Dog Named Leaf (18 page)

A
S THE MONTHS PASSED INTO YEAR TWO OF MY RECOVERY, THERE
would be no more meltdowns, significantly reduced travel, just welcome normalcy. Linda, Leaf, and I made plans and felt optimistic about the future. We forecast long and healthy lives for all of us.

Leaf appeared energetic even with his occasional bouts of diarrhea and digestion problems. I took him to the vet to get checked out. Dr. Porter told me to feed him less fatty food and keep him away from the cat food. He loved its rich ingredients. We changed from pet-store premium brands to an organic dog food. It seemed so easy to keep him healthy.

One time while I was out of town, however, Leaf had severe diarrhea and nausea. When he got up from his regular spot at the living room picture window, Linda found a circle of blood where he had been sitting. She immediately called Dr. Porter. He told her to bring Leaf to his clinic.

Linda said, “I drove like a crazy person. I cried all the way there. Leaf didn’t move the whole time. I thought I might have to carry him in, but he managed to walk. I was so scared.”

I felt helpless so far away from home. I was ready to get on a plane and fly back. But Linda reassured me that Dr. Porter had examined Leaf. He said with medication and fasting for twenty-four hours, Leaf would be OK. “Maybe he got into something he shouldn’t have,” Dr. Porter said. “It happens with dogs a lot. But if it continues, we’ll have to run tests on him and see if it’s something more serious.”

“Something more serious.” Those were the last words I wanted to hear.

There were any number of bad things Leaf might have eaten. He dove into the cat food with abandon if Linda or I forgot to keep it locked away from him. One time he found a dead bird in the backyard. Before Linda could stop him, he grabbed it, looked over at her as she firmly commanded him to “leave it,” and swallowed the hapless creature whole in one gulp. Any number of incidents like this could have triggered his illness.

On another occasion, when I was home while Linda visited her mother in Texas, Leaf began to have bloody stools and vomit. He quickly became weak and stopped eating and drinking. I rushed him to Dr. Porter’s animal clinic. Memories of losing Taylor only a little over a year ago haunted me. I hurried through traffic while driving the few miles to the clinic. Leaf’s body lay flat and lifeless across the backseat. Was he still breathing? I couldn’t keep an eye on the road and him. Usually he’d be
standing up and looking at the sights while I drove. But not this time. Something was terribly wrong.

I thought of all the things about which I could feel guilty. I should have switched him to the premium organic brand of dog food earlier. Maybe we ran too much that day. He liked to follow me from room to room; he might not be getting enough sleep. Had I overfed him or given him too many treats? Did he get into the cat food again?

Even if it wasn’t true, I assumed the fault that my buddy had gotten sick. I had to do everything possible to help him. On the way to the vet’s office, I played the CD of people chanting that Leaf liked so much.

Amazingly, even though he’d been without food or water since the night before and was severely dehydrated, Leaf perked up when we arrived at the clinic. Normally he hated visiting the vet. He liked the treats but also remembered getting shots. Being probed and examined all over his body by people he did not know unnerved him.

I helped him get out of the backseat. Either too weak to protest or somehow aware that the vet would help him get better, he walked into the building and examination room with no resistance. Knowing how intuitive he is, I assumed he understood why we were there.

Dr. Porter examined Leaf and took a blood test. He smiled when my sweet little guy wagged his tail and lifted his head to look into the vet’s eyes. The vet tech also smiled. But neither could hide their concern. “Leaf is in trouble,” the vet said.

He gave Leaf a shot of antibiotics and administered another shot that countered Leaf’s rapid dehydration. He also inserted a tube into the back of his neck, under the skin, and infused a large amount of fluid into it. Leaf’s back neck area instantly ballooned by over two inches with fluid.

“Don’t give Leaf anything to eat for twenty-four hours. After that he’s going to have to stay on a prescription diet food until we get the test results. I suspect he has pancreatitis. The test results will be back soon. It often occurs with cocker spaniels.”

