Read an Excerpt
In 1991, after having been primarily a freelance magazine writer since my children were small, I decided to switch directions and write a book about angels. This topic was uncharted territory in those days; angels had been overlooked by the general population since the 1940s or thereabouts, and when noticed, they were usually presented in ethereal, theological terms. By contrast, my first angel book, Where Angels Walk, was a collection of down-to-earth true stories from ordinary people who believed they had been graced by a celestial being. In any given case, there was no way to prove that an angel had been involved, but the experiences themselves propelled the book to bestseller status, and I was flooded with new stories and requests for more books.
More angel books? What a joyful assignment! I didn’t even have to decide on approaches or themes, for the fans themselves suggested a sequel titled Where Miracles Happen, outlining additional ways God communicated with people. Then along came a reader-requested volume for and about children and their unique relationships with guardian angels.
As I researched, asked questions, and wrote, my major challenge was making sure that everything presented was in line with biblical teaching. This was a sacred subject and must be conveyed in the most accurate terms possible. I asked the Holy Spirit for the gift of discernment, for help in selecting the appropriate material, and that there be no embellishment or “weirdness,” just gentle guidance from heaven.
No shooting stars appeared. (They rarely do!) Instead, I came across a tender account of a woman who walked unknowingly through a dangerous area, but she felt her guardian angel’s protection and arrived safely. Her “angel,” it turned out, was a dog.
A dog! The story was terrific, but all wrong, I thought. Angels were heavenly beings, at the top of the spiritual heap. Dogs were . . . well, dogs. To merge the two might be offensive to some readers, even slightly heretical.
Yet, hadn’t I asked the Holy Spirit for discernment? And hadn’t it been established in earlier books that when angels appear to mortals, only occasionally do they wear the accustomed wings and haloes? I was discovering that more frequently they are disguised as ordinary people moving helpfully through a difficult situation, then disappearing before anyone realizes their true nature. If God would use anonymous spirits in human form to work his will, why not in dog form?
I learned that this had actually happened to St. John Bosco. As a minister to homeless boys, John was frequently mugged by the very kids he sought to help. At one point a large gray dog appeared at John’s side, chasing away the gangs and keeping him safe. For years afterward, the dog would materialize when John was vulnerable, and it never showed signs of aging (talk about a miracle!).
Dogs certainly have played an important role in the protection and rescue of humans. In the Old Testament book of Tobit, a dog faithfully escorts Tobit’s son Tobias and the archangel Raphael on their journeys. A thirteenth-century canine in France was venerated for years after miracles apparently took place at his shrine. A black-and-white dog (said by some to be a Dalmatian) is the symbol of the Dominican order of friars and nuns, who wear white habits with black capes. And who could overlook the loyal Saint Bernard, discovered by Swiss monks, whose loyalty and sense of smell helped to rescue lost travelers? “For mine are all the animals of the forest, beasts by the thousands on my mountain,” Psalms 50:10–11 reinforces this point of view. “I know all the birds of the air, and whatever stirs in the plains belongs to me.” God told Noah that a rainbow was to be a reminder of the covenant between God and “every living creature on earth.” St. Francis referred to animals as his “brothers and sisters.”
I decided to use a couple of the dog stories I had collected in the next few books, perhaps to test the waters. Readers were delighted; not only did they support the appropriateness of a spiritual connection between humans and canines, but they also sent me more accounts of their own experiences. Why did they value their dogs so highly?
I was told that dogs sense and respond to a person’s feelings and rarely complain. They live completely in the moment, unconcerned about what is to come. They wouldn’t dream of judging us—they carry no hidden agenda, no fault-finding or vengefulness, and their devotion is fierce. If dogs were like people they would give up on us eventually, but they never do. If we could ask them why they love us so much, they would probably reply, “Just because . . .”
A dog will greet a stranger as if she is a best friend, spend all day listening, and never interrupt. If you are grieving, he will move into the pain, standing with you in your sorrow, and comforting you simply by his presence. (Author Matthew Fox considers his dog “my spiritual advisor”). A dog forces us to take a break, to slow down and enjoy our surroundings, and in doing so, we often connect with the mystical world beyond our own.
