I'm Listening With a Broken Ear

by Vicky Kaseorg

  Vicky Kaseorg I am Listening With a Broken Ear

  Chapter List Page

  1. Character Revealed 2

  2. Irredeemable, Impossible, Illusions 12

  3. Irrevocable, Inconsolable 16

  4. Impudent, Impetuous, and Other I Words 29

  5. Irresolute, Intolerant, and Impoverished 41

  6. Inconstancy, Infidelity, Ineptitude 55

  7. Introverted, Immodest, Isolated 72

  8. Impatience 93

  9. Persistence 114

  10. Selflessness 125

  11. Determination 140

  12. Perseverance 155

  13. Hope and Self Reflection 173

  14. Forgiveness, Humility 186

  15. Faith 196

  16. Fulfillment and Redemption 208

  CHAPTER 1. Character Revealed

  "I will lead the blind by a road they do not know; by paths they have not known I will guide them." Isaiah 42:16

  “I am not going to look,” I tell myself while driving by the parking lot, staring ahead. If I don't see her, she isn't there. Eye muscles can be mutinous, of their own volition looking at things no one really has the heart to see. She’s still there. Drat. My traitorous eye notices that the emaciated dog has not moved in the two hours since I first saw her. Careening around the U-turn, I skid into the parking lot.

  “What are you doing?” asks Asherel, grabbing at the water bottle as it crashes to the floor.

  “I don’t know,” I say to my 11 year old daughter, “But I can’t just drive by.”

  The car settles near the little fox like dog. Swollen teats hang on a belly so thin that every bone threatens to poke through her mangy skin. An eye mournfully weeps, and angry cuts and sores spatter like broken glass on her face and legs. One ear droops, the cartilage likely damaged in some fight. Ticks cover her inner ears. She struggles to get up and run as I open the van door, but in the 90 degree heat, she is too dehydrated and hurting to move. She appears close to death. Just what I need on this twenty item checklist day.....What am I doing here? This dog is going to die before my daughter's heartbroken eyes. Move on and don't look back. You can't save the world.....

  Filling an old cup with water, I ease inch by inch out of the van. I first saw the dog two hours earlier while on a run during Asherel’s tennis lesson. I threw her some dog biscuits, but the dog had scuttled away, so I continued on my run, and hoped some kind stranger would help her.

  That stranger will not be me. The world is full of discarded dogs. I have no time, little money, and no desire to be waylaid on this busy day. Where are her puppies she has so obviously birthed not long ago? If they materialize, I will be undone. Offer her water and then skedaddle. This sad creature is neither my problem nor my fault. The person who abandoned her however, should be hung from his toenails over a beehive. I am a good and kind person and my intentions are honorable. I love God, my country, and apple pie, and have great compassion for this dog. I will pray that just the right person will stop at just the right time. Feeling much better for this sacrifice, I bow my head in pious thought for this little dog.

  With these charitable musings, I creep closer to the little dog. Again, she tries to get up and hobble away, but then sinks listlessly, painfully back down. For half an hour, I scrunch closer on my bottom, cooing to her the whole time. Each time I sidle faster than the pace of a three legged cockroach, the little dog threatens to stand. Hurry up and slow down I mutter to myself.

  I don't have time for this.

  A few long, disgruntled sighs hiss out of my caring soul, and I squelch the urge to just make a wild grab for the poor beast. Asherel watches from the safety of the van, where she is banned until I know the dog is safe….though of course the dog is not safe. I know nothing about the dog. All I know is that she is in pain, abandoned, and near death, on a blistering hot day, bereft of recent puppies, and a finger of cold water on her fevered muzzle would probably feel good, and might prolong her life for five more wretched minutes.

  When close enough to touch her, I sit beside her motionless for a few minutes telling her “Good dog!” I glance at my watch, moving only my eyeballs. Hurry up with this gaining trust thing or for sure the chicken will not be defrosted in time for dinner. And I will be in serious danger of missing American Idol. This is not just selfishness. Asherel likes American Idol too, and it is an important family bonding time. Our mutual gazes fixed on those inspiring young singers teach us a great deal about perseverance against all odds.

  You have five more minutes to drink up, dog, and then, we are history. My daughter’s character development is not to be trifled with.

  She watches me, the whites of her eyes showing like a solar eclipse. Not sensing aggression, I slide the cup of water in front of her. She looks at me, then sniffs the cup, and drinks until it is gone. After a third refill, she is done, licks her lips, and looks at me. I reach out and pet her.

  Of course Asherel is then begging to get in on the action. I acquiesce.

  “Overcautious” is the charitable way of describing my lunatic fears of horrible things malignantly lurking in wait for my beloved children. My college boys have managed to scamper away but my daughter, Asherel, is still in my protective clutches. I am not sure why I let her approach this potential carrier of germs that could lead to several excruciatingly painful shots in the abdomen to counteract the onslaught of rabies.

  “You may come close, but please look out for rabies. If you start to froth at the mouth, you realize we will have to put you down.” Asherel nods.

