The Stray

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The driver in front of me was uncertain and plodding as he or she cautiously navigated a windy, two-lane road strewn with potholes and slicked with rain. As we approached the light, I hoped I would be the only car to go straight, the only driver undeterred by the rain, flash flooding, and an unlit road. Sure enough, the other cars broke right and left, and I forged ahead into the darkness: a rural, wooded stretch that I love to drive for its twists and turns, its clever delivery at the far side of the city in record time, and, sure, I admit it, its potential for mayhem.

I was perhaps only two hundred yards into my shortcut when I saw something light-colored dart in front of me. My mind flashed on, then eliminated, the possibilities: fox, cat, giant rat. Too furry, too clumsy, too big.

It was a dog.

I slammed on the breaks. As my car fishtailed to a stop, I saw that it was a 15-20 pound mix from what I call the “bedroom slipper” family of breeds–Bichon, Shih Tzu, Pekingnese, Maltese, etc. Its light-colored fur had grown completely over its eyes, and it looked altogether like a frazzled mop or unkempt wig skittering across the road.

But no, it was a terrified dog trotting in that way new strays do–a quick, nervous gate designed to create the appearance of having someplace to go, when really, they have no idea what to do next–the doggy equivalent of fronting. The fact that this dog was out in the rain crossing a road after 10 PM suggested to me that it was new to being alone in the elements. My own dog, a shelter mutt, survived for weeks in the woods as an abandoned puppy, and even now she retains vestigial traces of what she learned there: sunset is the time to find a place to hide, and pure darkness is the time to stay there.

In the seconds it took for the car to skid to a stop, I reconnected briefly with a former version of myself–the bleeding heart, the rescuer. I opened my door as the dog darted back into the oncoming lane, oblivious as to whether there were more cars behind us. Thank god there weren’t, or I might have gotten us all killed.

“Hey puppy,” I called in my sweet, doggy-come-hither voice.

It kept on going. Then there was a fraction of a second’s pause, when I had to decide my next move.

I ditch the car in the middle of the road. I step into the rain and continue to call out. The dog looks over its shoulder at me, then keeps on going. I go back to the car, move it to the shoulder, and grab some of my dog’s treats. I chase the stray into the waist-high weeds, where it lets me get a little closer, but not close enough. I draw it into the tall grass by the side of the road. I keep calling, it keeps slowing. We do this dance for half an hour. Cold and soaked and filthy, we eventually connect, I eventually win its trust to pick it up, I take it back to my car where–oh, shit, that’s right, I have my dog in the car. Holding the stray in one arm, I move my dog to the front seat, make a training lead out of my dog’s leash, and clip the stray to the back seat, hoping it won’t strangle itself to death on the drive to… Right. Where am I taking this dog again???

I knew what would happen, that by pursuing the dog I was committing myself to potentially days of hassle, as I tried to find its owner or get it situated in a no-kill shelter. I didn’t have it in me. I got back in the car and drove away.

I tried, but only a little. The old me would never have given up. My heart used to be so full and tender that I would never let an animal go. But over the last 20 years, it’s happened more and more.

The mewling I maybe heard, but didn’t investigate, because the last thing I needed was a basement full of feral kittens to re-home.

The dog I maybe saw at 70 MPH on the highway that I might have chased for an hour while my own dog sweltered in the car.

The wounded bird I surely saw as I was on my way to meet friends. I calculated: put my dog back in the house, find a box, find the bird, collect the bird, find a wildlife rehabilitator on a Sunday, deliver the bird…  I had theater tickets. People were waiting on me.

“Yes, a cat or car will get the bird tonight,” I reasoned. “But we’re not going to run out of robins any time soon.”

Old Me would be appalled. Time, mud, theater tickets, standing people up, the maddening complexity and hassle of trying to resolve the intractable problem of the stray–I used to be undeterred. I didn’t care what it cost, how long it took, who else was inconvenienced.

There have been many easy saves–dogs with tags that you can return within a day–over the years. And many hard ones too.

There’s the kitten my friend and I lured out from under a shed at a garden party, then re-homed after a lengthy campaign of signs on bulletin boards in literally every vet’s office and pet store in town.