Interestingly, these descriptions remind me of another category of creation: angels.
By now, my volumes had become a series, each containing at least one dog story, and more were waiting in the (you’ll excuse the expression) wings. Perhaps the logical next step was to compile an entire book on the topic of dogs and how God uses them. As before, there would be stories from many points of view—a puppy who taught a child about faith, a ragtag mutt someone rescued just in time—the situations would be as varied as the canines themselves, but all would contain that sense of wonder, that heavenly connection: Look what God uses to make himself known to his children!
I began again to research and write, and here is the result. If an angel lover has the same impression I originally did, that a dog is simply a dog, I hope she reserves judgment. As she reads, she may come to see that the journey on earth is difficult at times, so our loving Father has provided many helpers for us. Friends, special teachers, gentle companions, and more.
Some may not fit the traditional mold. But a furry embrace and a cold nose work just as well.
Baby’s Best Friend
You can’t buy loyalty, they say,
I bought it, though, the other day.
You can’t buy friendship tried and true
Well just the same, I bought that too.
I made my bid and on the spot
Bought love and faith and a whole job lot
Of happiness, so all in all
The purchase price was pretty small.
I bought a single trusting heart,
That gave devotion from the start.
If you think these things are not for sale,
Buy a brown-eyed puppy with a wagging tail.
Although Pam Sica and her husband, Troy, of Bellport, New York, had tried for ten years to have a baby, their efforts had failed. Pam was past forty now, and the doctors believed that her chance of becoming pregnant and delivering a healthy child was almost impossible. “Bullet, it looks like we’re not going to have a baby after all.” Pam held her golden retriever, Bullet, one afternoon as the tears came. She had gotten the dog when he was a tiny puppy and brought him into her marriage, and both she and Troy loved him dearly. In fact, at one point, they had almost lost him, too.
“When Bullet was twelve years old, we took him for his regular checkup, and his vet diagnosed both a heart condition and a tumor on his liver,” Pam says. “The vet was afraid to operate just then because he wasn’t sure Bullet’s heart could take the anesthesia. So we waited until September, but by then the tumor had grown to the size of a baseball.” Pam and Troy were told that it was time to let Bullet go. But Pam couldn’t bring herself to do it. The dog had been a huge part of her life, and she was willing to fight for him.
The Sicas took out a $5000 loan to cover Bullet’s operation and his other medical expenses. Friends and family thought they were insane. Weren’t they already in financial difficulties due to their attempts to become parents? And now this expensive surgery on an elderly dog who probably wouldn’t make it anyway. Pam knew what people thought. In fact, they were probably right. But love isn’t always logical, and she would see Bullet through, whatever happened.
To everyone’s surprise, Bullet survived the surgery and mended well. And in another year, there was a second shock. Pam and Troy had indeed beaten the odds. They were going to have a baby!
Pam had a difficult pregnancy, but on April 10, 2002, she delivered a healthy little boy, whom they named Troy Joseph. A day or two after the delivery, “I brought home a blanket from the baby’s hospital bassinet and gave it to Bullet,” Troy Senior recalls. “Despite his advancing age, he seemed delighted and scampered around like a pup, dragging the blanket beside him and sleeping with it at night.” A few days later, when Pam and the baby came home, Bullet was ecstatic. He ran right to the baby, seeming to understand that little Troy was the newest member of his family. As the first few days passed, Pam realized that Bullet had appointed himself the baby’s guardian and would come to alert her whenever Troy cried, even during the night.
Although motherhood took some getting used to, Pam’s confidence grew. Bullet was like another adult, ready to caution or inform her about what the baby needed. How wonderful that he was able to share this time with her! Pam was even happier that she had listened to her own instincts instead of being persuaded to euthanize Bullet.
By the time three weeks had passed, life was settling into a comfortable routine. The baby usually had a bottle about 4:30 in the morning, and on the morning of May 1, Pam got up to prepare it, laying the baby on his back on their large bed, with pillows all around him and a single nightlight on. Troy went into the shower to get ready for work, and Bullet—Pam thought—was still drowsing near the crib. Lately he seemed to need more sleep.
