Best of Intentions
Sunday, September 20th, 2009“Why is my karma like this today?” I was devastated. Things went horribly wrong for this nicest of men and it all happened through good intentions. It’s a tangled web like a Curb Your Enthusiasm episode.
Wingfield Park, Reno, Nevada
The setting was so tranquil. It was, ironically, International Peace Day, and I was at sunny Wingfield Park on the banks of the Truckee River, with friends. The UN declared this to be a day off; a global cease-fire. But how can this be when we so easily misunderstand each other? Being the ghoul I am, I will check to see how many Afghanis and Iraqis and Palestinians died today. And on the local scene, I can describe this one little soul murder.
I was promoting TrailSafe, the organization I founded to promote humane treatment of pets and wildlife. The day was productive; I had three pages of signatures on my sign-up sheet, and numerous pleasant conversations. About one in the afternoon, a little girl I had met earlier came running up to me. A dog was in trouble, as the official animal person of the day, would I help? She was about third or fourth grade and she was breathless. A dog was down by the river, chained for at least two hours with no owner. She had already fed it a hot dog, but this animal needed more help. She added that it cringed when she approached, clearly had been mistreated. It had a cruel choke collar, and the collar was too tight. She couldn’t fit two fingers under it.
Here was sublime ego flattery. Had I not fashioned myself the savior of the animals, Saint Francesca of Reno? I dropped everything I was doing to follow the child down the broad stones to the riverbank where her aunt was waiting. I recognized the aunt from an earlier very pleasant conversation. She looked Hispanic, but spoke with no accent, and she had signed up for TrailSafe without hesitation. Somehow she made it known that she was born again, also that a friend would soon give her a computer.
Now I was greeted as a heroine. I whipped out my Tracfone (cheapest plan in the USA) and called Animal Control.
The dog was chained to a rock about 15 feet from us. He was a good-looking German Shepherd cross, big, about 65- 75 pounds, all tan, no typical Shepherd markings, well muscled. I was in no hurry to approach him. Although he had accepted the hot dogs without incident, he was still big, chained and unknown. I tried to stop her, but the girl ran at him, with a third hot dog. She lunged at him, as kids do, which caused the momentary cringe on his part. The aunt and I yelled against the live band in the background and the river noise to see if he had tags. “No” she told us, “no tags.”
I reported all this to Animal Control, an organization I have come to know and trust. They are not out to steal anybody’s dog and will do their utmost to contact the owners. A friendly, handsome beauty like this animal would be sent to Humane Society if not claimed; and Humane Society has a no-kill policy.
After calling Animal Control, I approached the dog after all, partially because I thought I did see tags on his collar and partially to restrain the child who wouldn’t leave him alone. In fact he did have two bone-shaped tags: one for rabies and one for ID with two phone numbers.
The first phone number was no longer in service. I left a message on the second, a cell number, explaining the dog would be at Animal Control.
Just then the owner appeared, a handsome young man in kayaking gear. I have to mention he was black because it pertains to the story. Naturally, he wanted to know what was going on, and the girl was blurting out her case: that the dog was there for two hours, and that’s when he got mad, but not scary mad, just articulate end-of-my-rope but still a reasonable person mad. He spoke loudly, but not roaring anger, just firm anger. He told us he was gone 15 minutes, not two hours. He was instructing some kids in kayaking. He was, in fact, a rated (I do not understand the rating system) kayaker. He had been swimming and kayaking with the dog all afternoon.
And that’s when he said “Why is my karma like this today?” because some kids on the other side of the river had said something to him about a “nigger dog.”
Then this. I had to tell him Animal Control was coming. I told him as fast as I could that they wouldn’t give him any trouble and they wouldn’t take his dog away and they would be delighted the owner was there. But he was freaked by now. Not at me. He heard me and he got that I meant no harm. But the N-word plus Animal Control was all he could take for one day. Then the aunt started yelling at him from her rock, thinking he was yelling at me. She was defending me, not aware I didn’t need any defense.
“Don’t yell at her! We asked her to come over here. She only called because we asked her to. Don’t you be yelling at her!” She was yelling.
He told her he wasn’t yelling. That he and I were having a conversation and she should stay out of it. But she wouldn’t. She said he should be grateful we cared about his dog that was out there chained for two hours. He told her it wasn’t chained for two hours and to stay out of it.
He was a man who knew his limits and the situation was pushing him way beyond. He picked up his kayak and unchained his dog and left after he and I exchanged some quick words to make it clear we had no beef with each other. It’s possible he left before he started to cry; no proof of that, just my feeling about it.
So all our good intentions led us astray. I cancelled the call to Animal Control and I caught the aunt as she was leaving the fair. “I’m colored, too” she said, still defensive, but she was basically OK, the child is basically OK, I’m basically OK. It’s the kayaker who was deeply wounded. He did not deserve such a day.
I made it worse a few hours later, after I was home, by calling the cell number from the dog’s tag again. This time I got a young man. “Were you kayaking today and we had an incident with your dog? I just wanted to make things better.” By then I was fumbling for words, had lost all track of my thoughts.
“You mean my dad? How did you get this number?”
“From the dog’s collar.”
“The first number on the tag is his; the second one is mine. I’m not in town.”
“Do I have the right person? Does your dad kayak?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
Now I was beyond bewilderment. How could the kayaker, who looked to be in his 20’s, have an adult son? Too much muddle already. All our karma gone nuts, exploded into senseless fragments, spattered against the walls.
“I don’t mean to make it more complicated. Just tell him he can call this cell number if he wants to talk to me.”
I hope he does call. But he probably won’t. All I can do is observe International Peace Day and pray his karma tomorrow is better.
