By Susan Graham Winslow
The world is hugged by the faithful arms of volunteers.
~Everett Mámor
The room was awash in crumpled gift wrap as my brother, sisters and I tore through our presents before the sun was even over the horizon. I was ten, the oldest of five children, and we were busy playing with our gifts when my father poked his head through a doorway into the room and announced, "You kids forgot something! There's one more present!" He opened the door wider, and a bundle of sable-and-white fur bounced into the room, pouncing on piles of wrapping paper and greeting each of us with puppy barks and kisses. The room erupted with squeals and shouts as we met the newest addition to our family, a Collie puppy.
The world is hugged by the faithful arms of volunteers.
~Everett Mámor
The room was awash in crumpled gift wrap as my brother, sisters and I tore through our presents before the sun was even over the horizon. I was ten, the oldest of five children, and we were busy playing with our gifts when my father poked his head through a doorway into the room and announced, "You kids forgot something! There's one more present!" He opened the door wider, and a bundle of sable-and-white fur bounced into the room, pouncing on piles of wrapping paper and greeting each of us with puppy barks and kisses. The room erupted with squeals and shouts as we met the newest addition to our family, a Collie puppy.
In all the excitement, the puppy's registration papers, along with his regal, registered name, were lost in the mounds of wrapping paper and thrown away. We settled on Andrew, a fitting Scottish name for a Collie puppy, and he stole our hearts from the first minute we met him. I loved the outdoors, and because Andrew did, too, he chose me as his special buddy. My best friend also had a puppy, and we took our dogs on walks through the woods and on all our after-school adventures. Andrew staked out the end of my bed as his own, and I loved to snuggle my feet against his warm body at night. He grew into a strapping, handsome Collie with a dignified presence that belied a sweet, mischievous nature.
My father owned an advertising agency, and when a client, the Deerskin Trading Post, needed a dog for the cover of their national catalog that year, Andrew was chosen. I was allowed to attend the photo shoot as the dog handler and I was very proud of Andrew as he sat patiently through hours of location photography. When the catalog was printed, we kept a framed copy of the cover in our living room. Despite his local fame, Andrew was a modest homebody, spending his days following my mom around the house, bounding down the driveway to meet me when he heard the school bus rolling up our street every afternoon.
Two days before our second Christmas with Andrew, he disappeared. We called the police, the animal control officer, and all our neighbors hoping that someone had seen him. We rallied our friends to search the woods and streets around town. As the hours, then days, went by, I was inconsolable, fearing that Andrew was lost or injured. I couldn't sleep or eat, and our Christmas that year was a somber one. My father wrote a press release about the disappearance of the dog that had graced the catalog cover, hoping to help get the word out, and we placed "missing" posters at veterinary offices around the area.
My parents speculated that Andrew had been stolen, as there had been a rash of thefts of pedigreed dogs in our area prior to Andrew's disappearance. All I knew was that my best friend was gone, and I was heartbroken. It was a particularly cold winter, and with every blizzard that rampaged through New England, with subzero wind chills and a fresh blanket of snow, our hopes diminished to the point where we had just about given up on finding Andrew. My schoolwork suffered and at night I cried myself to sleep, missing the warmth and security of his warm body at the end of my bed. I couldn't imagine how Andrew could have strayed away from our loving home, and I couldn't imagine how anyone could steal a family pet from five children. Andrew was so handsome and friendly though, he would have been an easy target. I wondered if Andrew missed us as much as we missed him and every night I prayed for his return.
On a late March day, three months after Andrew disappeared, a woman made a quick stop at a department store in downtown Salem, Massachusetts, eight miles from my home. Salem is a waterfront city whose harbor is open to brutal Northeast winds in the winter, and it was a particularly blustery, cold day. She was hurrying to a luncheon and her mind was on her afternoon plans when she stepped out of the store and almost stumbled over a dog lying on the sidewalk. Hot tears welled up in her eyes as she looked down at a filthy, emaciated creature trying to pull himself to a standing position, wobbling and stumbling on legs that were too weak to hold him up. His sable and white fur was tangled and matted in fist-sized knots, and when she reached out a gloved hand to touch him, she could feel his bones in sharp relief beneath his skin.
Despite being late for the luncheon and dressed in a fine outfit, she bent down and gently picked up the dog. Placing him carefully in the back seat of her car, she rushed him to a local veterinarian before heading off to meet her friends. During the luncheon, she recounted the story of finding the pathetic dog, expressing dismay that so many people had walked past a starving Collie without bringing it to the attention of the store manager or local police. One of the women at the table remembered reading a newspaper story about the missing Collie that had appeared on the cover of the Deerskin Trading Post catalog. The two women called the company to tell them that their cover dog might have been found.
The owner of Deerskin Trading Post called my father, and by that night we were on our way to Salem, hope rising with every mile. Before we arrived at the vet's office, my father cautioned us about what we were going to see, telling us that the vet had made it clear that the dog was in very bad shape. He told us not to get our hopes up because the chance of this dog turning out to be Andrew was low. But even though he was telling us not to get excited, I could hear the hope in his voice, too.
Sitting in the waiting room at the veterinarian's office, the minutes stretched on, dragging like hours. I could barely contain my nerves and energy, knowing that behind the office door, joy or desolation was waiting. When the door opened, a thin, mangy-looking dog stepped gingerly into the room. His noble head looked impossibly big for his ragged body, and he sniffed the air cautiously. This wasn't the same bundle of joy that bounded into our living room that wonderful Christmas morning, but a frightened, confused shadow of a dog. What fur he had was dull and thin, and there were huge bare patches where the veterinarian had shaved off mats and treated his ulcerated, flea-bitten skin. He faltered as he stepped into the room, but his tail struck a happy beat as our eyes met and I said, "Andrew?" He looked right at me and in that instant, I knew it was him.