But Bullet wasn’t sleeping. Suddenly Pam heard him bark, and a few seconds later he came skidding down the hallway to the kitchen, ears flapping, whining urgently and insistently. “Bullet, stop!” Pam told him. “Do you want to go out?”
It was rare for Bullet to bark, even odder if he wanted to go out this early. But no. Bullet ran back down the hallway to the bedroom, then turned toward Pam. He looked up at her, and barked again, jumping off the floor, as if to say “C’mon!” Bullet was too old to be jumping. What was going on?
The baby! Suddenly Pam realized that Bullet was trying to alert her. She hurried after the dog, following him into the darkened bedroom. What she saw stunned her. Baby Troy’s head was thrown back, and a raspy sound was coming from his throat. “Troy!” she screamed, tearing the drapes aside to let in some light. His face! As she watched, the baby’s face changed from red, to purple to blue—and then his tiny body went completely limp. SIDS? Sleep apnea? Was he choking? “Troy!” she screamed again, reaching for the phone.
Troy raced out of the shower, took in the frightening scene, and immediately began performing CPR on the baby. Pam called 911 but she was barely coherent. God, God, she kept thinking, why would you give me a baby, and then take him back?
Bullet was extremely upset. When the police and the paramedics came running up the stairs, Troy surrendered the baby to them, and the dog went berserk. This was his baby, he tried to tell these strangers, and no one else was supposed to get close! Bullet barked and whined the entire time the paramedics worked on baby Troy, but Pam was still close enough to hear one say quietly to the other, “We’re losing him.” It was like a nightmare that wouldn’t end. God, God, she kept repeating.
The baby was rushed to Brookhaven Memorial Hospital in New York, where he was stabilized, and then he was sent on to Stonybrook, which had better facilities for treating sick infants. Thus, Pam was stunned when the baby relapsed twice, and a hospital official asked if she would be willing to donate his organs if he didn’t survive. “I got hysterical again,” Pam says. “I thought he was coming here to recover, not to die. It was too much trauma in such a short time.”
They had not yet discovered why the baby was so sick. But at the end of that horrific day, the doctor who treated Troy had something important to tell them. “You were lucky to find him when you did. It takes only a few minutes for brain damage to set in with a very young infant.” Pam and Troy looked at each other, stunned. They were just beginning to realize that Bullet’s alert had saved their baby’s life. Several years later, the couple happened to meet the paramedic who had answered the call that day, and he too remembered what a close call it had been. “What made you go to the baby’s room?” he asked Pam. “In another few seconds, I think you would have lost him.”
Baby Troy rallied and came home two weeks later, but he continued to have some mysterious symptoms until he was about eighteen months old. Then he was diagnosed with baby GERD, a gastro-intestinal condition that is controlled with medication. The baby had also been born with a hole in his heart, but as he grew, the hole closed up by itself.
What can explain Bullet’s awareness that the baby was in trouble that day? Experts say that dogs are often able to detect changes in atmosphere that humans miss. Or perhaps Bullet was used to Troy’s normal breathing sound, and when it stopped, he sensed a problem. Pam agrees, but feels the explanation is obvious: “If we hadn’t opted to save Bullet’s life earlier, he wouldn’t have been here to save Troy. That has to be more than just coincidence.”
Little Troy’s faithful companion, Bullet, had only one more year to share with him, and then the dog died peacefully one morning in Pam’s arms. It was the way she had wanted it, but later she had some doubts. “I’m wondering if I made the right decision for Bullet,” she confided to Troy Senior one hot August day on the patio. “What if he was suffering and I prolonged it?”
Troy looked around the yard, where Bullet had enjoyed so many pleasant years. If only dogs could talk! Then, suddenly, it started raining. “It poured for about a minute and stopped,” Troy says. “Then the steam came up off the hot patio floor and formed a circle.”
“Look!” Pam pointed. A huge yellow butterfly hovered in front of them, then flew right through the steam circle and over to the neighbor’s tree.
The two looked at each other. The butterfly—a sign of new life. Was this an answer from Bullet?
