse an antique store where we found the perfect little mirror for just $19.  Had we altered any part of our day, had we not stopped for this or that, had we not walked down by the river with the pups, we would not have seen or witnessed what we had when we had.

We had reached the middle of the town of Gold Bar on the way back from Leavenworth when Ted saw a black and white dog running full speed into an intersection from the river side of the road.  In his mind, he was waiting to see him come out the other side of that intersection, but as soon as the car ahead of us turned right, the dog was revealed, stopped and lying in the very center of the road.  His head lifted two or three times and then no more.  "Pull over!" I shouted.  The door was open and I was out before the truck had completely stopped.  Quickly, but admittedly not too securely, I had checked to see if any cars were coming and in a split second, they all looked to be stopped, so I went out into the intersection to help the poor critter in whatever capacity I was able.  

Meanwhile and still inside the truck, Ted had been cursing me as he slammed on the brakes, and before pulling the emergency break.  He was now scared for me, and not just the dog.  Ted quickly hopped out to follow me.  Though the doors were all shut, the truck was still running and unlocked, blocking all traffic from turning right as we both knelt in front of an unconscious, choking dog.  We had become part of the scene.  Bright pink pulmonary blood was leaking from the dog's mouth as he gasped for air, his eyes were rolled back into his head, and he was not responding. The fate of this poor dog was apparent.

I suppose I had wished for a pistol, quickly hearkening back to the childhood days when my dad would put a deer from its misery after it had been hit by a car.  It seems odd to say it, and for many to hear it, but allowing suffering is far more cruel and lingering than something instant and loud.  Ted, thought to himself, I am going to give these people nightmares if I billy-club him.  Neither were things we could do--or wanted to do, but they were panicked thoughts on how to quickly put a dog from his pain and agony.  Then someone shouted that there was a Veterinary office just a few blocks away.

We were both knelt down beside him.  Ted felt for a reaction--"Pain always elicits something," he said, and rather than let him die in the center of a roadway or wait for a policeman, Ted scooped up this boy and was off, carrying him to the Veterinary Clinic, clinging tightly to the furry mass while I hopped in the truck to follow and to secure our two boys.  The E-brake was still engaged as I drove, but I didn't realize that until I went to pull it to park.  


People kept asking Ted if he had been the one to hit this dog, and when he said he had not, they asked who had.  "It doesn't matter now," Ted responded.  A strange woman walked with Ted, guiding him to the Veterinarian's office.  Ted's arm had gone numb, and the poor pup's head had gone from limp, to just hanging there--lifeless.  I could tell that very little, if anything was remaining, but Ted said he had felt the life leave the dog altogether.   And that's when the blood came gushing out, leaving a significant trail of blood and lung tissue down his pant leg, across the parking lot and then up a stairway into a Veterinary Office next door to a farm and feed.  

When I reached them all, Ted, the strange lady, the dog and the Vet Tech were already inside an exam room.  Clean, white tiled floors now bespecked with blood.  Ted and the female stranger were there with their backs to me waiting for the attending technician to tell us that she could do something or anything, maybe nothing.  

The office was silent.  I couldn't even hear my breath.  I don't even remember hearing my footsteps.  

With a stethoscope in hand, the technician checked everywhere for a heart beat, but was shaking her head.  "No.  No.  He's dead,"  was the very audible sound of a woman saying absolutely nothing, but hoping for something.  I think we all knew he was not going to be saved, but we wanted him out of pain more than to lie in the center of the road or along the side walk and to suffer.  As the warmth drained from his body, this strange woman and I reached down and touched his stomach, petting his lifeless limbs.  My words were silent, but hers echoed them exactly, "I am so sorry, little guy."  And then she cried, and the faucet sounded as Ted began washing his hands.

We left, and on the way out a gentleman and lady stepped from the feed store asking about the dog.  "How big was he?  What color was he?  Was he black and white?  I think I know who he belonged to.  His name was Charlie.  His owner was homeless."  And then the same gentleman who had stopped and blocked traffic for us with his black two-door sports car, came into the lot to discover the outcome.  "At least you did something," he said.


I was okay until he had a name.  I was okay until I knew he had been named, "Charlie."  Charlie is the name that you give to your best friend.  Maybe it's a typical name for a dog like, Max or Buddy.  Maybe it's a name that reminded his owner of the Porky Pig pooch--the homeless dog that vied for adoption.  A homeless dog and a homeless owner.  The scene had just gone three-dimensional in my head and as a result, had just become deeply saddening.  


I asked if we ought to find Charlie's owner and tell him the bad news, but the gentleman at the feed n seed was going to take care of that, so we left.  I turned from the passenger seat to look at Simon and Garson in the back seat, and was grateful they were safe.  But then my mind turned to Tyson, and I immediately sent a message to Virginia to give him a hug for me as soon as possible.  I pondered the value of Tyson's life--what his value is for all of those who volunteer for him.  Those that work for his health and happiness.  And what he has done for me...

It was a few minutes before he said anything, but after a long silence, Ted said, "You can't help anyone if you are dead, Amy.  Don't just go running in the road like that."

Retorting, "I checked to see if anyone was coming, and all cars were stopped."

"But you never know if the guy who is texting on the phone is paying attention to everyone who is stopped."  He said.

"I love you, too."  It was all I could say.  Ted was right. 

I felt sorry knowing that Charlie's owner would hear of his fate from someone else, but glad that he did not have to witness it, and hoped that maybe, just maybe he might get to see his best friend one last time before he is taken away to that place that all dogs go when they die.  I hope he heard that there were two people who cared for Charlie like as if he had he been theirs. 

Aiding Charlie, best friend to a homeless man, remarks of the inner makings of man (woman), and if you can't bring yourself to come to their rescue when they need it most, and if all you can do is sit in your car and hope for someone else to get out and "do something" then you do not belong to be a Vet in the making.  It's not pride that beings me to this idea--I have always been a critter-helper, I think it is me saying this is only the beginning.  Whether it's Charlie or a stray this or that, a French poodle with diabetes or a Persian with failing kidneys--this is my calling.  

This is my future.  This is what I was born to do, but next time, rather than just be a concerned layman, I want to know why you need to touch an animal before you pick it up, not just that you should out of instinct.  I want to know what pink blood signifies, not just wait until Ted tells me what it is.  I want the stethoscope to hear for a heartbeat, and I want the tools to manage trauma and save a life, rather than to watch in silence.  I want "to do" and "to be."

Poor Charlie who lived about a year and a half as a pauper never really knew he was poor.  He just knew he was loved.  "...a man's dog stands by him in prosperity and poverty, in health and sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, where the wintry winds blow, and the snow drives fiercely, if only he can be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer; he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounter with the roughness of the world."   His owner bathed him in love and life, and it's obvious because he ran carefree down a hill into an abyss of tragedy, but didn't know it even existed until there was no more running to be held.  His lungs were full of breath, his legs in full gate and then...nothing.  Charlie was no pauper at the end of his life with that kind of care-free joy bounding down the street.  No, in fact Charlie was king for his last day.  We all want to die that happy... 

Ted's and my love for animals far and exceeds most.  Ted didn't care about the blood, nor did I.  I didn't care about holding up traffic to save an animal from further pain, nor did Ted.   We didn't know Charlie at all, not one ounce, but still, for those few minutes of his life, we loved him like he was ours.  In a sense, Charlie did belong to us, he belonged to everyone of us who saw his life go from glee to chaos on such a beautiful Monday, because I will bet that not one of those people who has a pet at home didn't rush to them and annoy them with hugs and kisses the first moment they lay eyes upon them after a day of work or being out and about.  

Rest in peace, sweet boy.