Street Life

The mats began at the middle of her back. They were the size of my hand and as thick as my wrist. Her belly, back legs and tail were almost completely hairless. Patches of skin on her sides were raw and inflamed. She was rib-showing scrawny, black with fleas and smelled like some decaying dead thing. Annoyed that I didn't have a leash in my glove box, I undid the shoe laces of my Nikes, tied them together as a makeshift leash and led her to my car. She was docile as a lamb, following along without protest and immediately curling up on the passenger seat and laying her head on her paws with an exhausted sigh. She was asleep in seconds.

It was after nine on a Saturday night and the question was what to do with her next.

With three dogs of my own and no way to confine a possibly contagious stray, my house wasn't an option.

The animal emergency clinic turned me down flat and the local rescues were overflowing.

I drove home with no clear plan except the last resort - to call the pound - but after I'd let my own dogs out and back in and tried to lead the stray into the back yard, she balked and fought with every ounce of resistance she had left. I gave in and let her back in the car where she clearly felt safe, rolled down the windows (saying a thankful prayer that it wasn't 110 degrees) and brought her food and water. She wolfed two bowls of Pedigree without taking a breath and gulped down the water. I locked the car and went inside to do battle with animal control, who, predictably, wanted no part of the problem. I listened patiently to all the reasons they didn't want to do their job then calmly read them the law, which says they are required to pick up confined strays, even after nine on a Saturday night.

“I don't know how long it'll be,” the dispatcher tells me sullenly.

But I have played this game before. “I'll wait,” I assure her.

But of course Michael would have none of it. “Bring her to me,” he demands in a text message, “Mama and Papa will take her.” I refuse.

“You know they'll just kill her at the pound,” he continues. I'm sure he's right but I still refuse.

He actually cons his parents into agreeing to take her, swears he'll bathe and dip her, keep her quarantined from his dogs and deliver her on Monday.

“She can't spend the night in your car,” he finishes reasonably enough - a fair point - and besides, I realize grimly, he'll badger me until I agree.

In his kitchen, we cut off all the mats we can manage, ending up with enough fur to make a good sized cat, and she devours another two servings of Pedigree and empties the water bowl. After a warm bath, a gentle brushing and a flea pill, she settles into a crate and makes a nest in a pile of blankets and pillows. Cleaned up, the neglect is even more shocking but she falls asleep in seconds. As bad as she looks, she has a sweet, shaggy terrier face and I begin to think there might be a slim chance for a happy ending. That hope is shattered the following day when her owner surfaces - a brittle, most surely unwell old woman who can barely care for herself and who her neighbors think has some form of dementia - she has no transportation so they bring her to Michael's and she claims the dog. She has an excuse for everything, declines all offers of help, and he reluctantly surrenders her.

“I get you did what you thought was right,” I tell him coldly, “But you've sent an abused dog back to her abuser. If I ever see her on the streets again, I promise it won't happen twice.”

“It was her dog,” he says miserably.

The stark truth of this simple statement stops me in my tracks and my fury abruptly dissipates. He did more than most would have and there's no point in beating him up about it because he wasn't willing to become a dognapper.

I, on the other hand, am already a dognapper and if there's a next time with this particular dog, I'll write a different ending.