Simple Human Kindness versus a Well Manicured Lawn

It hit me like a truck last night. It crushed my heart where only moments before I had been lilted to the sky watching an innocent puppy play with a tennis ball in lost moments of reckless abandon, tail wagging as high as it could get, prancing up and down the block as if it was a magic tennis ball kingdom.

In order to tell this story, I guess I have to go back to the beginning, though. Otherwise, it won't make much sense. So, where did it all begin?

I guess it started with the bad economy, and the number of people who have lost their jobs and their homes. I suppose that's why we never had so many stray dogs in the neighborhood before, but now they arrive almost on a daily basis, in pairs, alone, even in small packs made up of chichuahuas, poodles and terriers, strange and non-threatening combinations.

I began to take the dogs to the shelter, because as much as I did not want to play any part in their demise, I thought it would be safer for them to have a place to sleep and eat, and a chance to be adopted. Slim, but always possible.

The dogs showed up in such numbers that soon even the shelter was saying, "Yeah, we'll be out there to get them," in a very insincere tone.

Well, one evening, a pack of these vagabond pups took shelter in my front yard. They were a tragic band. One had been hit by a car, was limping and exhibited no appetite. Another was so badly matted that the hair was choking the circulation from its legs. Still another had one good eye and one completely covered by a huge cataract.
I called the animal shelter, and waited for them to arrive, but they never showed.

Days later, I noticed that the pack was gone. All of them but one, the pup with the cataract. He roamed the blocks of my neighborhood, tail between his legs, quivering, hunkered down under parked cars which he felt were a source of protection. He was thin, but not so badly that I could see every rib. I thought to myself, "This guy really has the will to keep going against all odds."

Having just returned from picking up some dinner during my month-long struggle to overcome flu/asthma/not feeling very good, I decided that I would make his night, so I pulled over my Jeep, rolled down the window and began to fillet a chicken thigh for him, feeding him the pieces as I went.

It took him a few days to show up in my front lawn, but when he did, I fed him. He was so skiddish that he didin't want to be touched or petted. He would eat, look at me with thanks out of his one good eye, and go on his way.

My mom remembered having a friend in high school who also had the same eye condition, so we named the dog Louie after her friend Ella Lou Armstrong. It took him 2.5 seconds to learn that he had a name.

At CVS, they had dog beds on sale for $5.99, the little intertube-looking type with a big paw print in the center. I picked one up, figuring most dogs don't even like them. However, Louie moved it to a prominent place on my front walkway and curled up for the night.

I was hoping that I could tame Louie enough so that I could take him to the vet, get him checked out, and then maybe run an add for him to go to a good home. He has such a sweet disposition that he would make an excellent companion for anyone who is in need of one. I was making good progress, too. I stopped by Ross, and this time I bought him a stuffed weiner dog that squeeked for $2.99.

He appeared non-plussed when I presented it to him, but he accepted it graciously. It must have been about 1:30 in the morning when my own dogs started barking like wild things. I looked out the front window expecting to find street hoodlums of one kind or another, or another pack of wayward hounds, but no. It was just Louie, jumping up and down in the middle of the street, throwing his weiner dog into the air, catching it, squeeking it, chasing it, loving it. I had never seen such innocence before. It touched me deeply.

Well, all weekend I was doing my acting gig at the museum, saying basically the same thing over and over to each group of visitors that came my way. When I arrived home, I was looking forward to relaxing, just vegging really. But on my way down the side street my eye caught Louie, playing again in joyous reckless abandon. This time, somebody had provided him with a tennis ball.

I pulled into the driveway, and went back out to the street so I could help Louie rescue the ball from under the tire of a parked car. Then I threw and he caught, and I threw and he caught and chased and wagged and appreciated every second. I went in the house to fill his little bowl, and when I came out, I was approached by a neighbor from across the street.

"I know your fond of that dog," he began, "but he's pooping in my yard, and that's not too nice."

"He's not my dog. He's just a stray that was starving."

"Well, you better put him in your back yard, or I am going to have to call the pound, or get rid of him one way or another. I have kids that come over there. Haivng them step in the poop isn't too nice."

"I have kids that come over here, too. I just pick up the poop when a dog goes in my yard, along with the newspapers and ads people throw, and the trash from the ice cream man..."

"I will get rid of him."

I looked at little Louie, innocently curled up in his cheapy CVS bed, oblivious to the fact that this man who loves grass more than other living things was going to hurt him. I remembered the pictures in my mind of Louie, just moments before, having the time of his life with a simple tennis ball.

I wondered, "Are some of God's creatures just put here to suffer? Did I do harm by giving Louie a day or two of love?"

And I put him in my back yard, where he won't be able to stay because I would be well over the limit that the city allows. I will have to work hard to ever feel anything positive toward that neighbor again. Honestly, I will.