The names are fictional, the story is true...
April 1973
It was a typically damp, early spring night in western Oregon. Inside, the tavern was dry and warm. Country music blared from the jukebox, occasionally punctuated by the crack of pool balls or the clatter of beer bottles.
A bartender hoisted an empty beer keg to his shoulder and stepped out the back door. He deposited the barrel next to several others, squinting briefly into the darkness. He went back inside, never sparing a glance at the pup huddled miserably next to the dumpster.
This was the only life the pup knew. He had a vague recollection of being inside, fussed over. Unfortunately, when the novelty of having a 12-week-old puppy wore off, he was tied out back. At first, he had been able to crawl under the dumpster for shelter, but he soon grew too large. Occasionally, someone would toss him some kitchen scraps. He was much too thin, and always hungry.
Gradually the noise from inside subsided to the clatter of clean up. Finally, only the dim glow of security lights remained. The pup was able to relax then, knowing he would have peace the rest of the night. He curled into a tight ball and tried to sleep.
Meg was angry as she sat in the alley behind the tavern. The fact that anyone would treat a defenseless animal this way infuriated her. After years of working with the Animal Defenders League, she still couldn’t understand the mindset. A neighbor of the tavern owner had tried to intervene, even offered to buy the pup. When she was told to mind her own business, she called the A.D.L. That was where Meg came in: she would do whatever it took to rescue the dog.
The sound of the car door did not disturb the miserable little creature, but the glow of the flashlight did. He jumped to his feet and cowered against the wall, whimpering.
A soothing voice came out of the darkness. “It’s ok, little one. It’s ok.” The quick flash of a knife-blade severed his bonds, and a large, soft towel enveloped him as Meg lifted his emaciated body. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”
The pup found himself in the backseat of a station wagon that smelled faintly, but distinctly, of dog. He was still nervous, but the warmth was irresistible. He burrowed into the towel, the motion of the car rocking him to sleep.
The woman drove home, smiling, now. In her heart, she knew she was doing what she did best: giving an abused animal a second chance at life.
Meg Hart operated a small kennel with her husband and daughters. She was a 4-H leader, PTA mom, and ran dispatch for the rural fire district. But, her true passion was animals. Her home was always open to anyone in need, be it dog, cat, horse or human.
That morning she inspected the pup closely for the first time. He was curled on a blanket in the corner, just as she had left him the night before, but he raised his head when she came in. Meg knelt on the floor and spoke quietly as she looked him over. The pup was an Australian Shepherd, about nine months old and quite obviously of good bloodlines. His mottled coat was matted and dirty, but his large brown eyes shone with intelligence. No longer afraid, he gently wagged his stumpy tail.
With gentle hands, she felt him over for wounds or abnormalities, relieved when she found none. A vet-check would be in order, immunizations, and worming, but first, a flea bath. Even Meg had to admit that the dog stank. She carried him to the tub and set him in, expecting the pup to throw a fit. Surprisingly, he did not. After thirty minutes of shampoo, combing, cutting and blow-drying, he looked like a different animal. Thin as a rail, but that was easily fixed.
She walked him out to the nearest run and opened the gate. “There you go, Buddy, nice and safe ‘til we find you a good home.”
The dog looked up at her and grinned, the first expression Meg had seen from him. She laughed. “Well, you’re welcome! I’ll bring you some breakfast in a minute.”
Two weeks passed while the young dog spent his time mostly sleeping and gaining weight. Feeling comfortable and safe, he blossomed. He started to show interest in his surroundings. His coat, a rich grey, dappled with black, a color called blue merle, took on a naturally healthy sheen. He had a grin and a wiggle of his stubby tail for anyone that stopped by.
Meg had not tried to place him yet. She wanted him to be fit and healthy, and truth be told, was in no hurry to see him go. She chided herself for being silly. She tried not to bond with her rescued animals, but this one had captured her.
On Friday, Meg received a call from Jerry Adler, the local vet. “Just a heads up,” he told her, “I’ve got Annie Marek’s Lucky in here with distemper. I thought you might want to let your 4-H club know.”
That sent a chill down her spine. “Annie left him at home this week,” Meg remembered. “Do you think he’ll recover?”
Dr. Adler wouldn’t commit one way of the other. Distemper was not an easy thing to cure. He hung up with a reminder to check all the immunization records.
Meg thought back to what recent months had held for 11-year-old Annie. In February, her old dog, Shamrock had passed away. Several weeks later, the other family dog, Suzy, had been hit by a car. In mid March, Annie and her dad had gone to the Animal Shelter and adopted “Lucky”. Now, barely three weeks later, he had a life threatening illness. Meg knew that the dog had been immunized, but distemper can lay dormant for a long time. She was sure that he’d already been infected. She was not surprised when Annie phoned the next day, saying they’d had Lucky put to sleep. The girl was in tears, and Meg’s heart broke for her. There was not much to say. It was a lot for a young animal lover to bear, losing three pets in such a short time.
