For a couple of
years, Harley lived inside a pen about twelve by eight square feet. His owners—our
neighbors—had a regular yard, in which their other dog, Snoopy, a manic little
Schnauzer who bears no resemblance to his laid-back namesake, was allowed to roam.
Most of the time, Snoopy hung out in the
house, where he perched like a little tyrant king on the back of the couch,
surveying his paltry kingdom through his picture window and barking obsessively
at the indifferent citizens who dared walk past. Meanwhile, Harley sat in his
pen, through rain, snow, and hail, freezing nights and scorching summer days.
He had a doghouse but barely fit in it. He sat in his pen, which the owners
cleaned infrequently, and waited for something to happen.
Harley, a big
black dog, had a namesake, too. His
owner—let’s call him Tom—wanted a Harley Davidson,
which are very expensive, so the family gave him the dog as a surrogate. It was
a funny story until Tom got a motorized Harley, and our furry friend became
redundant.
One side of his
pen bordered part of our property. When a chance for human contact arrived, he’d
put his front paws on top of the old wire fence, which swayed with his weight
and gratitude. Then his paws gripped the arm that reached over; his tongue
flapped at the hand that scratched his handsome head and the white blaze on his
chest. It was only a passing visit, though, and he knew it: when you withdrew
your arm he gripped it more tightly, desperately wanting to keep you there.
Because otherwise it was just a pen full of shit, and his owner may have provided
food and water but he left Harley empty.
What could we, should
we do for that dog? Daily, we walked by Tom’s open garage, where he kept his
Harley Davidson, all shiny black. Oddly, the radio was always playing a classic
rock station, as though to keep the motorcycle company, but we hardly ever saw
Tom. When we did, we were friendly. We didn’t mention that Harley was being
terribly mistreated. What would we say? Would you please let him in the house
once in a while? Would you clean up his shit? Would you treat him like a living
creature and not an old tire? I didn’t have the courage to speak up.
Another neighbor,
who fed Harley a warm hot dog every day, got Animal Control to come out and
have a look, but as long as he had shelter and food and water, they said they
couldn’t do anything.
One day, suddenly,
he was gone. Soon after, his pen was cleaned out. I missed him and worried
about him. A couple days went by and I didn’t see Tom or his wife, so I called
the shelter, but they didn’t have a recent record of a black dog with a white
blaze. I drove to the shelter to look for myself; I drove to the pound. There
were plenty of dogs needing a home, but no Harley. Eventually, the hot-dog neighbor
passed on the news: Tom had given Harley to a friend, presumably someone who
would take better care of him.
I was glad his story
had a happy ending. However, I wish I could rewrite my part in his story—my own
shabby negligence, that is. I wish I’d knocked on Tom’s front door and asked him
if I could take Harley for walks once in a while. Like twice a day. What’s the
worst that could have happened? I’d have been embarrassed and Tom might have
been offended, or he’d say “No” outright, or our neighborly relationship might
have soured and we’d avoid each other from there on out (cringing if we took
our trash out to the alley at the same time), even possibly never speaking to
each other again—but wasn’t a dog’s welfare worth that?
I wish, in fact,
that I’d said to Tom, “Hi, how are you? Say, can I have Harley? I mean, for
keeps?” Never mind that Harley wasn’t housetrained, that we’d have had to pay
for vet bills and food, that we’d have to give him lots of exercise and find a
place to board him when we left town. The
fact we already have a dearly loved older dog, who expects and deserves our
undivided attention, would have posed a more compelling reason not to rescue Harley.
Still. I’d liked to have said that at least I tried. I’d like to think that
next time I’ll know the way, that I’ll just jump in. Shoes and all.
