By Pamela Underhill Altendorf
We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men.
~Herman Melville
Jake was a wanderer, and no one in the neighborhood was exactly sure where the large black Lab had come from. It's lake property here. There are year-round residents, summer residents, vacationers, and a steady stream of people who come to fish for the day. Seeing a wandering dog that summer was not an unusual sight. Seeing him on and off for weeks was. Upon first glance, Jake was a pretty indistinguishable black Lab. I'd like to say he had special markings or a particular gait, but he didn't. What he did have was an innate ability to expect only the best from everyone he saw and the tenacious temperament to make sure his expectations were met.
We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men.
~Herman Melville
Jake was a wanderer, and no one in the neighborhood was exactly sure where the large black Lab had come from. It's lake property here. There are year-round residents, summer residents, vacationers, and a steady stream of people who come to fish for the day. Seeing a wandering dog that summer was not an unusual sight. Seeing him on and off for weeks was. Upon first glance, Jake was a pretty indistinguishable black Lab. I'd like to say he had special markings or a particular gait, but he didn't. What he did have was an innate ability to expect only the best from everyone he saw and the tenacious temperament to make sure his expectations were met.
His demands were simple: throw a rock or a stick for him to fetch and return. He would drop a rock or a stick at your feet, and prance around and bark a time or two to make his intentions known. If that didn't work, Jake could make himself look pathetic or lonesome, thereby appealing to our kinder nature. Either way, Jake got to play, and the rock/stick thrower usually finished with a smile, greater self-esteem, and the momentary gift of distraction from worrisome thoughts. In time, we all came to think of Jake as our friend, but it was my neighbor, Ben, who bonded most with Jake, and I was to understand just why in the days to follow.
Because property owners on a lake often build walls of rock to stop erosion, no one was surprised when a truck filled to capacity with rocks pulled up to Ben's home. There was a powerful wind that day. What we saw as an opportunity to stay indoors and catch up on household chores, Jake saw as an opportunity to play. The sight of a truck carrying twenty tons of rock and a man who just might throw them to him must have seemed like a dream come true for Jake. The noise of the wind coupled with a loud truck engine and a cargo of rattling rocks echoed through our closed windows as we continued with our daily work.
The truck driver, intent on completing his delivery, never saw Jake playing with a rock that had fallen behind the truck. That wind kept up for three days blowing small branches and yard debris, and on the third day, the man building the wall came to do the work. Minutes later, he stood at Ben's door. Pale, shaken, and almost unable to speak, he said he had heard the whimper of a dog beneath the twenty-ton pile of rocks. A shout went out, and all within hearing distance came running. The situation was assessed, a plan was calculated, and rocks were gently lifted so as not to make them tumble and cause further injury.
Maybe it was God. Maybe it was some universal force that made the rocks fall in just the perfect way to save him. Maybe it was the right people at the right time. Maybe that wind kept the air circulating through the small spaces in the rocks so Jake could breathe, or maybe it was just Jake's unwillingness to leave his new friends.
But, out of that pile he came, fragile, feeble, and hovering near death. After an immediate trip to the vet, Jake was placed on a mattress in a space in Ben's garage that had been hastily prepared just for him. The unmistakable smell of death soon permeated the area. With rotting flesh in shades of pink and red, and the word "raw" in my mind, I stood back, witnessing what was taking place. Ben tenderly put his face down on that ailing dog and repeatedly uttered a loud hum. Jake responded to the sound and the comfort offered by the hum. The connection from human to animal was complete.
I was humbled by Ben's quiet strength and his ability to teach simple courage to the rest of us who just wanted to help. In the days that followed, the garage became a hub of activity. Ben moved a cot out there to be close to Jake. A card table was set up in the corner, and the chairs around it were always occupied by a changing array of friends and neighbors who came to check on Jake's progress and to keep Ben company. The dual role of supporting both Ben and Jake soon grew to include taking on the task of slowly waving a flyswatter over Jake to keep investigating or intrusive summer bugs from landing on the salve protecting his open wounds.
Although our neighborhood had always been one of friendly "hello" and "isn't it a nice day" courtesies, Jake had brought out the best in each of us and helped our neighborhood grow closer. He became the topic of discussion, and in so doing, gently melted away any boundaries that kept us disconnected. Cordial words and routine politeness gave way to sincere emotion, caring, and friendship. We became comfortable with each other, able to share our joys and sorrows, and, in the process, learned more about each other as individuals.
