Willow

On Thursdays we have a game night with our friend Tyler. The game is Gloomhaven and it’s essentially Dungeons and Dragons. While it rightly earns the adjective “nerdy” it’s a highlight of the week. Tyler shows up at 5:30, Gloomhaven in hand. While I cook dinner, Jacob and Tyler go outside to move a dresser from the camper van to the house. 

“There’s a dog out there.” Jacob comes into the house rummaging for tupperware. He looks up, finding my confused face. “A stray just wandered up to us.” He fills the containers with water and some spare Millie food. 

I follow him out to the tagless, cuddly dog. She gently pushes her body into my leg. With every inhale and exhale her visible ribs press deeper into my leg. She looks up with a worn and weary smile. I’m happy you’re safe, too. I feed her a few kernels of food from my palm.

Facebook informs us someone found the same dog two days earlier when she still had tags. Her name is Willow and she’s hard of hearing. Besides that, we receive one possible lead that sends us on an adventure into town and gives us no results. We drive back home. Willow cuddles up to me in the backseat, bouncing as the car travels down the gravel road. The golden hour rays filter through the window, landing on Willow’s head. 

“Can we keep her?” I know we can’t, but she needs a home and sending her to the pound goes against everything I believe as a dog owner. I shouldn’t google it, but I do. If the dog is not claimed within five days, they will be euthanized. 

The next morning, we still haven’t found the owner. The humane society doesn’t answer my calls, but I learned that the pound gives the dogs to the humane society if they have room before euthanizing. While that’s a little bit of good news, it doesn’t make me feel any better for some reason. Regardless I suck it up and disregard the part of me that wants to give every little doggy a good home. I dial the non-emergency police number. The ringtone incites a flood of unease. I’m sending this dog to her death. 

“Non-Emergency line. How can I help?”

Too late. “Hi. I have a stray dog. No collar or tags, and I can’t find an owner.”

“Do you want us to pick her up?”

No. “Yeah, I guess.” I gave the woman on the other side my address. 

“We don’t take county dogs. They have to be within the city limits.”

For a second I’m relieved. Maybe I’m not sending this dog to her death. For a second I think we might get to keep her. And then I remember that we can’t. “Is there another number I can call?”

“Nope.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do with her?”

“You can check with the humane society. Otherwise it’s up to you to find a home. You can set her loose if you need.”

You can set her loose if you need. I can feel my heart rate rising, probably to dangerous levels. I want to burst into tears, and, if I was that kind of person, this would be the moment that I start yelling at this lady through the phone and ask for her manager. I refrain from yelling or crying. “Thanks for your help.” I bite back and I hope you don’t have a great day though it’s on the tip of my tongue. 

I hang up and cry with a ferocity and frustration that extends much further than Willow. The previous night, in my questioning of the owners and their obvious neglect of this sweet creature, Jacob told me that it’s common in the country for people to just leave their dogs on the side of the road. A scene popped into my mind of a man who decided he couldn’t keep his dog anymore. 

“Up.” The dog hopped into the bed of the rusty truck. A slam of the tailgate, a slam of the driver door, a rev of the engine. The tires crush the pale gravel in pursuit of the next mile, and the next mile, always wanting to move. The dog lets his tongue hang out, rippling in the wind like a waving flag of dog bliss. Car rides are the dog’s favorite because that means the man is taking him on an adventure. Hunting or roaming around the fields. Maybe a good ol’ game of fetch. The man makes a sudden swerve, parking the truck in the ditch. “Down,” he says, opening the tailgate. The dog, full of trust, obliges. “Sit.” The dog sits. Behind her is a wall of corn, the lush green tendrils reaching for the setting sun above. “Be a good girl, now.” The dog pants with a grin on her face. She knows she’s a good girl, but it’s nice to hear it from the man. A slam of the tailgate, a slam of the driver door, a rev of the engine. The tires resume their endless pursuit of moving, kicking back gravel that just misses the dog. She watches as the man drives off. Her eyes droop and her tail stops wagging as it hits her that the man isn’t coming back. She stands and trots off in the opposite direction. She wonders if he looked in the rearview, she hopes to find a new family, she sees a squirrel. 

I don’t know if this is how it happens, but the non-emergency police woman’s suggestion confirms it. People just let their dogs loose when they’re done with them or can’t take care of them. It’s disheartening knowing stranding dogs is common practice. I’m upset that I called for help and the people who are supposed to help suggested setting Willow loose. It’s unsettling to think that if Millie ever got loose and lost her tags, there’s a chance she’d never be rescued. 

I go outside and plop down in the grass next to Willow. She catches my eyes. There’s a glint of appreciation. I notice her iris’ exude sweetness. “We’ll find you a home, Willow.” I’m not going to leave her to dodge speeding cars and fend for herself, I vow. I’m holding out hope that the owner is a good person and that we’ll eventually get into contact. At the very least I hope the humane society has an open kennel. I don’t know what will happen, but she needs love and affection. She needs a home, and humans who will take care of her. Dogs deserve better. I know there are a lot of things we need to improve on as humans, but I hope we get better at taking care of animals. 

Hug your dogs today, and probably take them for a nice long walk once the sun starts to give way to the moon.