Praying for a Dog Not to Be Struck by a Car

The word "spiritual" is both vague and unrealistic. Because the workings of the cosmos lie beyond the scope of human understanding, I've avoided "spiritual" quests and meandered toward a meager set of philosophies that help me get through the day in a better way. I'm pretty much down to an "enjoy every sandwich" kind of mentality. And it works just fine.

Usually.

I have no particular love for small dogs. There are exceptions, both individually and breedwise, but for the most part, they seem some type of vast insult directed toward their own ancestors. It's easy to envision disembodied wolves snarling in anger at what their bloodline has become: poofy rat creatures barely able to discern their own environment, incapable of understanding the most basic, horrid physics of getting hit by a car.

Driving down one of my city's main drags on a recent evening, I spot something small, poofy and rat-like scampering across the road. It's difficult to discern at first, since I am traveling at a fast rate, and it's dark, and it's raining, and I am trying to avoid crushing it with my car instead of locating it within the taxonomy of canis familiaris. As I slow down, my headlights reveal that I have almost run over a miniature Scottie. After a flash of shameful apathy, I quickly pull over to try and retrieve the dog. These moments appear in life from time to time. Moments that shatter your day-to-day existence, and challenge you to reach out of your safe routine to do the right thing. I let these moments slip by all too often. This is a chance to improve things. To improve myself.

I hop out of my car and sink slowly to my knees about 15 feet from this teeny, stupid dog that is wandering through traffic in the rain. I try calling it to me, using the clever nickname "Stupid Dog." Somewhere in the back of my head I am even pleased that I might be able to use my cell phone for an altruistic purpose.

This dog. This stupid dog is staring at me. This stupid, runtish dog is clearly not supposed to be outside. It is also clearly not trusting me, possibly because of the fear in my voice that I'm not quite able to control. He turns around, and begins to trot back into the street, defiant and oblivious. Defiant, oblivious and innocent.

Into more traffic. One car, specifically, is bearing down. The simple equation of location, direction and speed will see this dog crushed in a matter of seconds. The car would not suffer any damage, nor likely even notice that it had killed something.

At first, I am begging the dog. "Please, oh please, no. Please no. Don't." But shortly, I realize that I'm no longer begging the dog. I'm begging the world. Please. No. Don't. Here is Dan the skeptic, the cynic, on his knees, in the rain, begging a miscellaneous something or somebody to save a dog that probably couldn't recognize its own name. I'm looking away at first, and then I realize that I have to watch. I have to see. Somewhere in my head, a twisted logic flows: If this dog is going to live, I have to be willing to watch it die. Does this make sense? I feel like I'm daring God, "Go ahead. Kill this dog, right in front of me. And then we'll see where your compassion really lies. Where your existence really lies." Or perhaps the inverse: God daring me, "Go ahead. Watch this dog die, and he will live."

Getting hit by a car is a strange thing. It's such an event, with tires screeching, physics demanding that certain things be thrown, certain things be crushed. And yet, it is still a complete anticlimax to a life. A driver holds his hands to his face, maybe cries. A crowd might gather, or not. An entire thread of existence ends under a wheel. Imagine all of your favorite novels ending in the middle, with the sentence: "Then they were struck by a car." It sounds moronic, and is even more moronic when it's real life.

What then? The car slows. The hood of the car dips from deceleration, and the headlights show cones of rain, now highlighting the dog as it scampers to the median with its awkward, inefficient legs. It is so slow. I see it shuffle across the street into an alley, which I like to think was closer to its home. The dog lives in the same way it would have died: for no good reason.

Still, though I don't know what else to say, I'm now a little more prone to listen.

— Dan Norton)

— graphic by Charles Fincher (charles.fincher@thadeusandweez.com)