In the weeks that followed, Ben's wife and daughter continued with the constant care and cleaning and frequent trips to the vet. After months of recuperation, Jake was Jake again and the first thing he wanted was to fetch a rock. Jake had reached celebrity status in the neighborhood and he had also become distinguishable. His mouth was crooked, a toe had been amputated, and some of the body damage was permanent. He now kept his wandering to just our street, but he spent most of his time at his new home with Ben's family. Five years later, Jake died. He simply crawled on his mattress, since moved to the living room of Ben's house, and fell asleep. We carried him to a lovely place, brought a few flowers, put some rocks and sticks on top of his grave and shared our stories. It was a peaceful death for a dog who had gone through so much, and in the process, united a neighborhood in a common spirit of kindness and love.
Because property owners on a lake often build walls of rock to stop erosion, no one was surprised when a truck filled to capacity with rocks pulled up to Ben's home. There was a powerful wind that day. What we saw as an opportunity to stay indoors and catch up on household chores, Jake saw as an opportunity to play. The sight of a truck carrying twenty tons of rock and a man who just might throw them to him must have seemed like a dream come true for Jake. The noise of the wind coupled with a loud truck engine and a cargo of rattling rocks echoed through our closed windows as we continued with our daily work.
The truck driver, intent on completing his delivery, never saw Jake playing with a rock that had fallen behind the truck. That wind kept up for three days blowing small branches and yard debris, and on the third day, the man building the wall came to do the work. Minutes later, he stood at Ben's door. Pale, shaken, and almost unable to speak, he said he had heard the whimper of a dog beneath the twenty-ton pile of rocks. A shout went out, and all within hearing distance came running. The situation was assessed, a plan was calculated, and rocks were gently lifted so as not to make them tumble and cause further injury.
Maybe it was God. Maybe it was some universal force that made the rocks fall in just the perfect way to save him. Maybe it was the right people at the right time. Maybe that wind kept the air circulating through the small spaces in the rocks so Jake could breathe, or maybe it was just Jake's unwillingness to leave his new friends.
But, out of that pile he came, fragile, feeble, and hovering near death. After an immediate trip to the vet, Jake was placed on a mattress in a space in Ben's garage that had been hastily prepared just for him. The unmistakable smell of death soon permeated the area. With rotting flesh in shades of pink and red, and the word "raw" in my mind, I stood back, witnessing what was taking place. Ben tenderly put his face down on that ailing dog and repeatedly uttered a loud hum. Jake responded to the sound and the comfort offered by the hum. The connection from human to animal was complete.
I was humbled by Ben's quiet strength and his ability to teach simple courage to the rest of us who just wanted to help. In the days that followed, the garage became a hub of activity. Ben moved a cot out there to be close to Jake. A card table was set up in the corner, and the chairs around it were always occupied by a changing array of friends and neighbors who came to check on Jake's progress and to keep Ben company. The dual role of supporting both Ben and Jake soon grew to include taking on the task of slowly waving a flyswatter over Jake to keep investigating or intrusive summer bugs from landing on the salve protecting his open wounds.
Although our neighborhood had always been one of friendly "hello" and "isn't it a nice day" courtesies, Jake had brought out the best in each of us and helped our neighborhood grow closer. He became the topic of discussion, and in so doing, gently melted away any boundaries that kept us disconnected. Cordial words and routine politeness gave way to sincere emotion, caring, and friendship. We became comfortable with each other, able to share our joys and sorrows, and, in the process, learned more about each other as individuals.
In the weeks that followed, Ben's wife and daughter continued with the constant care and cleaning and frequent trips to the vet. After months of recuperation, Jake was Jake again and the first thing he wanted was to fetch a rock. Jake had reached celebrity status in the neighborhood and he had also become distinguishable. His mouth was crooked, a toe had been amputated, and some of the body damage was permanent. He now kept his wandering to just our street, but he spent most of his time at his new home with Ben's family. Five years later, Jake died. He simply crawled on his mattress, since moved to the living room of Ben's house, and fell asleep. We carried him to a lovely place, brought a few flowers, put some rocks and sticks on top of his grave and shared our stories. It was a peaceful death for a dog who had gone through so much, and in the process, united a neighborhood in a common spirit of kindness and love.
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