Rescuing Riley, Saving Myself: A Man and His Dog's Struggle to Find Salvation

by Anderegg, Zachary

  The doctor left me alone with the animal. I argued with myself, even though I knew which side of the argument was going to win. It seemed like a bad idea to adopt the dog myself. Was I being overcautious? Callous? The instinct to protect myself from emotional blows was strong and entrenched. It would hurt too much if something went wrong and I brought the dog home and then he didn’t make it, or turned into a major behavioral rehab project. At the same time, if I’d come this far, I couldn’t stop now. It would be like climbing all but the last ten feet of a mountain. I was afraid it would turn out to be a “false peak,” which happens sometimes when you’re climbing, and you think you’ve reached the top, and only then do you realize there’s an even higher peak hiding behind the one you initially spotted.

  When I knelt down next to the dog, this time he was able to lift his head from the towel I’d placed him on two days ago. When I was in the best shape of my life as a Marine, lifting weights, I’d been able to bench press 350 pounds. The dog, lifting his head from the towel, seemed to make a similar effort. His tail wagged again, this time the full tail and not just the tip, and he looked me in the eye. I think that was the moment that sealed the deal, like the moment when the first wolf pup snuck into the light of the campfire, thirty thousand years ago, and looked the first pet owner in the eye, as if to say, “You and me—Whaddaya think?”

  I heard Krista approach behind me and looked up.

  “Are you going home?” she asked me. “Back to Salt Lake City?”

  “I do have to get back. Do you think he’s ready to travel?”

  She nodded.

  “I can help you move him to your car and give you some extra towels for the trip,” she said. It felt a bit like she was making the decision for me, but in a good way.

  There was one last matter to attend to. Digging my wallet from my back pocket and then my debit card from my wallet, I went to the front desk and told the girl there that I needed to pay for the dog I’d brought in. It took her a second to print out the bill and hand it to me. I braced myself. A friend of mine had brought his dog into a veterinarian’s office after it ate an oatmeal raisin cookie from Starbucks, and after they’d pumped the dog’s stomach and held him overnight for observation, his bill came to almost $1,200, making it perhaps the world’s most expensive raisin cookie. The dog I’d rescued was going into his third day. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if his bill was anywhere near a thousand dollars a day. In desperate times, you start thinking of what you have that you can sell on eBay or Craigslist. I had plenty of room on my credit card, if I needed it, but I’m extremely conservative when it comes to money. I knew I was responsible for the poor little pup, but I struggled with the idea of spending more money than I could afford, and I felt guilty for having doubts.

  The bill was a little over $600. This was what I was afraid of and had clearly not budgeted for. I looked at it and decided to see what I could do. I asked if, given the circumstances, they could please whittle it down closer to their actual costs, including labor. I didn’t want to short anybody, but I simply did not have $600 to spend. It made me extremely uncomfortable even to ask for this favor; I value my integrity a lot. I told Dr. Roundtree I would own the bill, but I was hoping he could work with me on it.

  Krista walked out and seemed irritated that I was looking at the bill. She took it from me and walked into the back office. A few moments later, she came back out with the invoice in her hand. Had she overheard me talking and knocked off some of the cost? Was I about to get a “pain in the ass” surcharge for trying to negotiate the bill?

  Krista looked at me and said Dr. Roundtree was going to have the Angel Fund cover the bill. I asked her what the Angel Fund was. She said they tried to set aside money, when they could, to cover situations like this. The bill was going to be discounted, 100percent. I’m guessing Dr. Roundtree had known he would use the fund to cover the pup’s expenses, but I think he wanted to get some kind of a commitment out of me so that I would not just leave the dog behind. Assuming I am correct, I can completely understand this position. Charity is wonderful, but it also must subscribe to the laws of math. If they helped every animal they rescued free of charge, it would not be sustainable.

  I was literally speechless; I looked at Krista and just stared.