The following week Meg took the Aussie for a final health screening. He’d already had his shots, as well as being wormed. Dr. Adler was impressed at the progress the young dog had made. He had gained enough weight to be nearly normal for his age, and had a newly acquired spring in his step. The vet pronounced him ready for a new home. Meg thought she knew just the one.
On Saturday, she called Annie. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor?” She asked. “I have a dog here that needs a foster home. Do you think your folks would mind if you did that for a while?”
She proceeded to tell the girl’s parents about the Australian shepherd, and how it had come to be in her care. They agreed to come down and see the dog, and think about taking it in.
As soon as girl and dog met, it was all over. Annie sat on the floor in the run and the dog immediately came to her. He sniffed her outstretched hand, then allowed her to scratch his ears. Within seconds, he was in her lap, nuzzling her neck. “What’s his name?” Annie asked, giggling.
“I don’t know,” Meg admitted, “I’ve just been calling him ‘Buddy’.”
Annie stood up, looking him over. “He has that beautiful silvery coat. I think I’ll call him Silver.”
The dog perked up his ears and cocked his head to one side. Annie giggled again.
“Are you sure you’re ready for another dog?” Mrs. Marek asked her daughter. “Do you really want to take this on already?”
“Yes, Mom, I’m sure,” Annie answered, her face snuggled into the neck of her new dog. “You know how empty the house has been. And besides, Silver needs us.”
Meg smiled. This would not be a foster home.
The family drove the mile or so to the Marek’s farm. When they got out of the truck, Mr. Marek said “Go ahead, Annie, turn him loose.”
She did. Silver didn’t know what to do. Freedom was new to him He smelled the truck tires, lifting his leg on one of them. Then he went into the grass, scaring a sleeping cat. He jumped, startled. He stretched and sniffed the air. He trotted forward, immediately breaking into a flat-out run. He circled the yard a full three times, finally coming to rest in the middle of the lawn. He flopped down, then and looked up, grinning, tongue lolling to one side. The young dog knew he had come home.
It was a typically damp, early spring night in western Oregon. Inside, the tavern was dry and warm. Country music blared from the jukebox, occasionally punctuated by the crack of pool balls or the clatter of beer bottles.
A bartender hoisted an empty beer keg to his shoulder and stepped out the back door. He deposited the barrel next to several others, squinting briefly into the darkness. He went back inside, never sparing a glance at the pup huddled miserably next to the dumpster.
This was the only life the pup knew. He had a vague recollection of being inside, fussed over. Unfortunately, when the novelty of having a 12-week-old puppy wore off, he was tied out back. At first, he had been able to crawl under the dumpster for shelter, but he soon grew too large. Occasionally, someone would toss him some kitchen scraps. He was much too thin, and always hungry.
Gradually the noise from inside subsided to the clatter of clean up. Finally, only the dim glow of security lights remained. The pup was able to relax then, knowing he would have peace the rest of the night. He curled into a tight ball and tried to sleep.
Meg was angry as she sat in the alley behind the tavern. The fact that anyone would treat a defenseless animal this way infuriated her. After years of working with the Animal Defenders League, she still couldn’t understand the mindset. A neighbor of the tavern owner had tried to intervene, even offered to buy the pup. When she was told to mind her own business, she called the A.D.L. That was where Meg came in: she would do whatever it took to rescue the dog.
The sound of the car door did not disturb the miserable little creature, but the glow of the flashlight did. He jumped to his feet and cowered against the wall, whimpering.
A soothing voice came out of the darkness. “It’s ok, little one. It’s ok.” The quick flash of a knife-blade severed his bonds, and a large, soft towel enveloped him as Meg lifted his emaciated body. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”
The pup found himself in the backseat of a station wagon that smelled faintly, but distinctly, of dog. He was still nervous, but the warmth was irresistible. He burrowed into the towel, the motion of the car rocking him to sleep.
The woman drove home, smiling, now. In her heart, she knew she was doing what she did best: giving an abused animal a second chance at life.
Meg Hart operated a small kennel with her husband and daughters. She was a 4-H leader, PTA mom, and ran dispatch for the rural fire district. But, her true passion was animals. Her home was always open to anyone in need, be it dog, cat, horse or human.
