I’ve always loved animals ever since I can remember. Most kids start out that way, I guess. They love to go to zoos, watch movies or television shows about animals, or featuring animal characters, etc. But in some the fascination wanes and other things become more interesting.
My love for animals remains constant. Not only that, I always stop to help them when I see them in need, too.
Just yesterday it happened again. There’s a little dog in the next subdivision over who sometimes gets loose. He’s a friendly little guy whose nametag says “Luke.”
I’ve spied Luke wandering our streets a few times, and he always comes and gives me a happy hello. So I take him in and call his people, and they usually answer right away and come get him.
It was a rainy morning in Nashville yesterday when I saw Luke. I was getting the ham out of the oven, putting the green bean casserole in, and we were already running late to go across the street to have lunch with the neighbors. So when I said, “Uh oh,” and suddenly ran outside, my husband groaned and followed to see what I was up to.
Here comes Luke, soaked to the core, bounding up our front steps. Wayne quickly slams the door and says, “No way is he coming in!”
So I yell back to get me a towel, which he does, and Luke’s just as happy as can be to get dried off. Then Wayne lets us in.
Luke’s a bit hyper, so off he darts in this direction and that, with Wayne chasing behind to make sure he doesn’t get in trouble. (And there was a lot he could’ve gotten in trouble with. Boxes and wrapping paper from that morning’s presents were still everywhere. Murph had a bunch of new toys scattered about too, and what if Luke took one and Murph got territorial?)
Meanwhile, I call Luke’s people, but this time they didn’t answer their cell right away so I had to leave a message.
But we also had to get going for lunch. Wayne’s yelling at me to hurry up because we’ve got people waiting on us. I end up sending him along with the ham, intending to follow soon with the beans. After I get Luke and Murph out on the sun porch. (It’s glassed in, plenty of comfy places to lay down, but most importantly it’s tile. Easy to clean in case Luke has an accident. After all, it’s Christmas Day. His people could be out somewhere themselves and might not be back until who knew when.)
Well, no sooner do I get over to our neighbors than Luke’s people call. Wayne and I walk back home and soon everyone’s happily reunited.
Wayne felt good that we’d taken the time to help, because they were gushing gratefulness.
“I know I get mad at you sometimes for trying to help, especially when we have other places to be, but I’m glad you’re the way you are and take the time,” he complimented me.
I don’t know why I am this way. Partly my genetic makeup I’m sure, but it’s also one of those unintentionally inherited traits we pick up on from those around us. In my case, I get it from my dad.
When I was little (maybe no more than six or seven), we were driving on a major intersection (Hampden Avenue) near our home in Denver. It was a Saturday morning. I don’t remember where we were headed. I just remember where we ended up.
I wasn’t paying attention to anything until my dad screamed, “Oh crap! No, no, no!”
Then he suddenly swerved us off into a parking lot and said, “Don’t move. Stay here,” as he jumped out of the truck.
I did as I was told, but I turned in my seat and was horrified to see my dad rushing into traffic waving his arms wildly.
Then I saw what he was rushing towards. A black dog that’d been hit. It wasn’t dead, or even laying on the ground, it was trying to limp to the side of the road. The cars stopped, my dad swooped it up, and before I knew it he had him in the cab with us and we were off to the vet.
The dog lived.
I’ve never forgotten that day. Every little girl thinks her dad’s a hero, but how often does one get to see his heroics in action?
I feel lucky I did. More importantly, it was an example I learned from. One I continue to emulate to this day.
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