  I snapped out of it and decided negotiations were not over. I handed my card to the office manager and asked her to bill me for $200. Krista stepped in and said no.

  “I’m going to contribute to the invoice,” I said. “I’m extraordinarily grateful for what you have done here and I’m going to help.”

  She didn’t go for it. Was this really going to come to blows? I’m in pretty good shape, but she was looking pretty scrappy standing there. A brief battle of wills took place, the kind I wish happened more often, and she finally gave in.

  I thanked everybody for their kindness, and I shook Dr. Roundtree’s hand before going outside to clean out the foot well on the passenger side of my truck, where the dog would be safer than if I allowed him to ride on the seat. They’d given the dog superb care. They’d treated and rescued hundreds of animals that had been abandoned or hit by cars or mistreated, and I had only saved one. The work they did every day was heroic, but it was new to me. A moment later, Krista came out holding the animal in both hands, her arms outstretched like a ring bearer at a wedding, the dog limp as a rag. I used the towels to make a bed for him in the foot well, and then she placed him on the bed. I felt like a new dad, coming home from the hospital with a day-old baby, a mixture of joy and dismay.

  “Leave the bandage on his paw where we took out the catheter for a few days, but I don’t think he’ll chew it,” Krista said. “Give him soft food or dry food with a little water, but in a couple of weeks I think you can give him dry food.”

  “I’m freaked out,” I told her.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “You’re not going to break him. Everything is going to be fine.”

  I closed the door. It was time to leave. I felt a very special connection to Krista in that instant, an overflowing mix of gratitude and respect. I reached out and gave her a huge hug to express my appreciation. She wished me luck.

  As I drove away, I looked down at the puppy, who seemed to be sleeping. “Hope you like Salt Lake City,” I told him. The words themselves meant nothing to him, I knew, but I hoped that, at the very least, the sound of my voice was comforting to him. I knew that with Kohi, when Michelle and I were doing anything at all, eating or just watching television, he needed to be in the same room. He had the run of the house and could choose to rest anywhere he wanted, but what he wanted was to be in proximity to us. I had friends with dogs who followed them everywhere they went, from room to room to room and even whimpered when the bathroom door was temporarily closed to them. Kohi was never that clingy, but all the same, he manifested the innate drive dogs have to be part of a group.

  It was the same innate compulsion I had as a kid, when I felt so isolated.

  As I drove north, I thought of what a therapist had told me. He thought it was possible that I’d been clinically depressed for at least the last ten years, if not longer. I’d been having serious back pain that X-rays and MRIs couldn’t diagnose, and the orthopedists told me there’s a school of thought that believes a certain percentage of back pain is referred, meaning the pain begins somewhere else, but you feel it in your back, and that can include emotional pain. The orthopedist sent me to a psychologist, to whom I admitted that I’d worn, since I was young, a suit of emotional armor. He told me he thought that was true, and that armor had weight, and carrying all that weight had bent me over and was causing the pain I felt in my back. He was speaking metaphorically, but that was part of his job—to give me new ways to see or think about my life and the things that were keeping me from feeling happy.

  He helped me put into words many of the things that were holding me back. I didn’t trust people. I was too pessimistic. My first impulse was to be cynical, until I was proven wrong. I kept people at a
distance. I was overly critical of people who seemed to have it easy, people who glided through life without the same degree of effort it took me—people who had doors opened for them, when I had to knock the same doors down. I had a chip on my shoulder that went back to feeling unpopular and resenting the kids who were popular, the feeling I had that I was as good as them, so why were they accepted and included, while I was excluded and cast out?

  I looked down at the dog, but now, when I thought about the man who put him in the hole, I realized something.

  In all the years that I was bullied, what seemed more unfair than anything else was the idea that the kids who held dominance over me—the bullies who belittled and mocked me because they were popular or had the support of their friends—were above me, and I was below them.

