I Wish You'd Been My Dog...

       Driving home late one rainy night I saw a dog lying on the side of the road. There was no blood, no obvious wound, but it was still and appeared to be dead.

       A dead or wounded dog in the street is oddly disturbing, especially in suburban America. You'd be shocked too. Think about it. You probably pass "roadkill" every day. Squirrels, raccoons, deer, sometimes even crows or geese. But, if you're like most people, you rarely give them much thought. Nature grows and reproduces and expands and teems constantly, inconveniently getting in the way of the human scheme of things. It's a simple fact of life. And a squished squirrel is just another animal that wandered out of (what's left of) its habitat and unwisely got itself in the way of concrete, metal-on-wheels, and Human Progress in general. Didn't it know any better? Human life rolls ever forward, always at a breakneck pace. Stay away, little creatures, or the pace of human life may break your neck.

       Me, whenever I see "roadkill," I feel a flash of sadness and I say I'm sorry. A tiny moment of respect and acknowledgement. That's about all that can be done, other than driving carefully and attentively.

       But a dog prompts a more extreme reaction. It was a part of human life, someone's pet. And questions ... What was the dog doing in the road? Did it slip its chain? Or was it abandoned? Is a caring owner searching for it, distraught or even crying? Is a child somewhere heartbroken with loss? Or did the dog escape from an abusive home?

       When we think of a dog we usually think of a happy, well-fed pet. Maybe we even picture a cartoon canine, carrying the morning paper or a pair of slippers in its mouth, or sleeping cozily next to a warm hearth.

       But a dog lying on the side of the street is immediately disturbing. Out of place. It just looks WRONG.

       So why was everyone driving right past?

       These thoughts flashed through my mind when I saw it. I drove right past.

       Then I turned around and went back.

       I parked at a nearby apartment complex. It felt strange, walking down a road no one ever walks down, at night in a slight mist of rain, all so I could kneel over what might be an animal carcass. At first I waited for the cars to pass so no one would see me; I just felt I'd look creepy. But suddenly I didn't care who saw me. What am I doing? I'm doing exactly what someone SHOULD do. I'm making sure the dog is dead and not suffering or in need of aid. I'm NOT just driving past.

       I bent down to feel the dog's pulse, but stopped halfway to look at it. It was something like a Doberman mix, black, tan and white like a German Shepherd, but short-haired. Its eyes and mouth were open, large teeth bared, and it didn't look happy. Don't get me wrong, there was no agony or great malice in its expression. I think it died suddenly and without suffering. But it looked, well ... ticked off. Extremely annoyed. As if its last thought had been, "What, that's all? It's over, they killed me? JUST LIKE THAT?"

       Human life rolls ever forward, passes by, rarely stops or even looks back at what it has done. Just like that.

       I reached out to touch it but hesitated again. It definitely looked dead, but what if, against all odds, it were still barely alive? And TICKED OFF. If its jaws were to snap at my fingers, I'd quite likely jump six feet in the air and wet my pants. I pushed those thoughts away, though, and laid my hand on its neck, the way you might touch a friend-in-need reassuringly on the shoulder. Lightly but firmly I pushed my palm and fingers into the hollow between its thick, corded neck muscles and its windpipe. The dog was still slightly warm, maybe half as warm as it should have been, and there was no hint of a jugular pulse.

       Of course it didn't snap at me, and suddenly we felt ... familiar. Almost like friends. Nothing to fear. Just a body, probably two hours cold (which would have put its time of death during rush hour.) Just what was left after a beautiful animal left this world for something beyond.

       It had a collar on, and I took off its dogtag and walked to my car. There, with the light on, I wrote down its license number. Then I walked back and put the tag back on. I didn't move him, as he was on the curb out of traffic, under a streetlight and unlikely to be hit again.

       Maybe it was a trick of the headlights of a passing car, but he didn't look quite so angry now. I'd given him the only thing I could: Respect. Acknowledgement.

       I patted him on the side, said I'm sorry, and walked back to my car.

       The next day, when the local Dog Warden/Animal Shelter was open, I would call and find out that his expired 2003 tag indicated his owners lived a good five miles away. That was about all they could tell me. No one else had called in to report it. We would speak softly, the woman at the shelter and I, both a little sad but neither of us new to these things. She would notify the owner then, but I would be left with questions. Questions and memories. The memory of a beautiful animal growing cold on the side of the road. But also the memory of stopping, not passing by, and the satisfaction of having done something right, however small it might have been.

       Respect. Acknowledgement.

       Goodbye, my friend. I'm sorry. I wish you had been my dog.