There’s the 9 feral cats I TNR’d after I failed to rescue 4 kittens from under my porch. It wasn’t my fault–their mama moved them, and we didn’t know where to until it was too late: two kittens splayed lifelessly in the gutter after being hit by cars. A neighbor took in one of the survivors, and I managed to trap and neuter the fourth, along with 8 other ferals in the neighborhood. I am very good at trapping wild cats, by the way, and accidental possums too!

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Apparently it’s a perennial question, but at least now the Internet can help. Shelters are overloaded, though, so PREVENTION is the best option: Please spay/neuter your pets!

There were the two dogs I picked up at the side of the interstate as my friend John and I returned home from a road trip to Branson, Missouri, where we practically invented hipster irony in the summer of 1994. John was furious. I nearly killed us, then I brought two elated but flea- and tick-infested dogs into my Civic hatchback, then I delayed us further by procuring pet supplies and making phone calls to shelters–not easy, in the days before cell phones and the Internet. A few days later, I delivered the dogs to the Humane Society in my home town, where I made a hefty donation (for me, anyway) with the understanding that the dogs would be quarantined, then put up for adoption. A week later, when I learned they had been destroyed, I was devastated beyond description.

And then there was Jessie. Sometimes I rescued people too, especially elderly people in distress. They are unlikely to murder you if you give them rides, and doing so on very hot days might save their lives. I was staying with my sister after my first year of grad school, and my summer career plans–barista and professional dog walker–had fallen through. During the day, I would bum around the city, then I would pick my sister up at the train and drive us both home. If I didn’t show, she would have to walk a long, hot mile in her work clothes. She appreciated it when I made it. She did not appreciate it when I didn’t. And since I was living in a group house for very little money at her invitation, I felt obliged to accommodate her needs.

That day, it was about 1000 degrees and humid, so I spent the afternoon cooling off in an airy, downtown art museum. Just before closing, I used the restroom near the lockers. As I came out, there was an old, old woman fussing with the security guard. She was in her 80s, stooped from osteoporosis, and dressed tidily in the flowing layers of a lady artist. As I recall, she was wearing a floppy sunhat that, like her, must have been fabulous back in the day.

It quickly became apparent that Jessie had lost the key to her locker, which contained her purse, which contained her wallet, and she had no way to get home until she found them. The security guard was not-so-patiently opening every single locker in search of her belongings. It was a fascinating little drama, because the guard was clearly unconvinced that her purse was in any of the lockers. Suspenseful! I decided to see how it played out.

I was also acutely aware that it was hotter than blazes outside, and this old woman did not seem capable of making her way to the exit, let alone to an outer suburb. I was worried for her.

Eventually they did find her purse, and the guard took his leave. I followed her out of the building and into the harsh sunlight, where she looked around as uncertainly as any stray. She had no idea which way to go. I approached and asked if she needed help.

Over the course of the next hour, Jessie and I got to know one another as I addressed her immediate needs and tried to figure out where she lived. She was a widow and an artist and had painted President Franklin D. Roosevelt from life, she said, though years later I could discover no concrete evidence to support such an astounding claim. She was also hungry (that I could believe) and dehydrated, so I procured snacks and water. As we sat in some shade, I tried to make a plan to get her home. Since I was unfamiliar with the buses,  I suggested we take the train to my stop, fetch my car (and pick up & drop off my sister), then I could drive Jessie the rest of the way. But she was reluctant to go with me, and she could not remember her exact address, just the name of the complex she lived in. She preferred the bus, and I demurred, being 23 and reluctant to impose my will on an actual adult. We wandered around from bus stop to bus stop trying to find one that seemed right to her. Eventually we found what she surmised was the correct bus, and I waited with her until it came. I helped her board, I paid her fare, then I asked the driver if he could make sure she got off at the right stop.

“On or off,” he charged dismissively.

“What?” I said, completely flustered.

“On or off?” he said again. I realized he meant me.

“Ok, but can you just make sure she…”

On or OFF!” He was nearly yelling as he cut me off.

The driver was clearly a no-go, so I quickly turned my attention to the sweaty commuters spread before me. “Could somebody please make sure this lady gets off at [such-and-such stop]?” I pleaded.

Silence.

“ON OR OFF!” the driver bellowed once again.

