THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, December 3, 1995 TAG: 9512010064
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E8 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY ANN G. SJOERDSMA
LENGTH: Medium: 86 lines
JUST THE WEEK before I had absorbed a sucker-punch diagnosis of lymphosarcoma for a sweet Shetland collie named Sheppie, whose mound of fur provides a favorite resting place for my 3-year-old niece Allison, and now here was another one of those heart-tugging, four-legged creatures in harm's way.
What is it about dogs and their infernal ``take-care-of-me'' eyes? Even those of us who know better, who have ``lifestyles'' that don't ``permit'' us to have dogs, become attached with a wag of a tail or a shy glance and then submit to being slobbered all over. Or to crying when the dog is only 3, an angel, and has cancer.
So here I am on a Saturday afternoon, headed west on Interstate 64, just past the first West Point exit, when I see a spirited white ball of fur hopping on the shoulder of this congested 65-mile-an-hour highway. A white ball of fur with a collar and a nose that keeps edging toward the pavement. And I feel sick.
A few years back, a depraved friend of mine (and cat lover) gave me a ``road kill'' menu, an unfunny novelty item that made the rounds of the culinary avant-garde for about a week. It featured Chihuahua chips, poodle burger, that sort of thing. Funny thing, though, animals squished into nondescript chunks of organic material do not make me laugh.
So when I spy the bouncy white chow (my guess of breed) playing near traffic, I figure it's my responsibility as a guardian of life's small creatures to keep him from becoming the day's special. But how?
Time being of the essence - any moment could be the chow's last - and lacking a car phone, I mentally fast-forward to the upcoming exits. Should I call the local humane society? The police? 911? Then I remember the rest area a few miles ahead.
The first number my eye sights on the pay phone is Highway Helpline, 1-800-367-ROAD. Weather conditions, road hazards, not quite, but I try it anyway and get a pleasant female voice, who allows me to identify myself and my New Kent location, and gush fearfully about the dog, who I imagine by now - 10 minutes after my rescue mission began - is a white pancake on the highway of life. She transfers me to another pleasant female voice at the State Highway Patrol in Richmond, who then transfers me back to New Kent authorities, where I get a third pleasant female voice.
This voice, though, likes my humane society suggestion, and I start to relax. I give her the dog's location, say he's small and white and wearing a collar, and emphasize my high anxiety.
Then she asks a question that hits me like a cockeyed Frisbee:
``What kind of dog is it?''
What kind of dog is it? I think. What kind of - It's a dog that's gonna-be-dead-in-the-road-in-minutes-if-you're-gonna-be-asking-me-stupid-quest ions kind of dog, that's what kind of dog it is. What difference can the breed make? How many white dogs can there be bouncing along the shoulder between the West Point exits on westbound Interstate 64 at this moment?
``A chow, I think,'' I answer politely. ``I didn't get a good look at him as I was traveling past at 65 miles an hour.'' (Actually 70, but who's to know?)
``Well, we'll get the dog warden out to look for him,'' she says casually.
No, no, I think, you're not taking this seriously enough. This is one of God's small, defenseless creatures unknowingly tempting ultimate fate, and I, who wince at every dead animal on the roadside, who have passed too many dogs frolicking in highway medians and have thought about calling someone, but guiltily haven't, who have just spent a weekend worrying and weeping about a sweet collie with cancer, am going to save him.
So I tell this voice that I'm feeling really bad.
``Don't feel too bad,'' she says. ``This chow likes playing on the highway. We get calls about him all the time. But by the time the dog warden gets there, he's already gone home.''
I'm stunned. The chow is a mark! A traffic dodger. His owners know about his bad habits and still let him run loose. My concern fast turns to anger. The chow's owners are setting me and all other passing motorists up for heartache. Once again, the two-legged creature has placed the trusting four-legged creature in harm's way. I imagine the two-leggers as pancakes.
I thank the New Kent voice and head down the road. The chow recedes from my thoughts. On the side of the Richmond bypass, I see a very still German shepherd; on Interstate 95 south of Washington, a black Labrador. I think about how they came to be on the highway, how any dog, or cat, comes to be on the highway.
As for our Sheppie, she's doing well with her chemotherapy and homeopathy. For as long as my family is allowed to share her angelic company, and she remains pain-free, she will be safe. That I promise. MEMO: Ann G. Sjoerdsma is book editor of The Virginian-Pilot. by CNB