Today Troy Sica is a healthy child and enjoys a happy life with his parents. He has learned to accept the many sightings of large yellow butterflies that seem to follow his family wherever they go. “Look, Mom!” he often says. “There’s Bullet!”
We must remember that we have a Guardian Angel and turn to him in our thoughts and heart. This is good during peaceful times and especially so during turmoil.
—Bishop Theophan the Recluse
Nora doesn’t want her real name used, “because I am still embarrassed at how naive I was.” At that time, as a shy eighteen-year-old, she was caught up in romantic dreams. “More than anything, I wanted a man in my life,” she says. “My best friend had just met someone special, and I longed for the same thing to happen to me.”
Nora lived with her older brother Mark,* his wife, and their baby just outside a small Arkansas town, because it was close to her job at a shoe factory. Sharing the house were three hounds, white with large black spots, which Mark used when he hunted quail and raccoons. The dogs were affectionate and rowdy, always jumping up on Nora, and she enjoyed playing with them. She babysat for her young nephew occasionally and attended church every Sunday. “I believed in God and the Bible,” she says. “My mother always told me that if I ever got in trouble, I should ask God for help.” Nora didn’t anticipate trouble of any kind—in fact, that was the trouble! Although her life was pleasant, it seemed to be on hold.
One day a friend introduced Nora to a handsome young man. Nora liked Peter* right away, and when he invited her out for a casual dinner, she gladly accepted. But during dinner, Peter made several suggestive comments, and Nora became apprehensive. She was relieved when he drove her back to her brother’s house. By then, it was dark.
“There was a little lane leading past the house, and Peter suggested we take a stroll before he left,” Nora says. “I was hesitant since I knew my sister-in-law and the baby had gone to her parents’ for the weekend, and my brother was out hunting. But it was a beautiful, starry night.” Peter held her hand, and despite her misgivings, Nora allowed romantic dreams to take over.
Before they had traveled more than a few yards down the quiet path, Peter suddenly attacked Nora, pushing her to the ground. He was tremendously strong and, horrified, Nora realized that she would be no match for him. Panic almost overwhelmed her, but then a thought flashed through her mind. God was watching her! He knew what was going on, he loved her, and he wouldn’t desert her—her mother had said so.
“God, help me! Send help!” Nora cried out as she struggled. “God, please . . .” It seemed hopeless; Peter was overpowering her. But Nora continued to pray aloud. Words that she wasn’t even thinking about poured out “God, help, help . . .”
Suddenly Nora felt a presence. Looking up, she gasped. Mark’s three black-and-white hunting dogs, outlined in moonlight, stood over them.
“Mark!” Was her brother nearby? Had he heard her scream? But there wasn’t a sound. Nora knew that Mark’s dogs would never leave his side. And these were definitely his dogs—she recognized their distinctive markings. But why had she not heard them approach? And why had they not barked and jumped upon her, as they always did?
Startled, Peter let go of her. He stared at the dogs, and the dogs stared back. One barked, once or twice, then quieted. The others stood mute, neither attacking nor retreating, they just stood there, like sentries. It was almost as if they understood what was going on and were looking on in eerie disapproval.
Peter got up and moved away, walking faster and faster as he headed back to his car. The dogs watched but stayed with Nora, encircling her. “You’ll be all right now,” they seemed to say. Shakily she rose to her feet. She was all right, except for her disillusionment. If it hadn’t been for the dogs. . . . Slowly she started up the lane toward the house, looking back to see if they were following her. But the lane was empty. They must have returned to Mark. But where was Mark?
Several hours later, Mark finally pulled his truck into the driveway. Now the dogs were barking noisily, and when they saw Nora they jumped out of the truck and leaped affectionately upon her, just as they always did, licking her face as if she’d been gone for years. “Where have you been?” Nora asked Mark as she warmed up some food for him.
“The dogs and I were coon hunting over in Finch tonight.”
Finch was at least fifteen miles away. “All night?” Nora asked.
“We left about the same time you did,” Mark explained. “We’ve been up in the hills ever since.”