I left the office with a handful of prescriptions, a bag of special diet food, a dog whose neck had ballooned to the size of a grapefruit, and the heaviest of hearts. After getting Leaf settled I did as I had with my brain aneurysm. I scoured the Internet looking for reliable sources on the life-threatening illness we faced.

I wrote about Leaf’s emergency in our weekly newsletter and blog. People from all over the world responded with advice and offers of prayers. Leaf had touched the hearts of strangers who felt as if they knew him. Stories and photos of the special dog who had been through so much in his young life elicited concern as he faced his greatest threat. I was deeply moved by the support of so many people.

But along with the good wishes came the horror stories from people whose dogs had died from pancreatitis. Evidently it can strike fast, and dogs need immediate medical attention to survive it. One poor woman wrote that her dog had vomited and had diarrhea in the morning. Not knowing how serious it was or that her dog had pancreatitis, she decided to see if he got better on his own. She would take him to the vet the next morning. But that night, he died.

When the blood tests returned, they revealed that Leaf did have pancreatitis. Dr. Porter told us that every episode of pancreatitis is dangerous and worthy of concern but mostly not fatal. Fortunately Leaf didn’t have necrotizing pancreatitis, which is difficult or impossible to treat successfully. Dr. Porter cautioned me that it was important that he stay away from fatty foods to prevent recurring episodes now that he had already had pancreatitis twice. If the pancreatitis didn’t completely resolve, it could become a chronic condition that could lead to diabetes mellitus and require insulin injections. So we had to keep Leaf on a strict, prescribed special diet. His diagnosis reminded me once again of life’s fragility and how quickly the most important things in the world can be snatched away in an instant.

The days of Leaf’s high-fat, rich treats were over. His Kongs would forever be filled with apples, carrots, and prescription dog food. From now on, we had to be even more vigilant about keeping our boy healthy and capable of living a long and joyful life.

Leaf and I had more to do for fulfilling our purpose together. His illness was a reminder that the time had come to amp up my level of service. I was ready to tell the world about the spiritual connection between my dog and me and how Leaf and I had saved each other’s lives.

M
Y SURGERY AND
L
EAF’S PANCREATITIS HAD TAUGHT ME THAT WHEN
it comes to survival, you just have to keep going. Leaf came to our home filled with fears related to abandonment and being ripped from all that was familiar. At the dog park, at home, in pet stores, and out on neighborhood walks, he was forced to confront things that frightened him. His indomitable spirit enriched my own growth, as I watched and learned from how courageously he handled life’s daily challenges.

“Time for our walk,” I said with a smile, as Leaf wiggled and gave me his Elvis lip. The park I had chosen for this day had several soccer fields, a baseball field, a children’s playground, a paved walking trail, and a small pond for the ducks. After a week of clouds and rain, it felt pleasant to be out in the sunshine and fresh air. Leaf and I loved our time together, just us fellas taking a walk.

A half-dozen young men played soccer at the far end of one of the fields. They were about eighty yards from where Leaf and I strolled on a paved path around the pond. When nobody was near, I let him off-leash to run and chase his ball.

When we ended the exercise portion of our walk, I hooked the leash back on his collar and sat on a park bench. Leaf sat down in front of me. We both watched the squirrels and ducks. After his running he needed a good rest. We stayed for about fifteen minutes and then began to walk back home.

While Leaf was doing his “business,” a speeding soccer ball dropped out of the cloudless blue sky. But I was too late to stop it. With a thud, it hit poor Leaf in his midsection and knocked him down, flat on the ground. I crouched down to see if he was OK. No worries. He immediately got up, shook his head, and resumed his business. He looked over his shoulder at me as if to say,
Stuff happens.

The soccer players ran across the field toward us. “Is he OK?” the ball kicker asked. He petted a tail-wagging Leaf. “I am so sorry,” he added. They all looked genuinely concerned. All the young men took turns petting Leaf and asking him if he was OK. He wiggled and soaked up their attention.