  But that wasn’t true. They were never above me. They were always below me, and for a lot of them and perhaps most of them, unless they saw the errors of their ways and changed, they would stay below me. I can’t say that I was no longer angry at the man who put the dog in the hole, and I can’t say that I felt sorry for him or that I pitied him, but now I saw the bully for who he was—someone who doesn’t know what it feels like to be loved, and more to the point, someone who doesn’t know how to love. The great Russian writer Leo Tolstoy once said, “Hell is the inability to love.” That was exactly the hell the dog’s tormentor was in.

  Someone hurt him, so he hurt back, and hurt was probably all he would ever know. Somewhere along the line, something went wrong for him. I felt fairly sure that putting the dog in the pothole wasn’t the first time he’d ever hurt an animal. He’d done it to get even, but he’d never know what “even” meant. I couldn’t forgive him yet, but I could imagine how he felt, because I had something he lacked: I had empathy.

  I had lifted the dog from the hole and restored him to the community of men. Whoever put him there was in a much deeper hole, and there was no way out of it, and it seemed doubtful that anyone would come looking for him or want to help him if they did. He was forever disconnected.

  I’d talked to my therapist about how I have a strong reaction whenever I feel like I’m being treated unjustly or unfairly, or when something unjust or unfair happens to someone else. I am not exactly a crusader, in any public or political sense, but I could not abide injustice. I’d get upset, unable to let it go.

  I found my cell phone and called Michelle.

  “How’d it go?” she asked me. “How is he?”

  “He’s pretty tired still,” I told her. “They think he’s going to be okay. There might be complications.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m on the road,” I said. “I should be home by dinner time.”

  “Where’s the puppy?”

  “He’s asleep on the floor beside me,” I said.

  It had occurred to me that I probably should have called her before deciding to bring the dog home, but knowing Michelle, I knew she wouldn’t question the decision I’d made, and that she would have done the same thing. This puppy needed help, and we were capable of giving it to him. Plus, it could be said I risked my life for this little guy. That meant he was not only valuable to me, but to her, as well.

  “From the sound of it, if I left him there, nobody would have adopted him anyway. After all we’ve been through, there’s no way I was going to allow him to be euthanized.”

  “No,” she said. “I can see that. So you’re bringing him home?”

  “At least until we can figure something else out,” I said. “Do we know anybody who wants a dog?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll be sure to have Kohi’s crate ready with some towels, food, and water.”

  Deep down, I may have known that there was a new member of the family, but I wasn’t willing to admit it yet.

  The first hour of the drive home was uneventful. The dog kept looking up at me and I kept looking down at him. He was curled up in the passenger foot well, facing toward the back. Instead of tucking his head and snout toward his tail like you’d expect, he kept arching his head toward me, which looked incredibly uncomfortable, his head wedged between the cushion and the center console. Every time I put his head back where I thought it belonged, he’d wait for me to let go of his head and then return to the same position. It was like a game we played for the first hour to Kanab. I stopped to get my usual chocolate milk at a gas station, and then we proceeded north on 89. Thirty minutes later, we had our first problem. He’d been pretty still and quiet so far, but he suddenly began to squirm and started making whimpering, pleading sounds. I could see him trying to move, but he didn’t have the strength to do what he wanted. I pulled off onto the gravel shoulder, walked around, and opened the door. I guessed he needed to relieve himself. I picked him up, which was shocking because he was still literally skin and bones. I was sure I was going to break him.

  I carried him to where the shoulder ended, figuring he might feel more comfortable in the weeds. I placed him in a standing position on the ground. He looked like those nature videos you see on National Geographic or the Discovery Channel showing some newborn calf or elk taking their first steps, wobbly and hunched over. Possessing no motherly instincts, I just sort of hovered with my hands on either side of him to provide support. He took a very awkward half step forward with his front paws to extend his body and urinated. I thought, How ’bout that? I got it right.

