By Barbara Morris
As I waited to cross the first avenue, I wondered why the several cars lined up didn't proceed. Suddenly, a lady, three men and several youngsters on bikes, ran into the street, apparently not for the first time. I had not seen the little tan, shaggy dog that was between two of the cars. The lady ran toward him and he took off to another corner as she yelled “don't hit him, please! Don't hit him!”My heart went out to all those prospective rescuers and my thanks went to those patient drivers who were so understanding. I called to them “don't run after him. Run away. Pat your lap and call him. He'll probably think you're playing and come home.” No one seemed to hear me as they were in hot pursuit. I caught up with the lady and asked “what's his name?””I don't know,” she said. “He's not mine. I just don't want him to get hit.” I wanted to hug her or at least help, but just as I was getting ready to abandon my purchases, the little escapee darted into a nearby alley with all of the pursuers after him. I knew I couldn't keep up, so I reluctantly went home and worried about what might be happening.The next day I went back, hoping to talk to the lady and find out that there was a happy ending. She wasn't outside and I wasn't sure which house was hers. Several houses from the corner I could see a group of youngsters sitting on a stoop. I walked over and was delighted to see that what they were hovering over was that shaggy, tan dog.”Is he hurt?” I asked.”No. He's tired,” one of the boys answered. Another one of the boys was trying, very gently, to brush some of the knots out of his fur. He was also patting his new friend and so were all the other youngsters. They, and I suspect the mother of one of the boys who had looked out, asked if the dog was mine. When I said “no, I just wanted to see if he and all his rescuers are alright,” the children looked relieved.I'm not sure if the mother was relieved, or disappointed. I do think if I had answered affirmatively, she might have rightfully suggested that I should have taken better care of that sweet little dog so that all those other folk wouldn't have been at risk, nor would the dog. I still remember all the times when I needed parental approval to keep some lost animal that I rescued. After trying to find the rightful owner and failing to do so, none was ever turned loose again on the street.If we already had a full house, there was always a friend or neighbor who fell in love with our fuzzy friend. It wasn't the same as keeping it ourselves, of course, but part of caring and loving is doing what is best for the object of our love, isn't it? Besides, sometimes we had visitation rights, which at least made separation a bit less traumatic.By coincidence, the following Sunday morning on WNYC's “The Infinitive Mind” there was a discussion about the benefits of pet ownership. It was an interesting show that confirmed what I had learned long ago. Animals can be best friends. They can cheer us up, give us unconditional love and appreciation and encourage us to have set routines for them and ourselves that improve the health of all concerned.Our first dog, Skippy (a fox terrier), probably saved the lives of our whole family. We had all gone to bed and were sleeping very soundly when Skippy began to bark. He continued to do so until our parents heard him and went downstairs where he was and found that our refrigerator was leaking carbon monoxide. Although these days carbon monoxide detectors are required in every home to prevent similar prospective tragedies, pets (even cats), sense noises and other conditions that are unusual and alert us to those as well.I for one appreciate all the folks who helped that little tan fuzzy dog (and any other living creature) and hope they all live happily ever after.