The dogs couldn’t have covered a fifteen-mile stretch to be at her side. “Were the dogs with you the whole time?”
“The whole time, just like always.”
Perhaps the animals she’d seen belonged to someone else. No, Nora knew every hound in the area, and none looked quite like Mark’s. And what kind of dogs would be so silent, so protective?
Mark was looking at her curiously. But she would need some time to think before she could tell her brother—or anyone—about what she was beginning to believe. For if the dogs that had rescued her were not Mark’s or anyone else’s, then where had they come from? And who had sent them?
Today Nora is married and the mother of two. But she will never forget that night. “I think it was divine intervention,” she says. “Angels do come in many forms.” 1
Maya the Magnificent
Dogs have given us their absolute all. We are the center of their universe. We are the focus of their love and faith and trust. They serve us in return for scraps. It is without a doubt the best deal man has ever made.
—Roger Caras, former president of SPCA
An estimated 25 percent of adult Americans suffer from a mental or emotional disorder in any given year, and depression is one of the most debilitating. Even children can be affected.
Deby Duzan of Springfield, Missouri, asked herself that question every day. Her daughter Sarah had lost interest in everything—family, school, friends, even animals (and she loved animals)—during the summer she was ten years old. “I chalked it up to growing pains and perhaps a bit of boredom,” Deby remembers. “But when Sarah’s moods continued, we went to the doctor.” Sarah was diagnosed with depression and put on an anti-depressant. But the diagnosis didn’t help. “Now we knew what it was, but we didn’t know how to cure it.” Deby and her husband were baffled.
“My Dad was always willing to talk,” Sarah, a self-proclaimed “Daddy’s girl” says now, “and though he had never dealt with depression before, he always seemed to know what to say.” But despite her parents’ concern, nothing seemed to relieve Sarah for long. And to make matters worse, she hated her medication. She didn’t think it helped much, and one of the side effects was weight gain. When school started up again, the kids began to make fun of her, which added loneliness to her burden. Friendless and disinterested in practically everything, Sarah struggled through school that year and then spent her summer sleeping, probably to escape the pain.
A pattern developed during the next several years, and although Sarah had an occasional pleasant day, there were more dark ones. Nothing seemed to comfort her for long, not even the two cats and the Great Dane that Sarah’s family had adopted because of her love for animals. The worst time was in the middle of Sarah’s junior year in high school. “She was so despondent that on three separate occasions she checked into a behavioral health center,” Deby remembers. Despite her constant prayers, Deby despaired of ever finding an answer for her daughter.
By the time summer vacation arrived, however, Sarah was feeling well enough to make some changes in her life. She had tried several medications and now seemed to have found a winning combination. Hesitantly she applied for a job at the local pet store. “It’s always scary to start a new job,” she says, “but at least I felt I had some expertise and could actually help people with their pet questions.”
Within weeks Deby saw a hopeful change in her daughter. Sarah had always loved animals, especially dogs (the bigger, the better), and her new job provided many of them to hug. She seemed more relaxed and happy than she’d been in years. She had even discovered the Bel-Rea Institute of Animal Technology in Denver, where she could learn to become a veterinary technician. Was this just another “up” phase? Or was Sarah on the road to a better life?
One summer morning, Sarah called Deby from the pet store. Kathleen, a woman who rescued dogs, had dropped off a large English mastiff, found abandoned in a house that a family had just vacated. “She’s beautiful, Mom. Can I adopt her?” Sarah asked. “The fee is only thirty dollars.”
An English mastiff. Weren’t they about the size of a Shetland pony? The family already had a Great Dane—what if the dogs fought with each other? (Deby envisioned furniture and lamps flying through the air.) Mastiffs drooled too. And Sarah’s father, already hip-deep in animals, wouldn’t be thrilled about another. But Deby had heard the lilt in her daughter’s voice, and she would do anything to keep it there. “Well, if you want to go to the Institute next year, a dog that big would certainly protect you,” she heard herself saying.