  After he was done, he arched his back and extended his tail parallel to the ground, a position I recognized from my dog. For some reason, it seemed like peeing was one thing, but if he had to poop, a bit of privacy was in order, so I pulled back. I waited for something to happen, but things seemed stuck, the dog hovering uncomfortably in position. As I approached, he stumbled. I quickly grabbed him, and we avoided a fall. I managed to get him back where he needed to be, and again we waited. I felt ill prepared for dealing with something like this.

  Just when I thought I could see some . . . progress . . . everything stopped again, and it was clear to both of us that something was amiss. He tried to walk, still in a hunched over position, precarious and unsteady.

  I once again hovered above him, keeping my hands on either side of his ribs to catch him if he fell again, and I followed him around as he tried in vain to get things moving. I was on the verge of panic, thinking I might have to directly intervene, though how would I do that? I placed my fingers on either side of his rump and used a pinching motion to try to get the last of things moving. I was never one who could handle things like this gracefully, and I was literally gagging at being so close to the action. My heart also broke to watch this puppy struggle like this. Thankfully, after about twenty seconds, our combined efforts paid off. The proceedings came to conclusion and the pup finished what needed to be done. I was relieved, and so was the puppy, albeit in a different way.

  An hour later, we repeated the previous episode, but the fact that his alimentary canal was again functioning was all good. The second time, he lost his balance and fell right over, smack into the ground without any attempt to brace or right himself. I felt immediately sad, and then livid about the situation—couldn’t the poor dog catch a break? I ran over and helped him back up and then, once again resorting to my training as a Marine, I improvised and adapted, using a modified massage technique to get him started, but my nerves were beyond frazzled.

  For someone who has been shot at and been lost in the Los Angeles mountains for more than twenty-four hours in a snow storm, you’d think I’d be tougher than this, but I was ready to crack. The emotional weight I had been carrying since Sunday was starting to take its toll. I was absolutely drained. I was on Highway 20, crossing west to I-15. When I reached I-15, I headed north. I had cell reception and called Michelle to give her an update on our progress. My voice told the story of my situation. She shared some encouraging words and let me know she would help out as soon as I got back. That moment could not come soon enough.

  When I finally reached my driveway, I got out of the truck and
had to lie flat on my back on the concrete, aching and exhausted.When Michelle picked up the dog and felt how emaciated and fragile he was, she was reduced to tears.

  I wasn’t reduced to tears, but the drive home had left me feeling beaten down and depressed. What bothered me so much was knowing that I was once again in the undeniable presence of the kind of abuse and cruelty I was so familiar with, but this wasn’t a memory or an image—this was tangible and palpable, the dog a living survivor and victim of human cruelty and abuse, morbidly malnourished and damaged. He looked and smelled and felt like death. The truck had actually taken on a smell that was making me sick. I wasn’t just physically tired. I was spiritually tired, exposed to a kind of soul-crushing poison that radiated from the poor animal and left me feeling down. I kept thinking, “You poor thing,” and it’s not hard to go from there to wondering about the kind of world we live in.

  We kept Kohi and the puppy apart at first. Dr. Roundtree had suggested that before we put them together, we needed to have the puppy vaccinated and tested for infectious diseases. We brought the puppy to our vet in Salt Lake City, who gave him the standard protocol of shots and even gave the dog a full body X-ray, and after he had the film developed, he put it up on the light box for us to read. He pointed out something he found interesting: a half dozen distinct dots, smaller than BBs. When I asked him what they were, he said it was his opinion that somebody had shot the dog with a shotgun, and mostly, but not entirely, missed. If I ever had any doubts that we were doing the right thing, this moment erased them all.

  When we finally introduced the two dogs, outdoors in the driveway where they wouldn’t feel cramped, the puppy nipped at the older dog, even though I knew Kohi was only trying to be friendly, but it was heartening, all the same, to see the puppy still had a bit of fighting spirit in him. We separated them, and when we introduced them again, the same thing happened, but this time I let the puppy know, with a gentle but firm whap under the chin and a simple no, who was in charge. It was the last time we ever had a problem.