Rescue

A neighborhood comes together to help an injured dog.

Rescue

“Mommy, mommy!” my daughter yelled, bursting through the door and jumping up and down with excitement. “There was a dog in the road and a car came and it’s ok because it laid down! How smart is that?!?”

I looked up from the bacon I was frying and saw the spark of excitement in her six year old eyes. “Sounds pretty smart,” I said, “Is he still lying in the road?”

“Uh huh,” Rylie said and then her face crumpled and tears filled her eyes as she realized what that might mean.

Putting my tongs down, I left the bacon and headed outside. Lying in the middle of the road was a dog. She was looking around, making no attempt to move, while two kids stood watching her from the sidewalk.

“Is it ok?” Rylie asked, her voice trembling.

“I think so, but it really needs to get out of the road. Stay here.” I motioned for Rylie to stay on the porch while I went down to the sidewalk. “Did it get hit?” I asked the two kids.

One of them answered, “Yes.”

“Do you know who’s dog it is?” I asked. My boyfriend and I had moved here a few weeks earlier and so far I had only met one of our neighbors. She had a dog, but this wasn’t hers.

One of the kids pointed across the street to the green house. My daughter Sarah was outside by now and I instructed her to go across the street and see if anyone was home. I then headed back inside for my phone.

Grabbing the phone I ran back outside. I wasn’t sure of the dog wardens number, or if they would even come out now. I’d called them once about a stray dog that had seemed injured and was told it was after hours and to call back in the morning or take the dog myself to a drop off site. That had consisted of a door leading into a dark room where the dog would have to stay until morning. I was pretty sure if this dog was injured badly that wouldn’t do it any good. I also was pretty sure that if the dog was injured badly, trying to get it out of the street and into my car might be a little difficult. Any animal, even a friendly one, scared and injured could be dangerous. I thought, maybe, if I called the police, they might be able to help. Their number I had.

The neighborhood I had moved from was as ghetto as they come. One morning, after returning from my third shift job, I found my window open and my house cleaned out. They’d taken everything they could carry, from the t.v. to the food in the cupboards and freezer. They’d even taken the toilet paper! The dog next door and been making a racket all night but his owner had never bothered to check and see what he was making a fuss about. Neither had any of the other neighbors. This was a neighborhood where you minded your own business.

As I went back out the door I noticed two women had joined the dog in the street. One of the women was bent over the dog, with her hands around the dogs muzzle to prevent her from biting. The other was attempting to lift the dog. Joining them, I slipped my hands under the dogs shoulder and together we moved her to the side of the road. By now more neighbors had come out, including a woman who told us the dog was hers.

The woman who had held the dogs muzzle advised her she should get a blanket to wrap her in , in case she needed transported to the vets.

Pointing to a house two doors down, a man with a beard said, “The woman who lives there is a vet. I’ll go see if she’s home.”

The woman who belonged to the dog returned with a blanket and I took up my position again, hands under the shoulder blade, and helped lift. The dog, the woman called her Carman, whimpered and let out a yelp. Her right hind leg was bleeding from a gash and who knew what kind of injuries she may have that we couldn’t see. I know I had blood on my hand, so there must be an injury to her shoulder. As carefully as we could we lifted her onto the blanket, where the dog continued to whimper, frightened, and began breathing hard.

“It’s ok Carmen.” Her owner said. Reaching down, I patted the dog on top of her head, hoping that, along with the reassuring voice of her owner would calm her down. A few moments later the man returned, along with an older woman.

“She looks pretty good,” the woman said. She pulled back Carmen’s lips and examined her gums. “She’s not in shock and there doesn’t appear to be any internal bleeding. At least not yet.”

She nodded approvingly at the blanket. “That’s a good way to move her.”

“Show her the leg,” the woman who’d held the muzzle said. Another pulled the blanket back, revealing the gash on Carmen’s leg.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” the vet said, examining the leg. “Clean the wound and give her some sugar water. Keep an eye on her, but I think she’ll be alright.”

One of the neighbors, the man who had gone to get the vet, ran home and came back with a board. Lifting with the blanket we got her onto the board and across the street.

Returning to my side of the street I saw Rylie, her eyes full of tears. I put my arms around her, kissing her cheek. “The doggy’s ok.” I said. Then, like the rest of the neighborhood, we went back inside and finished cooking dinner, but as I turned my stove back on I couldn’t help but think of the differences in neighborhoods.

“You know,” I said to Sarah, “you have to love a neighborhood that comes together to move one dog out of the road.”