Stewie to the Rescue

By Harris Bloom

To err is human, to forgive, canine.

~Author Unknown

The funny thing was, I didn't even want the dog. I didn't have one growing up, and I didn't see any reason to become a pet owner in my thirties. I tried to convince my girlfriend that it wasn't a good idea. We both worked full-time, and I wasn't missing something that I'd never had or wanted.

"Please?" she beseeched.

I stood my ground.

She batted her baby blues.

I held firm.

Sometime during the second month of her pleading, while not thinking clearly, I made a tactical mistake.

I asked, "If we were to get a dog, what kind of dog would you want?"

And that was that. We bought a dog and named him Stewie.

For story arc purposes, I should say how at first I didn't take too kindly to Stewie's intrusion in my life, how my normal day-to-day schedule was turned upside down, how I viewed Stewie's very existence as an inconvenience, until slowly but surely, I came to love him and how the very things about Stewie that irritated me were now enchanting. But that's not what happened.

Stewie owned me from Day One. I didn't mind when he peed on the carpet. I didn't mind when he used my socks as chew toys. I didn't mind when he ate a twenty-dollar bill that had fallen to the floor. (Okay, I did mind that a little.)

Things went incredibly well for the next two years. I even stopped going away as I used up all my vacation time (and sick days — shhh!) to stay home and play with Stewie. We'd go to the park, where he would play with the other dogs or fetch his favorite ball for hours. And then we'd go home where he'd bring me his indoor (i.e. non-squeaky) ball, and we would play fetch. For hours.

Though my girlfriend loved him too, she didn't have the time to spend with Stewie that I did. While my accounting job was strictly nine to five weekdays (and sometimes I'd even sneak out earlier), she worked as a hairstylist, which meant long days and some weekends as well. That's probably why Stewie followed me, and not her, from room to room like a two-foot stalker.

Unfortunately, things started to change. What was cute and lovable at the beginning grew tiresome. Though I had loved making sacrifices, I became less apt to compromise. Our relationship was strained, to the point where I didn't see any point in continuing. So my girlfriend and I broke up. (You didn't think I was talking about Stewie and me, did you?)

There wasn't even a discussion about who was going to take Stewie. He was my dog.

Eventually, I met my wife, Josie, and we became a family of three. On the morning of November 26th, a month after our wedding and one day after my birthday, I was walking Stewie off-leash in Riverside Park, as I had mostly done, whether it was legal or not. But on this day, he was straying a little far from me....

"Stewie!" I called out, and he froze, staring at me but not moving at all. It was almost as if he heard his name but couldn't see me. I took off the black knit hat I was wearing.

"Stewie, get over here!"

This time, instead of staring or coming to me, he took off, running south towards the entrance to the park. I took off as well, following, but soon lost sight of him. Someone near the entrance saw me running and asked if I was chasing a small dog.

"Yes!"

"He ran out that way," she said, pointing to the entrance.

"Shoot!" I thought, and climbed the stone stairs.

When I reached the street, I immediately spotted him, lying on Riverside Drive, lifeless, with blood everywhere. Stewie was four years old. The car that hit him didn't even stop.

For the next six months, I walked around like a zombie, not caring about anything. I agreed to go to therapy, but it wasn't really doing anything for my grief or me. Eventually, I decided that for my own wellbeing I had to do something. Stewie's death couldn't be for nothing.

We decided to adopt a homeless dog. We were looking for a senior dog, as we couldn't afford a dog walker and with a day gig and a comedy career, I didn't have the time to give a younger dog the attention it'd need. I also knew that it was tougher to find homes for seniors. Online, I found a post by a woman advocating for a nine-year-old great-on-the-leash Pit Bull mix named Kilo who was scheduled to be euthanized in the morning.

I decided right then and there... this dog was not going to die. I wrote to her immediately.

We met outside the animal shelter, known as (NYC) Animal Care & Control. From the outside, it is a depressing building, located on a depressing block in East Harlem. Walking in was no better. I felt like I was entering a prison (which, in one respect, I was), and a smelly prison at that.

We walked back to where the dogs were kept. The barking was loud and constant.

When she took Kilo out of his cage, Josie and I looked at each other, as if to say, "Are you sure this is the same dog described in the ad?"

He was a maniac. We thought he might be a little hyper from being in the cage, so we took him for a walk. After twenty minutes of him literally dragging me around Harlem, we asked, "Are you sure this is Kilo?"

Yes, he was insane, but like I said, this dog was not going to die. I owed it to Stewie. We took Kilo home and loved him, in spite of his high energy (or maybe because of it).

But that wasn't enough to ease my pain. Thankfully, Josie came up with an idea....

"Why don't you start your own rescue, and name it after Stewie?"

That sounded great! Not only would I be memorializing Stewie in a more public manner, but, being the founder and president, I could focus on what I felt was important, and direct my energy where it was needed the most.

In July of 2010, Stewie to the Rescue was founded.

http://www.chickensoup.com