By Carol J. Rhodes
My husband and I often volunteered at a local humane organization, but our services mainly consisted of management-related work, rather than animal rescues. However, one Sunday afternoon I received a frantic call at home from a friend.
She had just learned from her teenage son about a Golden Retriever who he was sure had been left behind when his owners moved out of town. “I’m on my way to the airport, or I would do something myself,” she said. “Please go over and see if the
poor animal is still there-.” I remember cringing when I saw the· blood-matted fur and ribs I could count. All my kind words and coaxing for at least twenty minutes could not pry him from the spot where he lay, his soulful eyes darting from side to side in fear. I picked my way through the knee-high weeds toward the dog. It was clear someone had mistreated him terribly.
Trash, beer cans, a rotting mattress, several old tires, an ancient rusting shell of a car, and piles of lumber fittered the yard surrounding the old house. A dilapidated outhouse, almost completely covered with vines, stood in the back corner. Cutouts of a half moon and a star seemed out of place alongside the faded words painted on the door, “Newark stinks.” As I carefully moved toward the dog, his gaze suddenly shifted from me to my husband, who, obviously tired of waiting in the car, was making his way around the corner of the house. When my husband approached, I heard him say in a soft voice, “Nice doggy, nice doggy:” After only a few minutes of urging, the dog began wagging his tail slowly, then struggled to his feet and ventured a few steps forward. My heart almost stopped beating as my husband carefully slipped a rope over the dog’s head-this very same man who earlier had said, “Now remember, Honey, we just cannot take in another dog,”-and then motioned for me to follow him, and our new dog, to the car.