That morning she inspected the pup closely for the first time. He was curled on a blanket in the corner, just as she had left him the night before, but he raised his head when she came in. Meg knelt on the floor and spoke quietly as she looked him over. The pup was an Australian Shepherd, about nine months old and quite obviously of good bloodlines. His mottled coat was matted and dirty, but his large brown eyes shone with intelligence. No longer afraid, he gently wagged his stumpy tail.
With gentle hands, she felt him over for wounds or abnormalities, relieved when she found none. A vet-check would be in order, immunizations, and worming, but first, a flea bath. Even Meg had to admit that the dog stank. She carried him to the tub and set him in, expecting the pup to throw a fit. Surprisingly, he did not. After thirty minutes of shampoo, combing, cutting and blow-drying, he looked like a different animal. Thin as a rail, but that was easily fixed.
She walked him out to the nearest run and opened the gate. “There you go, Buddy, nice and safe ‘til we find you a good home.”
The dog looked up at her and grinned, the first expression Meg had seen from him. She laughed. “Well, you’re welcome! I’ll bring you some breakfast in a minute.”
Two weeks passed while the young dog spent his time mostly sleeping and gaining weight. Feeling comfortable and safe, he blossomed. He started to show interest in his surroundings. His coat, a rich grey, dappled with black, a color called blue merle, took on a naturally healthy sheen. He had a grin and a wiggle of his stubby tail for anyone that stopped by.
Meg had not tried to place him yet. She wanted him to be fit and healthy, and truth be told, was in no hurry to see him go. She chided herself for being silly. She tried not to bond with her rescued animals, but this one had captured her.
On Friday, Meg received a call from Jerry Adler, the local vet. “Just a heads up,” he told her, “I’ve got Annie Marek’s Lucky in here with distemper. I thought you might want to let your 4-H club know.”
That sent a chill down her spine. “Annie left him at home this week,” Meg remembered. “Do you think he’ll recover?”
Dr. Adler wouldn’t commit one way of the other. Distemper was not an easy thing to cure. He hung up with a reminder to check all the immunization records.
Meg thought back to what recent months had held for 11-year-old Annie. In February, her old dog, Shamrock had passed away. Several weeks later, the other family dog, Suzy, had been hit by a car. In mid March, Annie and her dad had gone to the Animal Shelter and adopted “Lucky”. Now, barely three weeks later, he had a life threatening illness. Meg knew that the dog had been immunized, but distemper can lay dormant for a long time. She was sure that he’d already been infected. She was not surprised when Annie phoned the next day, saying they’d had Lucky put to sleep. The girl was in tears, and Meg’s heart broke for her. There was not much to say. It was a lot for a young animal lover to bear, losing three pets in such a short time.
The following week Meg took the Aussie for a final health screening. He’d already had his shots, as well as being wormed. Dr. Adler was impressed at the progress the young dog had made. He had gained enough weight to be nearly normal for his age, and had a newly acquired spring in his step. The vet pronounced him ready for a new home. Meg thought she knew just the one.
On Saturday, she called Annie. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor?” She asked. “I have a dog here that needs a foster home. Do you think your folks would mind if you did that for a while?”
She proceeded to tell the girl’s parents about the Australian shepherd, and how it had come to be in her care. They agreed to come down and see the dog, and think about taking it in.
As soon as girl and dog met, it was all over. Annie sat on the floor in the run and the dog immediately came to her. He sniffed her outstretched hand, then allowed her to scratch his ears. Within seconds, he was in her lap, nuzzling her neck. “What’s his name?” Annie asked, giggling.
“I don’t know,” Meg admitted, “I’ve just been calling him ‘Buddy’.”
Annie stood up, looking him over. “He has that beautiful silvery coat. I think I’ll call him Silver.”
The dog perked up his ears and cocked his head to one side. Annie giggled again.
“Are you sure you’re ready for another dog?” Mrs. Marek asked her daughter. “Do you really want to take this on already?”
“Yes, Mom, I’m sure,” Annie answered, her face snuggled into the neck of her new dog. “You know how empty the house has been. And besides, Silver needs us.”
Meg smiled. This would not be a foster home.
The family drove the mile or so to the Marek’s farm. When they got out of the truck, Mr. Marek said “Go ahead, Annie, turn him loose.”
She did. Silver didn’t know what to do. Freedom was new to him He smelled the truck tires, lifting his leg on one of them. Then he went into the grass, scaring a sleeping cat. He jumped, startled. He stretched and sniffed the air. He trotted forward, immediately breaking into a flat-out run. He circled the yard a full three times, finally coming to rest in the middle of the lawn. He flopped down, then and looked up, grinning, tongue lolling to one side. The young dog knew he had come home.
In loving memory of Chief Silver Comet (Silli),
and the real "Meg Hart", who prefers to remain anonymous.
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