Sarah cheered. She paid the adoption fee and brought Maya to the family vet. The vet estimated that Maya was about ten months old. She was under weight but otherwise in good shape. Sarah enrolled Maya in an obedience class right away, and she realized that the dog was very intelligent. “She does almost everything she’s supposed to do,” Sarah told her mother. And one day, at the vet’s for another checkup, gentle Maya allowed the children in the waiting room to pat her. The vet noticed, too. “Maya is good with people,” he pointed out. “You might want to consider training her to work as a therapy dog.”
“I hadn’t thought about that, but it sounded like a great idea,” Sarah says. She found a trainer and started the classes necessary for Maya to be certified. Maya had some fear issues that needed to be worked out before the dog would be ready to do pet therapy. In the meantime, Sarah’s senior year of high school began, and she had some fear issues, too. Deby was initially apprehensive. Would Sarah slip back into her sleep habit when confronted with the pressure of studying, working, plus caring for Maya? But it didn’t happen. Sarah’s depression occasionally surfaced, but she seemed to be able to cope with it and juggle her responsibilities more easily than she ever had. Maya, now weighing one hundred seventy-five pounds, took more than the usual adjustments, but as Sarah had predicted, everyone, even Dad, had learned to love this enormous newcomer.
Maya worked hard, and by the time she was ready to take the certification exam, Sarah seemed like a new person. The world was opening up to her, and she was determined to be part of it. Maya attracted attention when out for her walks, so Sarah overcame her shyness and began to introduce her dog to anyone who seemed interested. She took Maya to visit a nearby school, and was delighted when several teachers asked her to come back. “My mom taught in a middle school in a nearby town, and I developed an animal safety course for the kids,” Sarah says. “It was basically to teach them how to approach a dog properly, how to care for their pets. . . . I would sometimes read books to them out of the Mudge series. Mudge books are about an English mastiff, so it was neat for them to have a ‘Mudge’ in the classroom.” Sarah and Maya went to nursing homes too, and Sarah made it a point to talk with the residents, even those suffering from depression. She knew how that felt.
Maya was well behaved and sweet natured to everyone she met. And perhaps the most important beneficiary was Sarah herself. Somehow this drooly dog had made it easier for Sarah to bridge the gap, and live a normal life again. Deby didn’t even hesitate when, after high school graduation, Sarah asked if she could become a foster parent for other large dogs.
Kathleen, the lady who had originally rescued Maya, was a good source for dogs that, they hoped, would eventually be adoptable. Sarah fostered a Saint Bernard and several Great Danes, teaching them basic obedience and behavior. But one day she came home with a question.
“Mom, I just discovered that the average fee to adopt an abandoned mastiff is $350. And most of them have some health problems.”
“Three hundred and fifty dollars?” Deby was stunned.
“Even stranger, a mastiff puppy in good shape could cost as much as fifteen hundred.”
The two looked at each other. There was no way that they could have afforded these fees. There was a funny little feeling in Deby’s stomach as she thought back to the circumstances surrounding Maya’s adoption.
Their friend Kathleen said she had “found” Maya in an abandoned house. And yet why, Deby wondered for the first time, would anyone have left this dog behind? When rescued, she was gentle, intelligent, and in reasonably good health. Further, if mastiffs were so expensive to adopt, why had Sarah been charged only a thirty-dollar fee?
Was Kathleen an “earth angel,” someone who saw a young girl in need and somehow found a special dog to enter her life? Or was the entire situation a blessing that heaven had arranged for her?
Sarah eventually finished her course work at the Bel-Rea Institute and decided to continue her education. Today she is studying medical technology and is the mother of a young son. She also has a Great Dane service dog that helps her handle her occasional anxiety. Life, she says, is good.
The women never discovered just how Maya was able to come into their lives, and the secret died with her in 2003. “I know Maya was a dog,” Deby says, “but I think she was also a kind of angel. She came as an answer to prayer, didn’t she?”
Sarah agrees. “I am still thankful for her every day,” she says. “Maya gave me my life back.”
Old Dog, New Trick
Deafness: This is a malady that affects dogs when their person wants them in and they want to stay out. Symptoms include staring blankly at the person, then running in the opposite direction, or lying down.
