Harley Come Home

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.