After they left, I again carefully examined Leaf to make sure he was not injured. He looked like he was ready to take another hit from a soccer ball.
Bring it on, man!

Leaf’s reaction showed me how victory belongs to those who can shrug off crazily unexpected events in a chaotic universe. It reminded me
of an incident from my days as a cop, when I happened to be at a specific place at a specific time.

It was early morning, and the bright sunshine streamed through the front window of my police car. I drove south on a busy four-lane city street, which was referred to by locals as “the Avenue.” Old houses mixed with family-owned businesses and occasional strip shopping centers on each side of the Avenue.

I recall feeling good about the direction my life was taking. I was devoting more time to writing, photography, and oil painting and loving it. I looked forward to our family’s vacation plans. At that moment I felt as safe as Leaf had before he was pelted by the soccer ball.

Suddenly, I thought I heard a gunshot but wasn’t certain. It might have only been a car backfiring. I looked around but didn’t see anything strange. Quickly pulling over out of the right lane of traffic, I shifted my patrol car into park.

The blinding sunlight made it hard for me to see. I became disoriented. Why had I forgotten my sunglasses?

The traffic continued to pass by me, as if there was nothing odd about a police officer’s car parked alongside a busy city street.
Had I really heard anything at all? Why did I have the urge to stop?

After a few seconds my eyes finally adjusted to the bright sunlight. I saw an elderly man standing not more than thirty feet from me, on the left side of an old, damaged front porch, near the stairs to the sidewalk. He waved a gun, pointing it in the air. He had a look of confusion on his face.

I radioed in for another unit. I pulled out my holstered gun, pointed it at the old man, and yelled, “Drop it! Drop the gun!” He ignored my command as if he didn’t hear it. I thought,
I’m not about to shoot an old man. But he might injure or kill anyone in the area.
I crouched down on the driver’s side of the police vehicle and took cover.

He started yelling and waving his gun with more abandon. He still pointed it upward. I hoped I wouldn’t run out of options. I asked God for help, for any way to avoid what seemed an inevitable action. I’d had to draw my gun before this. But in all the years of police work, I’d never had to shoot someone. What I needed was an out-and-out divine intervention. I needed a miracle.

The old man’s elderly wife slowly walked, with the help of a cane, out of the front door and onto the porch. She yelled something into his ear. I screamed, “Get it from him. Tell him to drop his gun!” I watched with relief as she took the gun out of her husband’s hand.

After she had the gun, I ran up and retrieved it. She shouted into her husband’s right ear, “The nice police officer is here to help find your money.” I radioed in to cancel the backup unit.

As this bizarre event continued to unfold, the man’s wife said, “He thinks some local kids stole his money from the change box on our living room table. He called 911. The police never came.” In his confused state of mind, the man had found his gun even though his wife thought she had hidden it well. He wanted to make the kids give his money back.

I examined the man’s gun. He’d waved it around, but it hadn’t been discharged. So where did the noise that sounded like a gunshot come from? The sound had been so loud and distinct that it made me stop the car directly in front of the man’s house.

What might have happened had I not heard what sounded like a shot? What if I hadn’t stopped at exactly this place, at this time? What would the untold consequences have been with a confused elderly man looking for neighborhood youth? What if his wife hadn’t come out to the porch when she did? What if she hadn’t been able to get the weapon away from him? I had received my divine intervention.

I wrote my report of the incident and confiscated the firearm. Later, I placed it in the police department’s property room for safety. His wife
offered me chocolate-chip cookies before I left their home. I was tempted but after thanking her, I declined. “I’m watching my weight,” I said.

Stuff happens. Out of nowhere, we’re minding our own business, and something knocks us silly. Flat on our backs. And yet we continually hope for miracles, for divine intervention. I believe that we’re saved from disaster for something we are meant to do, or to be.

I’d soon have clues about the next twists my life would take. I’d begin on a rocky road but move steadily toward the satisfying path of helping and inspiring my fellow travelers.