Andrew came home and made a full recovery. The story of his return made the front page of our local newspaper, and once again Andrew became a minor celebrity. We never found out how he wound up in Salem, but Andrew lived for many years after his return. He followed me everywhere and again took up residence at the foot of my bed, waking me every morning with a doggy smile and wagging tail, ready for adventure. The only change in Andrew was a new, fearful reaction to the sound of a certain truck engine that stayed with him for the rest of his life.
The compassionate woman who found Andrew refused any reward from my parents. I am grateful for her selfless act of kindness and I wonder how many other people passed by the sight of the starving dog on the sidewalk. She set a strong example for the children in my family about the importance of doing the right thing, and how important and far-reaching the effects of that can be.
My father owned an advertising agency, and when a client, the Deerskin Trading Post, needed a dog for the cover of their national catalog that year, Andrew was chosen. I was allowed to attend the photo shoot as the dog handler and I was very proud of Andrew as he sat patiently through hours of location photography. When the catalog was printed, we kept a framed copy of the cover in our living room. Despite his local fame, Andrew was a modest homebody, spending his days following my mom around the house, bounding down the driveway to meet me when he heard the school bus rolling up our street every afternoon.
Two days before our second Christmas with Andrew, he disappeared. We called the police, the animal control officer, and all our neighbors hoping that someone had seen him. We rallied our friends to search the woods and streets around town. As the hours, then days, went by, I was inconsolable, fearing that Andrew was lost or injured. I couldn't sleep or eat, and our Christmas that year was a somber one. My father wrote a press release about the disappearance of the dog that had graced the catalog cover, hoping to help get the word out, and we placed "missing" posters at veterinary offices around the area.
My parents speculated that Andrew had been stolen, as there had been a rash of thefts of pedigreed dogs in our area prior to Andrew's disappearance. All I knew was that my best friend was gone, and I was heartbroken. It was a particularly cold winter, and with every blizzard that rampaged through New England, with subzero wind chills and a fresh blanket of snow, our hopes diminished to the point where we had just about given up on finding Andrew. My schoolwork suffered and at night I cried myself to sleep, missing the warmth and security of his warm body at the end of my bed. I couldn't imagine how Andrew could have strayed away from our loving home, and I couldn't imagine how anyone could steal a family pet from five children. Andrew was so handsome and friendly though, he would have been an easy target. I wondered if Andrew missed us as much as we missed him and every night I prayed for his return.
On a late March day, three months after Andrew disappeared, a woman made a quick stop at a department store in downtown Salem, Massachusetts, eight miles from my home. Salem is a waterfront city whose harbor is open to brutal Northeast winds in the winter, and it was a particularly blustery, cold day. She was hurrying to a luncheon and her mind was on her afternoon plans when she stepped out of the store and almost stumbled over a dog lying on the sidewalk. Hot tears welled up in her eyes as she looked down at a filthy, emaciated creature trying to pull himself to a standing position, wobbling and stumbling on legs that were too weak to hold him up. His sable and white fur was tangled and matted in fist-sized knots, and when she reached out a gloved hand to touch him, she could feel his bones in sharp relief beneath his skin.
Despite being late for the luncheon and dressed in a fine outfit, she bent down and gently picked up the dog. Placing him carefully in the back seat of her car, she rushed him to a local veterinarian before heading off to meet her friends. During the luncheon, she recounted the story of finding the pathetic dog, expressing dismay that so many people had walked past a starving Collie without bringing it to the attention of the store manager or local police. One of the women at the table remembered reading a newspaper story about the missing Collie that had appeared on the cover of the Deerskin Trading Post catalog. The two women called the company to tell them that their cover dog might have been found.
The owner of Deerskin Trading Post called my father, and by that night we were on our way to Salem, hope rising with every mile. Before we arrived at the vet's office, my father cautioned us about what we were going to see, telling us that the vet had made it clear that the dog was in very bad shape. He told us not to get our hopes up because the chance of this dog turning out to be Andrew was low. But even though he was telling us not to get excited, I could hear the hope in his voice, too.
Sitting in the waiting room at the veterinarian's office, the minutes stretched on, dragging like hours. I could barely contain my nerves and energy, knowing that behind the office door, joy or desolation was waiting. When the door opened, a thin, mangy-looking dog stepped gingerly into the room. His noble head looked impossibly big for his ragged body, and he sniffed the air cautiously. This wasn't the same bundle of joy that bounded into our living room that wonderful Christmas morning, but a frightened, confused shadow of a dog. What fur he had was dull and thin, and there were huge bare patches where the veterinarian had shaved off mats and treated his ulcerated, flea-bitten skin. He faltered as he stepped into the room, but his tail struck a happy beat as our eyes met and I said, "Andrew?" He looked right at me and in that instant, I knew it was him.
Andrew came home and made a full recovery. The story of his return made the front page of our local newspaper, and once again Andrew became a minor celebrity. We never found out how he wound up in Salem, but Andrew lived for many years after his return. He followed me everywhere and again took up residence at the foot of my bed, waking me every morning with a doggy smile and wagging tail, ready for adventure. The only change in Andrew was a new, fearful reaction to the sound of a certain truck engine that stayed with him for the rest of his life.
The compassionate woman who found Andrew refused any reward from my parents. I am grateful for her selfless act of kindness and I wonder how many other people passed by the sight of the starving dog on the sidewalk. She set a strong example for the children in my family about the importance of doing the right thing, and how important and far-reaching the effects of that can be.
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