A Place in Heaven

Here’s an observation.

In between the days - the good days, bad days, days you can’t hardly wait on to get here, and days you’re sure you should’ve stayed in bed – in between all those days, every now and again there’s one that, providing you survive it, is so grim, so awful, so bloated with misery and so terrifying, that it will wipe clean your transgressions and assure you a place in heaven.  Here’s mine.

It started with a frantic text from my friend, Michael, currently in New York City for Fashion Week.  The cur dog had broken out of the kennel, nearly breaking the handler’s wrist in the process, and bolted for the woods.  A six person search party had been formed and there had been a half dozen sightings across the pond at the tree line but he was still missing.  Michael was out of his mind with worry, trying desperately to make arrangements to leave three days early, but paralyzed with stress.

I’m on my way, I texted him back and rushed out of the house, not giving the first thought to the fact that I was – to be delicate, scantily clad - in pajama pants and a camisole.  It was pouring rain and starting to get cold but I didn’t really notice.

Just after I got off the interstate, I noticed that the defroster didn’t seem to be working and severely cursing it didn’t seem to help.  Barely able to see, I swiped at the windshield and fiddled with the knobs for a few miles, all to no avail.  That was when I glanced down and saw that the temperature gage had sky rocketed into the red and when I looked up again, I saw clouds of steam pouring from under the hood.  I pulled to the side of the road and reached for my cell, which chose that exact moment to malfunction and refuse to let me call or text.  The next half hour was a horror show – I was able to drive no more than a quarter mile at a time and thoughts of burning up the engine kept creeping into my mind.  I finally reached the end of the dirt road that led to the kennel – now a mass of mud and foot deep, undercarriage destroying ruts – and pulled over again to re-boot my cell and pray.  Two kennel employees, part of the failed search party so it turned out, drove out and I stopped them and sent them back for water for the radiator.  Once that was finally accomplished, I was at last able to navigate the dirt road and get to the kennel.

The owner, waiting for me on his front porch in a yellow rain slicker and so distressed he was nearly in tears, led me across the property to the edge of the woods.  It was now raining like a monsoon and bitterly cold.  I was up to my ankles in mud with every step and suddenly realized I was absolutely freezing.  We called and called and called some more, for better than a half hour but there was no sign of the cur dog.  Beaten and on the very brink of hopeless, we went back to the house for hot coffee and warm towels and tried to make a plan.  We watched and waited for the next two hours before finally facing the fact that there was nothing more we could do.  He called for a taxi and gave me $40 to pay for it, then offered to have my car towed the next morning, at his expense.  The part of me that knew it had been an accident protested this – the part that was fighting frostbite, drowning, and something on its way to semi-nudity accepted.

The taxi was warm and I climbed in feeling defeated and near tears.

As we’re driving out, I need you to watch for a medium sized brown dog,  I told the driver, He’ll be wet and dragging a leash and……………

Like that one? the driver asked before I could even settle back against the seat and I looked out the window and saw the cur dog, standing alertly on the other side of the fence, drenched, cold and shivering slightly.  I know I yelled something – I don’t remember exactly what – and then threw the door open and staggered out, shouting the dog’s name and nearly falling.  I made my way down the road to the gate, praying he hadn’t gone far, and there he was – quite a distance off but standing still and watching me.  I began to call his name, whistle, clap my hands but it wasn’t until I turned and pretended to walk away that he came toward me, stopping maybe fifty feet from the gate and refusing to come any further.

There was nothing to be done except climb the padlocked gate and hope he wouldn’t run.  Once I was on the other side – no small feat for a soggy, freezing, 67 year old woman in her underwwear – I sunk to my knees in the mud and called his name and he came, all sixty wet, filthy pounds bounding like a puppy and knocking me flat.  For a relieved ten seconds or so, I knew I’d never been happier to see a dog in my entire life, then it dawned me that we were now on the wrong side of the gate.  Lifting him up and over a six foot gate was clearly out of the question and I didn’t see being able to climb and carry him.  I thought I might be able to pull him through the spaces between the metal bars but I needed to be on the other side to do it.  I managed to throw his leash over the top of the gate, climb over, and then squeeze, coax and push-pull him through unscathed.  Through the pouring rain and mud we walked – well, he trotted and I trudged – back to the kennel, as if we were on a Sunday afternoon stroll.  The owner hugged him first, then me.

I didn’t mind.