  She approaches, walking stiffly in a shuffle, and lowers herself beside me. We both stroke the little dog and croon to her. Asherel is crooning, anyway. I am actually calculating how much longer it will take to demonstrate compassion, as motherhood and childhood training are serious business. As soon as we reach that threshold at which the critical lesson is fully absorbed, we will scurry off to my chicken and television.

  We are in the parking lot of a grocery store, just across the South Carolina border. Miserably noting that the dog is not yet taking her last breath, the least I can do before leaving her to the mercy of God is give her a last meal.

  “You wait here while I prowl for cheap dogfood,” I say, rising, "Don't let any strangers kidnap you."

  "Yes mother," says Asherel.

  Little cans of gourmet dog food are on sale, pop top kind. This is clearly a message from God. God is frugal as clearly demonstrated by all the verses in the Bible about saving souls. God knows we have little money, so He is providing reduced price dogfood, and then that kind and benevolent soul He is preparing to come whisk the little dog away will arrive. After buying several cans and returning to the dog, I look around. Where is the stranger that will take this sweet dog off our loving, but very busy hands? Thus far, Samaritans are in short supply.

  The dog seems content with Asherel who is still murmuring to her in a voice only the angels and dogs can hear. She is peacefully stroking her mangled coat. In contrast to a thick fox- like ruff of gorgeous soft fur, the rest of her coat is patchy, mangy looking, with large areas of no fur. Engorged ticks cover the inner recesses of her ears. An old rusty choke collar is around her neck. No tags. She feels feverish, and her teats have fluid dripping from them.

  What am I doing- fully not equipped to handle this? Why am I feeding a dying dog gourmet dogfood when she can't come home with us? We have no money to save this creature so soft and sweet with a dirty nose begging to be kissed.

  As the dogfood can pops open, she cocks her ears. One is straight up, like a fox, the other parallel to the ground. Broken. Stirring the food with my finger, I hold it out to her. Daintily and gently the starving dog licks my finger. Carefully, s
weetly, she licks fingerful after fingerful from my hand. She eats three canfulls of food and then licks her chops and her paws and looks at me. She is remarkably clean for all of her maladies. Her haunches have patches of red clay crusted on them, but her front paws are washed and neat.

  There is no easy solution. Animal Control is one option but if they collect her, she'll be killed within an hour. Who can I pawn her off on?

  My husband Arvo started his own company a year ago in the mortgage business, about ten seconds before the whole industry crumbled. It has been a lean year, with almost no income. Asherel is home schooled, as were her two older brothers, who are now in college. The last thing we have any right to be taking on is a homeless dog with obvious health issues. We already have a dog, with enough nutty issues of his own.

  Upon calling the humane society, they tell me I can certainly bring the dog, but a sick dog will probably not be accepted. Their available cages are filled with healthy dogs. The receptionist gives me a list of nearby veterinarians I can try and suggests talking with animal control as well.

  I scribble the vet numbers on a napkin with scant hope, and while petting the little dog, proceed to call each one. They echo the same dismal response- call Animal Control.

  Asherel and I look at the dog and each other.

  “I can’t call animal control,” I say, looking away.

  “No,” snaps Asherel, “You can’t.”

  We sit petting the little dog. Mosquitoes buzz around our heads and the sun lays an oppressive hot blanket on us.

  “Let’s get her in the van,” I say finally, “Com'on, Dog.” (Please don't come.... let us walk away. The next carload of compassionate strangers will surely stop with pockets full of money to help you. )

  Alas, she struggles to her feet and then follows us. She limps to the van. I tell her, “Hop in,” not daring to pick her up. Remarkably, she obeys, and lies down, wagging her tail weakly. Note: fumigate the car later. We blast the AC and start to drive.

  I pray for the dog as we drive. Unfortunately, there are no neon arrows in the clouds flashing and pointing me to the answer. This is not expected, but still disappointing. Honestly, if God cared about the little dog and her plight in the midst of a cesspool of canine castaways, she wouldn't be discarded and dying this pitiful death in the first place. I don’t feel confident prayer will remove the ticks, restore the pups, and find her a fat lady in a gingham apron to stuff her with milkbones. As usual, my confidence is rewarded. Asherel is silent, sitting in the back, petting the little dog. I know what she is thinking.

  "We cannot keep the dog," I say in the accusing silence.

  The exit to our local low cost pet store looms ahead. They have a vet in the store, and it must be cheap. Maybe I can talk them into taking this dog. Then, once back home, all my friends must be notified about my good deed. Should the newspapers be alerted as well? Not of course for my own glory. It could spur others on to good deeds. Pay it forward, and all. Feeling very good about myself, I hope Asherel is taking notes, because generosity of spirit is in sore demand in these trying times. I glance at myself in the mirror. The sun plays tricks on my eyes, and a faint halo is shimmering around my shining face.

