Hanger

By Rhonda Richards-Cohen

Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.

~Roger Caras

My dog burrows into his pillow beside my bed like he has for the last twelve years. He doesn't ask for much. Occasionally, he'll plunk the tennis ball at my feet. The game we play is less "fetch" and more "keep away." I know I did us both a disservice by not teaching him the difference. But we enjoy it all the same.

On the day we met, persistent spring rain kept me interred in my tiny apartment that, after eight months, still looked like I hadn't unpacked. There were no curtains, no family photographs, no decorations, just a desk, table, TV and a daybed against builder-beige walls. Even the refrigerator was bare except for a gathering of vegetables in the crisper drawer. When the rain subsided to a drizzle, I slogged the mile to White Rock Lake. There would be people at the lake: jogging, skating, biking, walking dogs. Granted, we wouldn't speak as we passed, but passing was affirmation enough. When they stepped a little to the right to let me pass, I knew I existed, and for a split second, I was not alone. The city sidewalk ended at the park gate. Rain puddled on the pedestrian trail, so I walked on the steamy asphalt. Car traffic would be light.

Up ahead a small dog loped in my direction. It was black and amber like a German Shepherd, but its bent ears were more Tramp than Rin Tin Tin. Bicycles whined passed me, spitting mist up through the thick Texas humidity. The dog bolted up an embankment, across the road, into a ditch, and back. A stray, I reasoned, no park-required leash, collar, or human companionship. Behind me, a car engine revved, its radio drowning out the chirp of summer cicadas. Intent on catching the skittish dog, I held my breath. If I moved, it could dart away from me and into the path of the car. That's how it happened. The rear tire of a powder blue convertible rolled over him. The car stopped a few yards away.

"I am so sorry," the driver said as he sauntered over to see what he had hit.

Pulling my eyes from the convulsing puppy, I looked at him. He swayed slightly. He appeared to have been drinking, and he shouldn't have been driving.

"I'm so sorry," he said again. "So sorry." He waited anxiously for me to absolve him of responsibility. The dog's nose bled a thin red line, nothing else moved.

The man and I dragged the limp body across the pavement to the gravel shoulder before he left, speeding away. As I stood wondering what to do, the puppy revived, jerking his legs and neck, trying to stand. I struggled to pick him up. He didn't fight, just hung his head over the crook of my left elbow, legs dangling. "Hang on," I said. "Just hang on and I'll get you to the veterinarian." Before I'd gone one hundred yards, I had named him Hanger. My arms were already tired when I noticed a cyclist stopped at the concrete pedestal water fountain next to the lake's spillway. He lingered curiously over the ancient spigot that no one ever used. He was tanned and toned, and had razor cut hair under his aerodynamic helmet.

"Most people let their dogs walk," he joked as I came within earshot.

"Yeah, it's not my dog. He just got run over by a car," I said.

"Wow. Wait here," he replied. "I'll get my car and drive you home."

"That's okay. I can walk," I said, deferring to admonitions about stranger danger.

"Really, wait here. It's no problem."

He returned ten minutes later in a black Mustang with a bed of towels in the trunk. If we talked, it was about what happened, the puppy under the tires of the car, the driver's behavior. It was a short, quiet mile to the gate to my apartment complex. He lifted the dog out of the trunk. "Can I call you sometime? Would you like to have lunch?"

"I'm moving to California in a month, so. Thanks for the ride."

"I'm Todd Cohen," he offered as I took Hanger from his arms.

"Thanks Todd. I'm Rhonda Richards. I've got to go call some vets."

At the Emergency Veterinary Clinic a woman in a white coat explained that strays are treated and turned over to the SPCA. "If you decide to keep him," she said, "you pay for the treatment, which averages about $300." I was pretty sure this dog would not survive until morning, much less be going home with anyone.

The clinic called the next day, "That puppy you brought in is fine."

"Fine, how can he be fine?" I said. "He got run over by a car."

"He's young. His bones are still rubbery. He's too sore to walk or eat. His vital signs are good, though. Do you want to adopt him or send him to the SPCA?"

I heard the question, but my mind was somewhere else. I wanted a dog. I had already planned to find a rental house in California with a fenced yard so that I could get a dog and wouldn't be alone.

"What do you want to do?" she repeated.

"Um, I guess that's my dog. I'll keep him," I said.

That day at the lake changed my life. I don't spend as much time away from home as I used to. Hanger has to be fed, even if I'm not hungry. And home isn't as lonely as it used to be. He warms my cold feet, leaves hair on the bathroom floor, and requires a little bit of affection every day. He is tolerant to a fault. Children have toddled through our lives, clobbering him with happy fists. He doesn't seem to mind. He's just like my husband, that way. The cyclist who gave us a ride back to my apartment that fateful day — I married him.

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