I quickly did the math: If I stayed on, I would end up in a far flung part of the city with this old lady, entirely unsure of where we were going. If I ever did get her home, I would then have to find my way home as well. I didn’t have enough cash for a cab. And with every passing minute, my ability to retrieve my sister from the train station receded as a possibility. I could only imagine her wrath if I failed her on such a miserably hot day.

I got off the bus.

My sister was home already, and furious, by the time I arrived. I was desperately worried about Jessie, that she might collapse in the heat and die because I had abandoned her on the wrong bus. (I would search her name in the obituaries for weeks after, but I never found it.) I was so upset, I poured out the whole story to my sister. She listened but was unmoved–only exasperated with me for making her walk home.

In a way that’s inconveniently trite for this essay, my sister settled firmly on dogs as her metaphor du jour. Old people who can’t take care of themselves should not be venturing into the city, she lectured me. Because “it’s a dog eat dog world out there.”

And then, with a patronizing weariness that was tremendously unflattering to her 26 years, my sister concluded:

“You can’t save every stray dog in the world.”

She said this, without irony, about an 80-something year old human woman. I think about that statement now, as we argue over how best to serve our mother, an old woman who has lost all independence and who–if she ever starts to wander–will require the kindness of strangers to find her way home again. But that night, in the summer of 1995, my mother’s illness, our parents’ mortality, even our own middle-age seemed further in the future than jet packs and time travel. The issue at hand was this: a selfish, naive, hopelessly idealistic little sister needed a lesson in what mattered.

I left that conversation horrified–and certain. Jessie might not have painted Franklin D. Roosevelt from life, but she certainly drew a clear line between my sister and me. “Maybe you can’t save every stray dog,” I told myself. “But you can try.” I quietly vowed that I would never give up on my impulse to care, to help, to save; that I would never privilege propriety and deadlines above service to vulnerable creatures of all kinds; that I would never be like my sister.

And yet here I am. I let a sad, scared, soaked little dog run off into the night, because its fear of my gentle hand was convenient to me:

It was late.

My primary commitment was to my own dog.

I just had my car cleaned.

I couldn’t be less a person I respected when I was 23 if I supported legislation to legalize recreational whale torture. I look back on that girl and marvel at how strong and dumb and powerful she was, at how little she knew and how much she cared. She thought she could change the world, even just a little. Now, two decades on, the world remains all aleak, as though no one lifted a finger, ever. She’s tired and tied-down, but not by things that matter: a mortgage, work deadlines, and unsavory obligations that keep her tethered like a yard dog. Yet, with no kids, no husband, no boyfriend, not even an Internet date on the horizon, and a family tangle of sadness and recrimination–in her relationships, she’s untethered like a stray, trotting nervously at the social margins in order to create the appearance of direction and purpose.

“I have a life,” says the stray.

I have people, I’m not out here all alone.

I don’t need to be rescued.

It’s the lie stray creatures tell themselves when they are too scared to accept the lifeline right in front of them. That dog slipped into the darkness as though it never existed. Jessie waved to me from the bus window before disappearing without a trace. Marie looked over her shoulder one last time before she left for good.

Every minute of this life, we perch uneasily on the brink of catastrophe and at the cusp of salvation. We are all rescuers and rescued alike. Somehow I knew the world at 23, but now I am learning it all over again. There is no line between saving and being saved.

 

 

The Kindness of Strangers

I am a little overwhelmed. I don’t work especially hard at my job anymore, due to depression and burnout. But even so, the little details of life tend to elude me. There are leaves that need raking, plaster and drywall that need patching, an oven in need of repair, a tree in need of an arbor, there’s that light that hasn’t worked right for years, shoes that need to go back to the store, laundry and dishes and bills piling up, the dog’s tick treatment, issues with the title on the house, email to my mom’s doctor, that prescription waiting for me at the wrong pharmacy, and on and on and on.

I write this list in the passive voice deliberately, because the grammatically potent, active-voice truth often feels too lonely to bear: All of these tasks–and many others of far greater consequence–fall to me. There is no one to help. On the great sea of life, I am the only person keeping me afloat.

And yet.

Every now and then, someone does a kindness that takes off just a little weight. It happened today, the smallest thing, but when I realized it, it felt like I had been saved from drowning.

I know of what I speak, because I almost drowned. Let me tell you a story.

