The dog had no name. He lived in someone's back yard, a police
officer's in fact, who must have called him something. A name
like Max is too familiar, too warm; Max is the name of a dog who
has frisbees thrown for him. One look at the yellow dog and you'd
know he'd had no frisbees tossed his way, probably just some rocks
hurled by neighborhood kids as they walked through the alley on
their way home from school. Could his name have been something
like Stanley? Zach? Killer? Any name would probably do; the only
time it was ever uttered was to direct him back into the wire
cage, his home, that sat near the fence of an unremarkable Chicago
yard. How did it get to this point? How did it get to the point to where
a neighbor, despite her deep fear of possible repercussions, would
finally make an anonymous call, pleading that someone, anyone,
come help this wretched thing? Perhaps when he was a puppy, the
yellow dog was loved. Maybe he chased balls and was taken for
long walks along the lake shore, although to look at him covered
with sores and listless in the yard, it was impossible to imagine.
Maybe he was cast out of the home when the neighborhood got bad,
a silent but hulking threat to anyone who might dare trespass.
Possibly the police officer got married and his wife didn't like
dogs. Whatever the particulars, this dog had been living in the
yard for so long that the look of him said, "This is just the
way it is" and he expected no more, content with his misery, as
dogs tend to be. Still, on that quiet January night, the sight of him was a shock.
The three who came to feed him and coax him into the car in the
alley were speechless at what their eyes beheld, prepared though
they were for a gruesome sight. There it was looking back at them,
a bloated, swollen creature, pale under the moon and almost unrecognizable
as a dog, except for the frost-bitten ears and hairless vertabrae
of a tail. The dog was quiet, though, like they'd hoped and they
started working. They tossed food to him and, his hunger being greater than his
apprehension, he gobbled it up. In hushed, soothing voices probably
never before heard by him, the three women talked to him while
he ate, calling him sweetie, honey. "It’s okay, sweetie, we’re here for you..." They continued to throw the food, progressively closer and closer
still to their own feet, and he continued to eat, gulping up dirty
snow with each hungry mouthful. When the time was right, the one
who was holding the leash arranged it into a slip-knot behind
her back and casually dangled it by the side of her leg. More
food, more quiet praise. Finally, when they had the yellow dog
where they wanted him, the one with the leash, deft from practice
at the shelter where she had once worked, quickly looped it around
his swollen throat. They whipped around and ran to the alley where
the car waited. He wasn't familiar with leashes or cars; he wasn't familiar with
anything but the yard and his cage. He braced his body when they
tried to coax him into this metal contraption, so the three friends
had to hoist his body, heavy and bloated, onto the back seat.
The dog didn't do much as they drove away, driving through the
city and past sights he had never seen. He sat in eerie silence
as they drove miles and miles away to what would be his new home
and his new life with one of the three who walked into his yard
just 20 minutes before, Amanda. In his new home, there were steps. Steps leading up to it and
steps inside of it. They had to push his big frame from behind
to get him to walk up the stairs, which must have seemed like
confusing and awkwardly stacked slabs of grass-less ground to
a dog who had never walked on them before. Finally, they got him
up all the steps and into the room where he would stay until it
was okay for him to be around the other animals. He slept alone
in the room in his new home, but he was warm and he was safe. The next day, he saw the vet. He had heart worms, intestinal worms,
a testicular tumor and Cushing's disease, which affects the liver.
Although he appeared to be overweight, in fact he was severely
under-nourished; his bloatedness was caused by the Cushing's disease.
When the vet asked for the dog's name, Amanda said "Luther," because
the day she took him home was Martin Luther King Day. Luther was very sick for the first week in his new home, so Amanda
spent a lot of time alone with him, petting him and talking to
him. It was during this time, as Luther began to slowly recover,
that he felt a genuine companionship with another living being.
He felt warmth when that person was near, loneliness when she
was not, anticipation when he could hear her walking up the steps
to his room. Eventually he got stronger, his swelling went down
and his sores healed. During his convalescence, he went through
a much more profound change than just the physical healing: he
learned that life wasn't simply to be endured. He felt things in one week that contradicted years and years of
learned experience. Despite the years of examples that taught
him over and over again to not trust anyone, Luther's heart was
so genuine, so infinite in its capacity for love, that a lifetime
of experience dissolved in less than one week. His love for Amanda
was so pure, it was as though kindness and affection were all
he'd ever known. After a short time, Luther got to know the other
animals that shared his home, but Amanda was always his primary
focus. When she was home, he could always be found right at her
side. At the local shelter, there is cage after cage of dogs and cats
who have known extreme misery in their lives. They've been burned,
kicked, thrown, starved and neglected; contrary to what one may
expect, many still look out past the bars with love and hope when
they meet a pair of human eyes. The bony, mangy dog thumps his
tail shamelessly against the back of the cage when someone simply
bends down to look at him; the cat purrs wildly, rubbing her burned
and scarred body against the cage door. Despite what they've experienced,
they still expect the best in us. It's shocking; it makes some
people want to yell,"What’s the matter with you? How can you still
want to see another person after all that we've done?!?" Their
capacity for forgiveness, their willingness to drop their defenses,
their ability to love fiercely despite how many times their hearts
may have been trampled upon makes people love and pity them at
the same time. Luther lived the kind of life he always should have for a year
and a half until his medication stopped being effective and he
was unable to walk without pain. He got to experience more in
his short time with Amanda than he did his entire life: he got
to play and run and know that he was safe. For the first time
in his life he had toys, steady food, a warm bed. The only thing
he wanted, though, was to be near Amanda. When it hurt him too
much to follow her around the house or go on walks, she knew it
was best that he not suffer, that he die still enjoying his life.
Luther was euthanized on July 8, 1998, surrounded by those who
loved him and he is buried in Amanda's yard, a place of warm memories
for him. What a wonderful gift they gave each other; Luther learned
that there was kindness in this world, that life was to be enjoyed,
and Amanda had the opportunity to show him that, and to somehow
redeem the human race. They were both so fortunate to have had
that chance.
Luther
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