I drove by the tiny, rustic house each day on my way to work. As soon as I could catch a glimpse of the yard, I would slow down and quickly turn my head to check and see if the dog was sitting in the doghouse door, his head straight ahead with a heavy, rusty chain on his neck.
Each afternoon, I would see him in the same position, his eyes on the road. He resembled a statue sitting there, looking out at the only world he knew, his hind legs halfway in his pathetic shelter and his paws covered with snow.
One day there was just an empty, crooked shelter and then, quite suddenly, a dog appeared as if from nowhere.
I wanted nothing more than to pull into the dooryard and carefully remove that old chain from his neck. I would put him in my car and drive out of that dilapidated and abused property and never look back. I would bathe him, buy him a flashy collar and treats and toys. I was referring to the dog as “he,” but he could well have been a female. It did not matter. I was hooked and determined. I was a superhero who planned on throwing on her cape and changing the life of this dog.
Of course, I did not break through the clouds, my cape flowing behind me. I simply drove by, my lips trembling, my heart dancing in my chest.
I waited until midafternoon and, while at work, called the police department and got the number of the animal control officer. He was very cordial, though he did not not sound concerned. He got my name and number and assured me he would go right over to the dog and he would make sure to check the living conditions and food supply.
I thanked him over and over again and I told him I would be waiting for his call.
The animal control officer called me just before I left for home and informed me that the dog was fine. The owner was required to provide loose hay in the doghouse for warmth, make sure there was adequate water and food available, and to restrain the dog to assure that he did not wander off. I asked him to repeat himself, as I could not believe him. He told me he was correct and if I disbelieved, I could go to the state of Maine website and do the research.
I hung up on him with no goodbye and no thank you.
As I drove home that night, I looked toward the doghouse. It was gone. The dog was nowhere to be seen, either. I turned my car around and drove by again, hoping it was my imagination. There were a few pieces of straw where the doghouse had been, but nothing else. I could feel hot tears burning my cheeks. I drove home slowly. The superhero had failed.
I wonder about the dog often. I tell myself that he or she has more than likely gone to that wondrous place our beloved dogs go.
Many years have passed, but the memory remains with me. And as far as my superhero status is concerned, well, let’s just say it may be in retirement just like me. It is meticulously folded and ready to go.
Belinda Wilcox Hersey lives in Caribou with her husband, Kent. You may email her at belindahersy@gmail.com.