Senator John McCain and I have precisely one thing in common: We both have been plucked from the water by kindly Vietnamese people, though thankfully I was not subsequently incarcerated in the Hanoi Hilton for five years.

I was on a three-week tour of Vietnam with my parents, who were in their late sixties at the time. Escorting two senior citizens–even seniors as chill and capable as my parents were back then–through a developing
world country–even one as gorgeous and hospitable as the Socialist Republic of Vietnam, is a little stressful. Ok, more than stressful. After about ten days, I was ready to either defect or kill them both.

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Fan boats in Ha Long Bay.

At just that point in the trip, we took an overnight cruise aboard the Emeraude, a replica of a 19th-century French paddleboat, in majestic Ha Long Bay. It was a luxurious experience, complete with free mini mai tais upon boarding, which both of my parents declined. Not being one to leave money on the table, and desperately needing to relieve some stress, I drank all three.

Nicely toasted, I enjoyed the balmy breezes as we set sail for our first stop, a small island that featured a swimming beach, a mountain, and a pagoda atop a winding flight of some 400 stairs. We decided to try it, my father with his bad heart, my mother with her bad knees, and me with my mai tai-impaired judgement. My father petered out part way up and sat heavily on a bench to catch his breath. (He would have four stents put in his coronary arteries about six weeks later, so my great fear that I was going to have to find a coffin in Vietnam for a 6’4″ man was not totally unfounded.) Mom and I made it to the top in good time, but then, as we climbed down, her pace slowed dramatically.

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The island.

In concern for both parents, mindful of the departing pontoon boat, and desperate to keep moving after 10 sedentary days, I kept climbing down to my dad, then back up to my mom, then down again, perhaps doubling or tripling the number of stairs in the journey. By the time we all reached the bottom, I was tired and ready to scream. I needed some me-time, and I remembered this talk-show anecdote Drew Barrymore once told about feeling pent up on a cruise, and how she dove off the boat and swam to a nearby island. I could do that in reverse, right?

It didn’t look that far.

I’ll add here that I grew up in the midwest, and we are not “boat people,” so while I was a strong swimmer who had completed advanced lifeguard training in high school, I had little experience with the sea. Apparently, people like that–like me–tend to be very bad at judging distance over open water. I learned that pearl of wisdom from a fellow passenger, a boating instructor in Sydney Harbor, after I became known on the Emeraude as “the girl who nearly drowned.”

I gave my parents my ID, room key, and sandals and told them I was going to skip the pontoon boat and swim back to the Emeraude by myself. Uncharacteristically, they didn’t really say much except “Ok! See ya later!”

Which makes me think they were sick of me too.

I walked into the water wearing nothing but some black shorts, a sports bra, a long-sleeve t-shirt, and the tipsy confidence of a would-be manic pixie dreamgirl. The water was warm and lovely! I paddled capably through the swimming area and made it to the floating ball that demarcated the edge. It was slow going! I was breathing HARD and clung to the buoy while I caught my breath. I had lost track of time and was starting to worry that the pontoon boat might beat me back to the big boat, my parents would think I was somewhere aboard, and the Emeraude would leave without me. I needed to press on.

Plus, it didn’t look that far.

While I was weighing my options, a young Vietnamese man stopped to check on me. He lived on the island and had swum out to the Emeraude to see friends who worked on the ship. There was a little swimming platform on the back of the boat where guests and off-duty crew were enjoying the water. I saw him waive goodbye to his friends, jump in the surf, and swim towards me, passing by as I was clinging to the buoy and heaving for breath.

“You…ok?’ he asked in halting English but with obvious concern.

“I’m fine! Fine!” I cheerfully waived him off. Then, as if to prove it, I set out once again. Freestyle, sidestroke, breast, other sidestroke–I kept switching it up as my muscles would start to fatigue.

Almost there! It didn’t look that far.

In my midwestern ignorance of open water, I hadn’t considered the current. Of course! The buoys marked the borders of a “safe” swimming area that was unaffected by current. Once outside it, the water’s calm surface hid a secret power, pushing pushing pushing pushing me away from my destination.

More swimming, different strokes, but my strength was failing. I knew I was in trouble, but I still had perhaps 20 yards to go. It might as well have been a mile. (And yet, it didn’t look that far!)

