Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul (13 page)

The Subway Dog

I was twenty years old and living away from home for the first time. For companionship, I had a dog named Beaufort, who, although gentle, weighed more than I did and had a mouthful of sharp teeth. I felt safe going anywhere with Beaufort at my side.

In order to be free during the day to enjoy walks in the park and other things I liked to do, I took a job working the four-to-midnight shift in downtown Boston. The only downside of this arrangement was that I had to ride the “T”—the Boston subway—home from work late at night. As time passed, I discovered that keeping to oneself was an important survival mechanism. I avoided making eye contact and carried a book under my arm to read while I rode.

One night, I had finished work and was heading home. Every night, I rode the Red Line from Park Street Station to Andrew where I would get off and walk the six blocks home, knowing Beaufort was waiting patiently.

That night was different.

Park Street Station has a steep flight of stairs leading down to the underground platforms. I was tired as I fumbled for a token to put in the turnstile. I knew I had one—I always did. I rummaged around from pocket to pocket, but found nothing.

“Oh, man,” I groaned.

The station was quiet at that time of night with only two or three more trains scheduled before the “T” closed at one in the morning. I walked over to the collector’s booth and pulled out a dollar.

“One token, please.”

People who ride the “T” often regard the token collectors inside the booths as only one step removed from ticket machines, so it was understandable that I wasn’t paying attention to the man behind the booth’s thick glass and the metal bars. But he was paying attention to me.

He slid the token and my change under the window. Then he spoke, “Hey, would you like a dog?”

Startled, I looked at him, not sure I had heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”

“Would you like a dog?” he repeated.

He looked down, motioning with his chin. I leaned over and it was only then that I saw the subject of his inquiry.

Inside the booth was a dog—a very small type of terrier with lots of wild, wiry hair. The dog appeared to be trembling but looked at me as if to say,
Yeah, and what’s
your problem?

I was surprised, and as an animal lover, a little troubled. “Where’d he come from?” I asked.

“He’s a stray; he showed up about eight o’clock. He’s been here ever since.” The big man picked up the dog and set him on the narrow counter, gently rubbing him behind the ears. “He has a collar but no tags. No one has come looking for him and my shift is almost over.”

My rational side knew that rescuing this little wanderer was noble but totally impossible: I mean, what about Beaufort?

The token collector sensed a soft spot in me. “I’ve asked every person who has come through here if they wanted him. No one would take him.”

“What about you?” I inquired.

He smiled and laughed softly, “Me? No honey, my wife would kill me.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off the dog. How in the world did he get here and why was no one looking for the poor little guy?

The collector made his final pitch: “You know, if you don’t take him, I’ll have to let him go when I leave.”

I couldn’t believe it! “What do you mean you’ll let him go? We’re downtown. He’ll get killed. He’ll starve! He’s so . . . little.”

He explained that there were only a couple more trains scheduled to come before he closed. He couldn’t leave the dog in the booth, and he couldn’t bring him home. No one else had taken him. I, in other words, was the dog’s last hope.

I was wavering, and both man and dog sensed it. Oh, Lord, what was I going to do?

We stared at each other for what seemed a very long time.

“Is it a male or a female?” I sighed finally.

He grinned. “A female. I called her a ‘him’ just ’cause it’s easier,” he explained hastily.

I shook my head and added halfheartedly, “But I don’t have a leash.”

“That’s okay, I’ve got it all worked out. Here’s a piece of twine; it’s stronger than it looks. What stop are you getting off at?”

“Andrew.”

“Oh, great! That’s only four stops. You’ll be fine—the twine will last you until you get home.”

His face flushed with excitement, the collector unlocked the heavy door, stepped out of the booth and without fanfare handed me my new pet. “Thank you so much,” the guy said with relief, “I really didn’t want to let him loose upstairs.”

The dog and I looked at one another.

“Hey, you guys look good together!” the man crowed. With that he opened the gate and allowed me to pass without paying, a satisfied grin on his face.

The dog and I walked to the next set of stairs that would take us down one more level to the subway tracks. I spoke to my new friend in soothing tones. “It’s okay, everything’s going to be okay,” I promised.

The minute the collector told me that the dog was female I had decided on a name: Phyllis, after Phyllis Diller, the comedienne with the wild, unkempt hair. It came to me immediately and was as right as rain. “Oh, Phyllis,” I sighed, “Wait till Beaufort gets a look at you.”

We descended the stairs, my new friend and I, stepping onto the dirty platform together. Park Street Station is one of the biggest and busiest train stations in Boston. It is so big that it has three platforms instead of the usual two. One side leaves Boston heading toward Dorchester and the other side goes farther into town and on to Cambridge and quirky Harvard Square. In the middle is an extra platform to accommodate the many riders who frequent the station.

As if on cue, my fellow travelers all turned to look at Phyllis and me. Even the young man who played guitar, collecting coins in his open guitar case, stopped.

All at once the whole crowd broke into applause. Looking around, I didn’t recognize the place. Most nights, people kept to themselves—like me, burying their noses in books or newspapers and ignoring everyone around them—but not tonight. Tonight everyone was smiling and clapping, giving me a thumbs-up and a right-on! Phyllis began to bark, all bluster.

A young couple two tracks over on the far side to Cambridge pointed and waved. “Look!” the girl gushed, “She took the dog. She took the dog.”

Joined by the length of twine the collector had givenme, Phyllis and I stood together, basking in the attention of the cheering crowd. It didn’t matter that we were big-city strangers in the middle of the night—for a brief moment we were all joined in the euphoria and camaraderie that only happy endings can bring.