  The pet store hosts animal rescue drives once a month, parading pathetically cute, homeless animals up and down the aisles. In lieu of any other brainstorms, this is my destination. Leaving Asherel with the little dog, I hurry inside intending to explain the whole situation to the receptionist with a detailed account of my heroic efforts to rescue this creature. Of course, my role will be downplayed as I abhor conceit. Then I can remind her of her duty as an animal care provider to fix this dog and provide her with the home of loving owners that every dog deserves. Bringing myself to tears with my eloquence, I approach the desk. The receptionist has a ring through her nose. She is, of course, moved greatly by my heart-felt plea and follows me to the van.

  “I think she looks ok,” she pronounces, “We can check her over for free. I can give you an office visit coupon.”

  As she signs us in, she asks, “Dog’s name?”

  I look at Asherel.

  “Honeybun,” she declares, “She looks like a honey bun.” She is indeed the caramel color of a honey bun.

  "Dog's age?" the receptionist asks, looking up when we don't answer.

  "Oh," she realizes, "I guess you don't know that...So you probably don't know history or breed?" The pen scratches across the form.

  I look at Honeybun. She is a quiet little dog. She hasn’t made a sound.

  "She looks a little like a Basenji," I propose, "And I haven't heard her bark. Basenjis don't bark."

  "But they yodel," instructs Asherel, "And we haven't heard her yodel either."

  The receptionist writes "mixed breed" on the form.

  The vet will examine Honeybun and then call us in a couple of hours. After putting a leash on her, the receptionist tugs her towards a back room. Honeybun looks at us as she is led away. She barely knows us, but hesitates as the leash pulls her. After a long look back, she limps after the receptionist, head down, tail low.

  We go home, cautiously hopeful. I have rescued a dog, found medical care, and the connections to save the dog. And it has not cost me a single penny. This is the best kind of sacrifice. Self-congratulatory praise fills my heart.

  When the phone rings shortly thereafter, the news is bleak. The dog has obviously had pups recently, and there is some genitourinary system discharge that probably is not good tidings. She is covered with ticks, at least fifty, which, by the way, cost $2 each to remove. She is certainly malnourished, has a heart murmur, and likely heart worm disease. I am already horrified by the first item of this parade of problems. They recommend we call Animal Control, who will humanely euthanize her in all likelihood. She just has too many strikes against her. We can pick her up anytime and bring her to Animal Control. My, that does sound entertaining! Maybe afterwards we can head over to the Holocaust museum and fill out our evening watching some movies from Auschwitz.

  “Can you possibly call them?” I beg, “I don’t think we could pick her up just to send her to be killed.” This certainly is putting a damper on my happy ending.

  The receptionist says they will, and tells me I have done all I can do. Try not to despair.

  It is a sleepless night filled with visions of the little dog’s trusting eyes as she lay in my van, knowing she was being rescued. Where are her puppies – and how did she get those cuts and broken ear? How long must she have been on her own to be so emaciated, and to have a stainless steel collar rusted? In bed, flipping about like a beached fish, I convince myself we have done the only thing we could have done. Fitful sleep eventually claims me, while I am chanting to myself, “I am a good person.”

  Waking up while it is still dark and silent, I then settle down to my morning routine. Despite my resolve the night before to just forget this hopeless case, I call Animal Control, knowing the dog is probably already disposed of. How is the little dog doing and is there any chance they will fix her up for adoption?

  “We never picked that dog up,” the receptionist tells me. Dogs are barking in the background and chaotic voices shout and clamor.

  “Yes, you did,” I argue, “The Petsmart vet called around 4:00 yesterday.”

  “M’am, I checked our records and our cages. No little dog has been picked up from Petsmart.”

  Confused, I call the vet. The receptionist tells me they had indeed called Animal Control yesterday. Animal Control had said they would come, but never showed up. The dog is still there.

  “Can I speak with the vet?” I ask.

  I promise myself I will not cry, I will not cry. Having done all anyone could be expected to do, it is clear I am a good and caring person. Just as I prepare to smack down the phone, the vet says “Hello?” I start to cry, choking out the story of our lean year and how we really cannot afford much, but what will it cost to get the dog fixed?

  “Listen we could remove the ticks, get her shots, and do
necessary care for just over $100…. However, heart worm disease will cost around $1500 to cure, and the cure rate is about 80%.... maybe less for such a struggling dog.”

  While we are talking, Animal Control arrives at the vet office.

  "Hold on," the vet tells me. Muffled voices rise and fall.

  “I am talking with someone interested in the dog. Can you give us a day?” There are some mumbled deeper voices and then the vet returns to our discussion.

  “How about if I split the cost with you for a heartworm test?" she suggests, her voice soft, soothing, "If it is positive, which is almost a certainty, you will feel better about sending her to Animal Control.”

  Promising to do the test immediately, she will call me back in ten minutes. Asherel and Arvo still sleep. Pacing outside, phone in hand, I wonder what I am doing. What to pray for- heart worms that will mercifully finish the dog off quickly, or a miracle that means I have some hard choices to make? The phone finally rings. Well, actually since it is my cell phone, it plays, “God Bless America.”