The Rescuers

Chapter 32 – The Rescuers.  From the Amazon #1 Best Seller "Saving Grace - A Story of Adoption" by L.B. Johnson


When the phone rang late one night, I recognized the voice. The caller was in law enforcement, a female friend, not a colleague. We chitchatted regularly, but a call this late was not good news and I was afraid it was professional in nature. She said, “I need you to help me rescue a dog.” Apparently, the deadbeats who’d been living in an old rental house down the road from her place booked out in the middle of the night. She saw the vehicles loading up and leaving. Good riddance, she thought.

Then, late at night, carried on the wind she heard the pitiful cry. A coyote? A dog? The neighbors are gone, it must be someone else, she thought. The next night she didn’t hear it over the cold wind, but on the third night she did, a high pitched whine of a soul’s abandonment.

The house remained dark; the utter stillness, complete silence a testament to the tears outside. My friend crept over, seeing no sign that the residents were anything but gone; the house empty of belongings, the yard covered in trash. It was a pup, a retriever, purebred from its looks, left chained up in the backyard with a bowl of rainwater and no food. Left to die when they vacated in a hurry.

She called: “I need backup.” I knew what she meant. So off I headed, taking no purse, only the gear in my truck, some cash, and dog treats in my pocket. When I got there the house was definitely vacant; no meth heads would be coming back and surprising us.

 As we approached, even in the dark we could see that the poor animal, a young dog, was starving and cold. The temperatures had been reaching down in the forties. Tonight was gray and even colder, with a forecast of freezing rain. For now, the sky held in the moisture, refusing to release it; but it was supposed to go below freezing soon. The dog wouldn't have survived the night, its only companion the smell of water and blood.

 Blood? Why did I smell blood?

My friend, crouched down over the dog as I stood watch, pointed at something. Hard-nosed law officer that she was, she had tears in her eyes: the dog had outgrown her collar, and it was actually was cutting deep into the flesh, leaving bloody tracks in what should have been the soft fur of contentment. The poor animal had to be in terrible pain, but she only licked our hands and tried to snuggle up.

My friend asked, “Can you get it out?” I always have some first aid and medical type implements in my bag, but I had to say, “I’ve never cut on anything still breathing.”

I expected the dog to bite me as I worked gently with small tools to free it. But she just continued to nuzzle our hands, even though in my attempt to remove this tiny round torture device I had to be causing her more pain. I looked up to the sky, thinking for a moment the clouds had finally given up their rain, when I realized that what was on my tongue was the taste of salt as I worked away.

When finally we stood up, the dog in my friend’s arms and the remnants of that collar lying on the ground like a broken mirror, we heard the crunch of tires. Both of us were poised for fight or flight until we saw that it was local law enforcement. There was the flash of red and blue, of a bright flashlight, the glint of a shield. We smiled, hands in view, thankful for the assistance and my friend was recognized with a “What are you ladies doing out here?”

 My friend called out, “Hey D.!” He replied, calling her by name, “. . . .What are you doing out here? I was keeping an eye on this place in case they were back and up to no good.” She said, “I’m just stealing this dog, sir.”

 He looked at the dog, a puppy really, then looked at me and said, “Who’s this?” She told him who I was, his eyes smiled as he recognized the name, and he chuckled and said, “And what are you doing out here?” I said. “Helping her to steal this dog, sir!”

He just laughed. Calling the local animal officer was suggested, but we told him, given this very remote and rural area, that might take an hour or more; the pup was in bad shape and had lost blood, she could die if we didn’t do something. My friend told the officer we’d take the dog to the vet, pay the bill ourselves, and get her a good home. The dog clearly was a stray in the eyes of the law, abandoned to die. The officer just said, “Dog? What dog? I didn’t see any dog,” and tucked some money in our hands to help toward the vet bill before he helped us load up and drove off.

The dog was cleaned up at the vet’s office, an after-hours emergency call. The wound would not cause any permanent damage but was serious. In a few hours that gentle little retriever was bandaged up and home at my friend’s. After we raised an amber toast in crystal goblets, recognition among tired friends, the pup curled up to sleep near the fire, joining a household that already had two spoiled, well-loved dogs. As I looked at their forms and my own, I realized that life brings us friends in many forms—both two- and four-legged, both with their own healing power of Grace.