Elizabeth Lombard

“Dog” and Mr. Evans

“She’s famous, you know,” the elderlyman said humbly, half looking at the floor, while I examined his dog’s swollen ear. But I could hear the pride in his voice.

A few moments earlier, just before entering the exam room, I had glanced over the chart for the patient in Room One. When I saw the patient’s name, I thought,
How original.
A dog named Dog. Probably another backyard lawn ornament
that’s barely noticed and doesn’t even get enough attention for
someone to come up with an actual name for her.
But then I also noticed she had been brought in for yearly exams and had received all our recommended vaccinations and preventative care. Perhaps this wasn’t a neglected dog after all.

Inside the exam room, I met Mr. James Evans, eighty-four, and Dog, his eleven-year-old Weimaraner mix. I guess you could say they were pretty close to the same age. Mr. Evans had noticed the swelling and “dirty ears,” and brought Dog right in to have her checked out.

As I continued the exam, he told me how he stumbled upon Dog’s high intelligence when he started teaching her simple tasks. He taught her these mainly in case of an emergency since he had heart and other health problems. He noticed how quickly she caught on and began teaching her more tricks. Her most famous were counting and solving math problems. They started “showing off” for family and friends, then Mr. Evans began taking her to nursing homes, schools and other small groups to perform.

“The people seem to enjoy it,” he said. “Everyone’s always asking how she does it. I tell them I don’t know, she hasn’t told me yet,” he laughed. “Maybe she can read my mind. I don’t know . . . but she gets the answers wrong when I’m not concentrating.”

When he first started telling me all this, I thought,
Yeah,
yeah, everybody thinks their dog is a genius.
But I could now tell by the way his eyes lit up, and how Dog never took hers off him, that he wasn’t boasting, but doing what he always did: sharing this special animal and her stories with others. He sensed that I was genuinely interested and told me he would bring a video of her next time. He readily agreed to my recommended preanesthetic blood testing and treatment of the ears.

Mr. Evans brought me the videotape the next time he brought Dog in, which was for her annual visit. Later that day, a few members of the staff and I watched it. Although it wasn’t the best-quality tape, two things were evident: how much the small audiences enjoyed the performance and how Dog never took her eyes off her partner.
Was
she reading his mind? Or was she so adept at reading his body language that she was picking up on some subconscious cue he was giving her, something he didn’t even know he was doing—and isn’t that almost the same thing? However they did it, it was a result of both of them being completely in tune with and trusting each other.

Several months later, they were back in my exam room, both a little feebler. Mr. Evans wanted me to check those ears again. He thought she might be losing her hearing. She was also having some trouble getting around. “But so am I,” he chuckled as I carefully checked her over. Her ears were fine—just some wax, no infection—but her hips were arthritic.

The next time I saw them, Dog had to be carried into the exam room. Two years had passed since our first meeting. She was now thirteen and he was eighty-six. I dreaded this exam.

Before I even started, Mr. Evans looked straight at me with moist eyes and said, “Now, she’s been too good to me for me to let her suffer. I would never let her down like that.”

With that, I went on quietly with my exam. She was so weak. Laboring to breathe, her heartbeat was muffled and her eyes were dim. He agreed to leave her overnight so we could do more tests. He wanted to take the time to find out everything, but didn’t want to allow her to be uncomfortable any longer if nothing could be done. I said I understood.

X-rays, EKG and blood work confirmed congestive heart failure, which had also caused liver disease. After treating her with heart medication, she was breathing a little easier and able to eat and drink. Something told me, though, that she was just holding on—holding on for him . . . for now. I prayed that she wouldn’t die, not that night, not without him beside her.

I held my breath that morning as I entered the treatment room, trying to read my staff members’ faces for the answer to the questions I didn’t want to ask: How was Dog? Had she made it through the night? She was alive, but very weak. I had to call Mr. Evans. He seemed to already know what I had to report.

Mr. Evans patted her head as I injected the bright-pink liquid, tears streaming down my face, my hands shaking. I glanced at my assistant, hoping to find a steady face. No luck. Her eyes were pools of water. Dog’s leg, my hands, the syringe were now nothing but a blur. She took one last, deep, long breath.

Mr. Evans’s son John carried out the large box. For the first time, James Evans looked old to me. I wondered how he would be without her.

Later that afternoon, John Evans called to let us know that his father had passed away—he had suffered a heart attack while Dog’s grave was being dug. I couldn’t believe the pain that hit my own heart. I don’t know how long I stood, stunned, before taking another breath.

I felt responsible. I had ended Dog’s life, and because of that, Mr. Evans’s life had ended, too. But then I realized they wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. The family knew this, too. They had Dog’s body exhumed and cremated. And they placed her ashes with her best friend.

I am grateful to Dog and Mr. Evans. They did more for me as a vet than I did for them. For at those times when I feel discouraged, dealing with the aftermath of a person’s neglect of a pet, I remember Dog and Mr. Evans, and my confidence in the bond is restored.

Andrea B. Redd, D.V.M.

3
ON COURAGE

E
ven the tiniest poodle or Chihuahua is still
a wolf at heart.

Dorothy Hinshaw Patent

Calvin: A Dog with a Big Heart

Blinded in a Nazi concentration camp at the age of twenty-one, I arrived in America with my wife in 1951. We worked and raised two sons; now, at eighty-two, I have five grandchildren. For most of those years, I depended on a white cane as my mobility aid. I envied my blind friends who had guide dogs—they had so much more freedom of mobility than I did. My problem, although I was reluctant to admit it, was that I had a fear of getting too close to dogs.

In spite of my fear, the day I retired I decided to apply for a guide dog at the Guiding Eyes for the Blind Guide Dog School. I so wanted the freedom a dog could give me, I had to make the attempt.