Did I Rescue Her, or Did She Rescue Me?

I was supposed to DoorDash today.

Instead, I kidnapped someone’s elderly Labradoodle.

Temporarily.

And in my defense, she got into the van willingly.

I was driving through an industrial area when I noticed her walking alongside the road by herself. There wasn’t anywhere convenient to stop, and for a brief moment I did what people probably do a thousand times every day when they see something slightly out of place: I assumed it would work itself out.

She’s probably fine.

Then I looked in my rearview mirror and watched a triaxle dump truck nearly hit her.

“Absolutely not.”

There are moments when the brain conducts a careful analysis of the available information, weighs the risks, considers the alternatives, and develops a sensible course of action.

This was not one of those moments.

I turned around at the first gas station I could find and went back for the dog.

The road wasn’t exactly designed for an impromptu animal rescue, so I used the van to block traffic long enough to get to her. I opened the side door.

She climbed in.

That was apparently our entire adoption process.

I already travel with Loki, my 105-pound German Shepherd, so my van is considerably better prepared for unexpected dogs than it is for unexpected humans. She climbed onto the bed and made herself comfortable like we’d scheduled this.

All right, then.

I had a dog.

We pulled somewhere safe and I gave her some water. She was older, clearly belonged to somebody, and seemed perfectly happy to accept that for the foreseeable future I was apparently her Uber driver.

The problem was that I had absolutely no idea where she belonged.

So DoorDash was canceled.

That wasn’t even a decision I remember making. There was no internal debate about lost income or how long finding her owner might take. She was in my van now. She needed help. Therefore, until she was home, this was what I was doing.

Time was irrelevant.

Our first stop was the dollar store, because I needed a leash. I also had no idea how long she’d been wandering around or when she’d last eaten, so I bought her a little Cesar meal—rotisserie chicken with gravy.

I don’t know what sort of day she’d had before meeting me, but things were definitely looking up.

She’d almost been flattened by a dump truck and now she was reclining in a van eating chicken and gravy.

Next stop was a veterinarian to see whether she had a microchip.

She did.

This seemed promising.

While we waited, she discovered that veterinarians possess treats and immediately began exploiting this information. Whatever trauma she may have experienced from being lost had apparently not diminished her ability to manipulate humans into giving her snacks.

The chip was registered through PetLink, so we contacted them. They tried the owners.

Nothing.

They couldn’t reach them.

Well, shoot.

I posted about finding her, and someone suggested taking her to Sable Kennels.

Absolutely not.

Maybe that’s a perfectly reasonable option for someone else, but I wasn’t taking a senior dog who had already had one heck of a day and dropping her at a pound.

As far as I was concerned, she was with me until I found her people.

Again, time was irrelevant.

And that’s an important part of this story.

I just didn’t know it yet.

While we were waiting and trying to figure out what to do next, my new friend and I took a little walk outside the veterinarian’s office.

I say “little” because it was.

Very little.

And it became unpleasant.

This is probably where I need to explain something about my health, because without it, what happened next sounds considerably less important than it actually was.

I have significant coronary artery disease. I’ve had six heart attacks. I’ve had multiple coronary stents placed, including one about six months ago. I’ve also had seven pulmonary embolisms and remain on anticoagulation.

In other words, when my chest starts objecting to physical activity, this isn’t my first conversation with it.

I’ve learned something else over the years: my body does not always communicate cardiac problems as dramatically as television would have you believe. I don’t necessarily collapse clutching my chest. I have experienced remarkably little pain during events that turned out to be very serious.

So lately, when relatively minor exertion has started producing chest discomfort and shortness of breath, I’ve noticed.

Walking faster than a casual stroll can bring it on. Carrying something a short distance can bring it on. Stairs can leave me winded.

And it stops when I stop.

That’s a pattern worth paying attention to in anybody.

With my history, it’s a pattern I have absolutely no business casually dismissing.

I already had a cardiology appointment scheduled. I knew I needed to be evaluated. I also knew I needed money, and unfortunately heart disease has yet to convince utility companies, creditors, or grocery stores to accept “medically inadvisable to work today” as a form of payment.

So I had planned to DoorDash.

Then I found a dog.

And while we were outside the veterinarian’s office, we took that very short walk.

It became unpleasant.

We stopped.

Then we got back in the van and continued our adventure.

At the time, I didn’t attach some profound meaning to that walk. I wasn’t standing outside the vet contemplating mortality while inspirational music played in the background.

I had a lost dog.

The lost dog needed to go home.

That was the problem in front of me, so that was the problem I was solving.

PetLink hadn’t been able to reach her owners, and eventually I decided the best thing to do was return to where I’d found her. Maybe somebody nearby would recognize her.

The problem was that there really wasn’t anywhere safe to park along that stretch of road.

There were, however, houses.

So I did something I normally have absolutely no desire to do.

I drove down a stranger’s private driveway and voluntarily initiated a conversation with another human being.

If you know me, this may actually be the strongest evidence of divine intervention in the entire story.

There was a woman outside getting something from a cooler. She looked miserable. Her husband started walking toward the van.

I rolled down my window.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Sorry to bother you. I found a dog—”

She didn’t even let me finish.

“Oh my God! Is it a Labradoodle?”

Well, that was encouraging.

I opened the side door.

And there it was.

Recognition.

Excitement.

Relief.

My passenger was home.

After about two hours riding around with some strange man in a minivan, getting water, chicken and gravy, veterinary treats, a new leash and a complimentary medical scan, she was back with the people who loved her.

She even had a Chihuahua brother waiting for her.

I drove away ridiculously happy.

I’d saved a dog.

That’s what I thought the story was.

And honestly, that would have been enough.

Then, hours later, I started thinking about that walk outside the vet.

And about what I had originally planned to be doing while all of this was happening.

I was supposed to be DoorDashing.

Had I not seen that dog, I would have spent those hours getting in and out of the van, walking across parking lots, going into restaurants, carrying orders to houses and climbing whatever steps happened to be between me and somebody’s dinner.

Then accepting another order.

And doing it again.

And again.

That distinction matters.

I wasn’t simply “not feeling well.”

I wasn’t nursing a cold or dealing with a sore back and unexpectedly getting an afternoon of rest.

I am a man with six previous heart attacks, multiple coronary interventions, and a recent stent who has once again begun experiencing chest discomfort and shortness of breath during increasingly minor exertion.

And I was about to spend several hours repeatedly exerting myself.

My heart had already been giving me reasons not to do that.

I was going to do it anyway.

I need the money.

That doesn’t mean I’m unaware of the risk. If anything, my history means I understand it better than I would like to.

It means human beings are remarkably good at negotiating with themselves when stopping is inconvenient.

I’ll take it easy.

I’ll only accept short deliveries.

I’ll avoid orders with lots of steps.

If it gets worse, I’ll stop.

There is always another little compromise available when you don’t want to accept what your body is telling you.

The problem with that reasoning is that the human heart isn’t obligated to give you increasingly stern warnings until you finally decide to cooperate.

Sometimes the warning is the warning.

I knew that.

I was still going to work.

But then a dog almost got hit by a dump truck.