COTTONBALL

This is a great little prompt. “Your character comes across a stray (dog, cat, human—any kind of animal!) What happens next?”

Wasn't going to enter this one. Wouldn't have even thought of it had my girlfriend not mentioned it to me. She was there for a lot of it.

If I'm a bit reluctant to share this, it's because somethings are a bit painful, you understand. You're being totally truthful—that leaves you open for hurt and vulnerability. But in the end some stories should be told—especially when they are true ones.

Here you won't find any mutants, conscious self-aware 8-track players, prehistoric Gods, or conversations with the Frankenstein's monster—just the the unvarnished, unalloyed truth. As for any virtues or vices, you must judge and evaluate them for yourselves. As for me? I have a tale to tell.

It had rained heavily the night before. Didn't bother me. I was snug in my tent. I had a pretty secure and safe spot. Nonetheless I did try to stay out of sight and out of mind as much as possible. Which is why when I climbed up the hill toward the Freeway entrance, I held back. There was something of a traffic jam and the cars were idling. I preferred not to be seen and I headed back down the hill, waited five minutes, then tried again. That delay and those five minutes proved crucial to the story.

The traffic was moving now and I felt it safe to proceed.

I navigated the multiple roads. Crossed 80^th street and began my walk down Banner Way. Banner Way borders the Freeway to the right. There is a chain link fence separating the sidewalk from the hillside that rolls down to the Freeway several hundred yards below.

I chanced to look down that little hillside. Something was moving about. I wasn't sure what it was at first. Looking more closely it appeared to be a pup dog. What was he doing out here? Being a sucker for suffering and wanting to help—at least a little—I realized I was probably looking at a stray dog, one that appeared to be lost and bedraggled.

Someone had cut a big hole in the fence a long time ago. By bending down a little I could get on the other side. The pup tried moving away from me at first. He was probably too tired and exhausted to get very far. I was able to pick him up pretty easily

Bedraggled and wet. He'd been out in that heavy rain all night. He'd probably tried to find some kind of safety (Banner Way was a fairly busy road), found the hole and had gone down the hill. Had it not been for that five minute delay I don't think I would have seen him.

Well I picked up that little pup and I thought of getting him to some kind of shelter. I had no clear idea other than taking him to my storage locker, my base of operations. He was calm and I cradled him in my arms.

He was what they call a Tea Cup Poodle—four and a half pounds, as it turned out. Really a small little guy. It was dry inside the locker and I put him on some blankets. My girlfriend and I did brainstorm on what I could do. Frankly, I was lost. I didn't see myself caring for this pup. But I sure as hell didn't see myself just tossing him out again.

He had no tags. I don't even remember if he even had a collar. All he had was a ridiculous little decorative bead tied in the back of his head.

I saw no missing dog signs or anything even close. It was beginning to look like, whether I liked it or not, I was going to be caring for this pup. But I did like it. When you're living in a tent and your only real expenses are storage locker fees and phone bills, and you're on Social Security, you can afford something like that.

It might have been Veronica who gave me the idea for his name, calling him a little ball of cotton. Cottonball. It really fit him, and he did respond. Never seen such a well behaved pup as that. We did get him cleaned up and he definitely responded to having shelter.

I would take him with me and keep him in the tent. Weather was cold at times. I threw the blankets over both of us and we were really snug.

I had a small pack, besides my regular big one, and I would often carry him in it, slung over my shoulder. I would hold the pack open and he would just jump right in.

Not being too familiar with these kinds of things, it never occurred to me to check to see if he was chipped. Might have made some things easier if it had.

So one day Veronica and I are walking down Roosevelt Way, to the U-District. That's when we saw the sign. Posted on a lamp post. It sure looked like Cottonball. But I'd had that pup for twelve days now and I'd gotten a bit attached to him. I certainly wasn't thinking of getting him back to folks who had been so careless as to lose him in the first place.

The manager at the Storage facility was pretty much on my side. She was more suspicious of these so-called owners than I was. Her wife was a veterinarian, or veterinarian's assistant. She'd even examined Cottonball free of charge. She told me he was an older dog. Maybe twelve years old.

The manager knew about people running scams involving animals. That helped me to be a little bit more cautious and less guilty than I might have felt.

She even looked up an online site where people posted pictures of their lost pets.

We found pictures of Cottonball. They didn't increase my confidence towards his owners. I wish you could have seen them. In one, he was all combed out and resting on a couch or sofa. He looked liked he'd been dolled up like a little girl (that explained the little bead in his hair!) He was nothing but an accessory, like a fashionable handbag!

Another picture showed the pup by a trash dumpster, of all things! His fur was really messed up, not combed as it was in the “fashionable studio portrait” type photo.

Some might think I was wrong for deciding to keep the pup. Maybe I was, but right or wrong, I did not feel I had a reason to trust those people—and maybe I had reason to distrust them. Certainly I didn't even give them a chance, but if I was unwise in doing so, I felt protective of the pup, and what if I had returned him to those who would have sold him—or even killed him—then it would have been too late and I could have done nothing about it.

Perhaps I let the manager influence me too much. Perhaps I was worried far more than I actually needed to be. Perhaps I should have done what I imagine most people would have said was “the right thing.” But I remember the story of the cops once returning a man to his boyfriend's care. Those cops must take responsibility for that young boy's death—for the man they returned him to was Jeffrey Dahmer.

It might be a bit of a stretch to liken Cottonball's original owners to serial killers, but when you love something you prefer to err on the side of caution, and that is exactly what I did.

