Dog Vigilante

Over a year ago, the people in the house around the corner got a puppy. I was a cute little thing, white with brown spots. I always thought it cruel that they kept it in a crate on the porch at night but the boy in the family would walk it and play with it often. He named her Bertha.

Bertha became an escape artist. She would often leave her confines to visit our next door neighbor and his big black lab, Michelob. Bertha and Michelob became fast friends and were often on the receiving end of my shouts from my windows at 6 AM. "Bertha! Michelob! Shut the hell up!"

After the boy owner captured Bertha several times only to have her break lose again, he lost interest. She showed up one day without a collar. The boy and his family moved, leaving her behind. She became part of our block. I could never get her to come to me. It was partially because I wasn't offering any food and partially because of my yelling and obvious favoritism towards Michelob.

I started to look out for her daily, to say "hi" as I passed her sleeping on the sidewalk. As I grew more attached to her, I grew fearful that one day I would find her not sleeping but dead on the sidewalk, a casualty of a careless driver.

It was when three small puppies showed up on our block from out of nowhere that I saw our abandoned dog infestation as a city problem. I called the SPCA three times, each time increasingly irate. I did get one call back but they wanted an exact address of the stray dogs. Apparently the corner on which they frequented was not specific enough. Besides, as the woman explained to me over the phone, they were under-staffed despite a huge budget increase just passed by City Hall.

Bertha and the puppies played together. I kept threatening The Husband that I was going to adopt Bertha and I tried to get friends to adopt the puppies. We weren't ready for a dog and it's easy to say no to a puppy when it's not staring you in the face.

I saw Bertha hanging out in the middle of the road yesterday like she often does. I was on my way out and I noticed that she was limping. I looked at her more closely and noticed a huge gash on her side about one inch wide and seven inches long. It looked like she might have been trapped somewhere and tore herself out. I pulled over and got out. The kids on the street riding by on their bikes didn't know what happened. I came up to Bertha. She let me pet her and I decided immediately that she had to go to the pound. I did not want her to die from an infected wound. She followed me for a few steps as I tried to lure her to my car. She stopped at one point, undecided. I pet her some more but she would go no further with me. She crawled underneath a house on the corner and wouldn't come out even when I bribed her with cat food and prosciutto.

I left for the park then and my two-mile walk. Everyone was out walking with their dogs. Happy dogs. Dogs with good homes. I fought from crying (the hormones weren't helping). I became resolute. If I saw those puppies out again, they were going to the pound immediately.

When I returned home, sure enough, there were the puppies. They were especially drawn to the Italian ham that I had left for Bertha. I was able to nab two of the three and I put them in the back of my car. I must have looked like a crazy woman, tossing puppies into my clean car. The puppies were well behaved and I assured them that they would find good, loving homes as I drove them straight to the SPCA.

I rang the night bell, filled out the intake forms and bid good night to the guard. The hormones overtook me later and I cried that evening in bed. Bertha deserves better. She's a good dog. She got a rotten deal.

I got up this morning, put some ham in a bag (NOT the prosciutto) and grabbed a towel in case I saw Bertha out making her morning rounds. She wasn't. I hope I see her again so I can take her to the SPCA. Even if they have to put her down it'll be better than dying alone under a house.

Two down, two to go.