We live near a busy highway.Trucks as well as cars. So we always walk our dog, Mr. Black. As a result he’s pushing 13, older than any dog of ours yet.
During the first week of February while on our afternoon constitutional – his and mine – I discovered a newly weaned black pup lurking under an outbuilding near the volunteer firehouse. By her reaction to our presence it was apparent someone had dropped him off, 20 feet from the highway and then driven away.
Somebody needed to do something to protect this young life before it perished. Reflecting on an experience still vivid even after 40 years I couldn’t walk away.
It was during the winter of 1971 Barb and I saw little boy about three years old playing in front of a house while his mother was inside visiting. Barb said we needed to caution the mother, but I said we would only succeed in pissing her off. It was not our place to say anything. And we drove away.
About an hour later the little boy was hit by a passing car and killed. I could have saved that little boy’s life, but I didn’t.
Fast forward 35 years. Our next door neighbor walked out his front door, got in his car and began backing out of his drive without bothering to see where his toddler was, who was playing behind the car. I unloaded on the dunk bastard. He never spoke to me again. But saving a young life made dumping our friendship worthwhile.
All these tragic memories came surging back last week. True, it was only a dog, but it was one of God’s creatures and I had the power to change the outcome. I brought the dog home hoping the vet or the animal shelter would help re-home her. So far much for wishful thinking.