I took him with me wherever I went. They were good times. We got out several times a day. I made sure he got his exercise. We'd go on long walks. I would take him to a little park around the area. He'd run and run. He always came back to me.

One day Cottonball and I were walking down Roosevelt, on our way to the laundry. Veronica wasn't with me that time. I suppose I'd grown a little less cautious. Normally I'd keep Cottonball in that little shoulder pack but today I was walking him.

I hear a voice in the distance, “That's my dog! That's my dog!” I'm soon faced with a crazy woman. She doesn't even look at me. All she does is try to grab the dog. I'm trying to hold onto him, “Like hell he is! Like hell he is!” I cry. I was reacting, admittedly, and maybe it wasn't the wisest course.

Then something knocks me off my feet. I land hard, but not too hard. Maybe the guy wasn't trying to hurt me. Maybe he was just trying to deal with someone he thought was threatening his wife.

But, violence was his first resort. Perhaps he didn't feel I could be reasoned with. Or perhaps he was the “hero” type, who shoots first and asks questions later. These parts of the story are harder to write because I'm trying to understand, and I'm trying to be fair, to see things from someone else's perspective. Neither am I trying to change the facts the slightest bit to make them seem more favorable to me. What you are reading here is the true story as close as my memory allows.

I eventually got up. He didn't stop me. We talked a little bit. At one point he asked, “Do you swear you didn't steal my dog?” To me, this is a ridiculous question. What would my swearing do anything to prove my innocence? The guiltiest thief in existence would swear on a stack of Bibles if it got them what they wanted. No, I didn't, I told him.

Now, I can write eloquently. But right in the middle of confrontations and difficulties I usually don't think quickly enough to talk my way out of things. It's not often that the best answer occurs to me right at the spur of the moment.

Had it done so, some of the conversation might have gone somewhat like this:

“Your dog is an absolute house pet—how could I steal him without first getting into your house? You told me he'd done this before. You said you once traced him down to Tacoma. A real escape artist, you called him. You ever thought there might be a reason why he's a real escape artist? You know where I found him? More than a mile to the North. You put up all these signs but not so far north that I saw any of them where I was.

“Your dog wants to escape because he's locked up in your house all day. How does he get any exercise? Your wife thinks he's nothing but a little baby to dress up all fancy. She has absolutely no respect for that little dog. Did you take a good look at those pictures you put online of him? I've never seen a dog looking more forlorn than that.

“And as far as him escaping all the time—it might interest you to know—he never once tried to escape from me! Does that tell you something. It sure tells me something.“

We look at things in hindsight. We wish we'd thought of what to say at the time. I'm not the only one who's felt that. But those failures show us where we still need improvement.

I will be fair to the guy. He did offer me, either $50.00 or a $100.00. I can't remember which. I refused to take it. To my mind that would have been an admittance that I'd done something wrong. He had even talked about maybe needing someone to take the dog for walks. I'm not going to completely villainize the man. But I do wish he'd tried to talk with me first, instead of just knocking me down. I would have had no objection to Cottonball being back with his lawful owners.

Notice I say, “lawful owners.” “Lawful owners” are not always the “rightful” ones. One of the last times I was able to talk to the man, he complained that Cottonball's hair was all messed up. Here's another example of what I wish I'd thought of saying to him at the time:

“Your dog's hair is a little messed up because that always happens when you put a coat on a dog, to keep him warm while you're taking him out for a walk in the cold weather. But you guys seem to have kept him inside all the time. Kept his hair nice and combed, 24/7, right? Well that's just not possible if you want to take him out and get him some exercise, is it?

Truth to tell, when I first found Cottonball, his hair was so overgrown that we couldn't even tell he was a poodle. That little bead, they had put in his hair to keep his hair out of his eyes. Veronica's aunt told her that poodles need to have their hair cut regularly, or it mats up and pulls on their skin. Clumps of fur can bunch up, tangle and pull against the skin. The breed does not shed. That is why they need to have the traditional poodle cut to keep their skin and hair healthy.

I took a lot of time to comb and brush him every day. And he loved every minute of it.

The storage locker had very long passages. Cottonball would run along them. Veronica would say he would vanish in the haze because his fur and the locker walls were the same exact shade of off-white. A dog needs room to run around in. He was such a happy pup. I would step aside and encourage him to jump up on the chair. He'd be a little bit hesitant but he would gather all his strength and leap. I was very proud of him.

But he never got used—or even liked—having his teeth brushed, or getting little boots put on him for the winter weather. Can't rightly say I blame him. Between the two of us, Veronica and I both spent a fair amount on him, getting him coats and collars, leashes, harnesses—all the things you might think of to keep a pup healthy and happy.

That's pretty much the whole story. I had Cottonball for eleven weeks. It just may be that I gave him the best time of his life. He had freedom. He had respect. He had love. I know he loved me.

The man had told me that Cottonball had used to belong to his mother, but she had grown too frail to take care of him. So her son and his wife now owned him. But as far as I'm concerned they weren't able to take care of him, either. For the mother I am sorry—she had simply become unable to care for her pet. For the man and his wife? The two of them were incapable through sheer empty-headedness on the one hand—and stoic cluelessness on the other.

I can but hope that the two of them might have learned something from this—but I seriously doubt it.

It is unfortunate that King Solomon wasn't around three thousand years later, to judge between me and these people, as he once judged between two harlots, as to which of them was the fit and true mother of the child. There was only the rule of force. In the end, though, I hope Cottonball was happy. I know I gave him what happiness I could. And if I was to hear that he had once again pulled a Houdini, I hope he finds his way to someone even kinder than I tried to be—and someone strong enough to keep him.