I want to tell you a story that happened many years ago, as recently as today and will happen again tomorrow. It is a story about a deceptively familiar place where securing the basic necessities of life, health care, housing, transportation and communication, requires persistence to overcome one obstacle after another. I call this place The Parallel Universe.
I last saw Skippie the day before I headed to Seattle. He was his usual happy, over-weight self — bright brown eyes and an enormous grin on his little round face. Each time I pull in, he charges out the front door headed straight for the car. “Skippy loves to go places,” Trila informed me early in our friendship.
Skippy has been Trila’s constant companion for 14 years. Her faithful sidekick from Kentucky, they camped and fished together, sharing a tent and campfire. He accompanied Trila everywhere: on and off the street, in and out of homeless shelters and finally into a place of their very own. He smells good, is well behaved, and never met a human being he doesn’t like. It’s Skippy’s bark which alerts Trila when someone is at the door. His food, comfort and safety have highest priority.
Back from Seattle I drove over and parked on the gravel in front of her duplex. Trila was sitting all by herself, slumped over in a lawn chair. “Skippy’s gone,” she wailed. “My Skippy’s gone.” Fearing the worst, I grabbed my travel mug from the car, pulled a second chair closer and sat down.
“Skippy’s gone!”
Assuming he had died, my heart sank. “What happened?”
“I let him out while I used the bathroom Friday night before our walk. When I came outside, Skippy was gone. I walked through the yards calling and calling, then the whole neighborhood, but I couldn’t find him. I called the Humane Society Saturday, but they had changed their number. Nobody answered the phone when I called the dog pound.”
Trila nodded unhappily when I asked if she’d looked along the railroad tracks across the road. Skippy wasn’t anywhere.
I googled the Humane Society website, got a phone number and described the missing dog to the woman who answered the phone. “Wait a minute,” she said – the murmur of distant voices while the phone lay on a desktop – “Two teenagers brought him here Friday night after nearly hitting him with their car. They didn’t find a name tag, so figured he was lost.” I turned to Trila and gave a thumbs up. She perked up and wiped her wet cheeks with her shirt sleeve. I told her about the teenagers and explained that Skippy was now with the dog warden. Trila grabbed her purse, locked the front door and we google-mapped our way to the pound. Once inside we heard a familiar plaintive whine.
“It’s all right, Skippy. I’m here.” Trila called and started for the side door off the lobby.
“Ma’am, you can’t go back there. My assistant will bring him out.”
The warden was as good as his word. Amidst much barking and cooing, the overjoyed couple greeted each other, then disappeared outside. I remained at the counter while the young man totaled up the usual fines for a stray dog, no license, warden’s fees and room and board. He showed me the total.
“She can’t afford that, can she?” I shook my head. “I thought not. I’ll only charge her for no license.” I paid the fine, expressed our deep gratitude and joined Trila and Skippy in the parking lot.
Because two thoughtful teenagers took the time to rescue a stray dog and a county official rendered a sympathetic (and realistic) judgment about a frantic owner’s inability to pay, Trila and Skippy were joyously reunited. Even in The Parallel Universe there are happy endings when folks are at their best and respond with love.
* To protect their identity, Trila is a composite of these women. All the stories are true and describe my experience as companion in each case.