The little ball of dirty white fluff was apparently frolicking on the railroad tracks in Kerns, Utah that night when Fred Krause’s freight train approached. It’s the situation engineers dread most, and Fred and his conductor both froze. The two engines were pulling ten cars on a local run, and there wasn’t enough time to stop. “I saw the dog on the rails ahead,” says Fred, “but it was too late to do anything about it.” As he passed over the furry pup, he knew it would have had no defense against the huge mass of steel, and the result was inevitable. “There’s nothing you can do,” he says. “It breaks your heart.” Would someone be looking for this cuddly little mutt? Would they ever discover what had happened? Best to just put it out of his mind.
Fred made his delivery at Kennecott Copper Mine, the only stop on this sixteen-mile route, and started his return trip. “Normally on a Sunday night we would have picked up cars from other trains, and then proceeded on to Provo. We almost never do a Kennecott flip (a run up to Kennecott and back) without a trip to Provo.” Fred remembered where the accident had occurred. As he approached the spot, he slowed down. A mile, another mile and then . . . Wait! Fred leaned forward. What was that, trotting toward him down the tracks?
Fred could hardly believe his eyes. By the flare of the engine light, he saw the white dog, alive and unscathed! He must have scooted between the rails, and the train had probably passed right over him without doing any harm. However, like a bad dream, it was all happening again! “Come on, buddy, get off the tracks!” Fred flashed the lights, blew the whistle and tried to slow down, but the dog scampered toward the engine. Right before it hit him, Fred got a clear look at the dog. “Oh, no!” he shouted. “It’s a Shih Tzu!”
Fred and his wife have a Shih Tzu, seven-year-old Milo.
Everything was happening so fast, and then the train ran over the dog. Fred heard an unmistakable sound, the thud of something hitting the snow plow mounted on the front of the engine. If he hadn’t been crushed, the stray would have been struck by the plow. Either way, it was definitely over.
The train sped on, but Fred couldn’t stop thinking about the dog. It was 11 p.m. when his shift ended, and as he was pulling out of the parking lot, he made a decision. “I had convinced myself that no dog could survive an impact with the train, but this was going to be my only chance to know for sure. That’s when I decided to go back.” He drove his car to a site that he judged to be close to where the dog had been hit. Taking along his flashlight, he walked down the rails, calling and whistling in the darkness. He felt himself being prodded to go just a little farther, and then a little more. Then he saw a forlorn ball of matted fur lying between the tracks. Fred shone the light on the little pile. The pile quivered, got up on all fours, turned around, and looked at Fred as if to say, What took you so long?
Fred was stunned. “The last thing I expected was to find him alive,” he says. But it was another chance, and Fred couldn’t abandon him now, not after all that had happened. Instead, the two went to the vet emergency room.
The “little guy,” as Fred had already named him, was about ten years old, and in a somewhat dazed condition. His encounter with the train’s snowplow had left him with only a concussion, no broken bones or any other damage. However, he had probably been homeless for some time, since his fur was matted, and he had infections in his eyes and feet. (The eye problems may have accounted for him running toward the train instead of away from it.) But it seemed obvious that someone had loved him up until the recent past. He was also hungry, so after the amazed vet had released him, Fred brought him home for breakfast. His wife Lori was astonished at the story.
Later that day, the area experienced a major snowstorm, and Fred realized that if he hadn’t rescued the dog when he did, given his injuries, the freezing weather, and the fox population, the little guy would not have lived much longer. “I have hit a few dogs in the past,” Fred says, “but I’ve never gone back to check on any of them. It’s too difficult. Why I did this time, I just don’t know.” And was it mere coincidence that his run that night kept him in the vicinity of the little guy, rather than miles away in Provo? Once again, the timing had been perfect.
An owner never showed up, so Fred and Lori decided to adopt their invalid, after convincing Milo that it might be fun to have a pal. And Little Guy is delighted with his new digs.
“I must admit that I am not a spiritual person,” says Fred, “but Lori and I both agree that there almost seems to have been some sort of ‘divine intervention’ in this particular situation, so many details that never or very seldom occur, that happened that day. It’s enough to make someone like myself go, ‘Hmmmm, I wonder . . .’?”