I was struggling, and my limbs felt like lead. Due to my lifeguard training, I knew that the most important thing was to remain calm. I did. I paused, vertical in the water and barely able to keep my head above its gentle waves. I called out to the Vietnamese men on the swimming platform.

“I need some help!” They ignored me.

I saw a white woman standing at the railing nearby. “Would you tell them I need some help?” She stared at me blankly, like a cow waiting to be fed. Then she walked away.

Shit.

Or should I say, “Merde.” I learned later that she was French, and neither she nor the Vietnamese men lounging on the deck understood English. My calm demeanor belied my desperation.

I kept going, advancing against the current in a mighty effort. I had two worries. The most pressing was that I was going to die. A close second was that I was going to be nude from the waist down when it happened. You see, my shorts were not actually board shorts. They got all stretchy in the water, and they kept slipping down below my hips, causing me to expend energy I couldn’t afford pulling them back up. Oh, did I mention I wasn’t wearing any panties? I pictured my mother’s embarrassment when they pulled my lifeless, pants-less body from the water.

And still, I forced myself to remain calm. I had a plan. I estimated that there was enough life in my limbs to swim for another 30 seconds. At that point, I was going to shift to a “dead man’s float” to conserve energy. I would let the current carry me out to sea and hope that someone would notice and come to my aid. Basically, I was going to surrender my life to chance, beyond any further control of mine, having expended the last of my reserves to save it.

I was now perhaps 30 or 40 feet from the Emeraude’s swimming deck, where the Vietnamese men were chatting happily in complete indifference to the life-or-death struggle unfolding just yards away. I called out to them once more.

“I need some help!” This time, the brittle edge to my voice caused them to stop talking. They looked at me, but no one moved.

I was exhausted, spent, perhaps ten seconds away from the dead-man plan. “Remain calm” was so ingrained in me that I failed to realize: Now is the time to go insane, to scream, to disrupt the calm of those around you, to demand, “HELP ME SAVE MY FUCKING LIFE!”

Instead, I was silent. Time to float away.

And then something miraculous happened!

The young man, the one who had asked if I was ok when I was clinging to the buoy–I didn’t know it, but he had been following me, in anticipation of the great danger I was now facing.

At just that moment, when all my strength was gone, he swam up behind me and gently took my hand, as though he were assisting a lady as she stepped across a puddle. It was nothing, just the barest gesture of assistance, and yet it was everything–literally everything. With him taking off the slightest amount of weight, I found my strength again, and my head rocketed above the water. He called out in Vietnamese to the men on the boat, and they realized in horror what was happening. Lots of scurrying, shouting–I remember thinking, “Maybe y’all shouldn’t keep the life preserver in the closet.”

They threw it to me. I am a person who has literally had a donut-shaped life-preserver thrown to her. It landed a few feet to my front, my rescuer helped me reach for it, a guy on the boat jumped in and frantically thrashed towards us, and in the commotion I found the strength to kick my way to safety. I still had to climb the ladder, however. I slipped, badly scraping my shins, but I made it up and onto the deck…where I promptly fell down, because there was nothing left in my legs. I sat there in tremendous embarrassment while kind Vietnamese people fussed over me.

“Thank you. Cám ơn. Cám ơn. Thank you.” There was nothing else to say.

Today, I was finishing some errands on a miserable late-fall day. I returned to my car in haste, trying not to linger in the cold rain. My electronic key worked instantly, I hopped in, and drove away. Later, I realized…the key was supposed to be broken.

For weeks, that key has been a source of constant irritation, as its battery slowly died. And yet, I could never remember to add it to the list of mundane, yet overwhelming tasks that need attention. Today I took my car in for service. The guy who did the intake would have noticed that the key wasn’t working. He must have changed the battery for me. I was overwhelmed by his kindness and started crying when I realized that sometimes there is help beyond what my tired body can do.

I’m sure if I called to thank him, he would say that it was nothing, just the barest gesture of assistance. And yet it was everything–literally everything. Because removing even the slightest amount of weight is sometimes all you have to do to save a stranger from drowning.

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I took this picture of the Emeraude (right) from atop the pagoda. You can’t even see the beach from whence I began my swim down below. Turns out, it was really fucking far!