It was the card that did it. Until then, I hadn’t shed a single tear, despite the often excruciating pain and the sheer, life-flashing-before-your-eyes, terror of the memories.
At first, I presumed it was yet another pizza-kebab-curry flyer when it came through the letter box. In fact, I almost missed it, in the growing pile of junk mail. But then I saw it was addressed to “Dominique & Family”. The illustration above barely does it justice. It is hand made and the pattern on the Scottie Dog is an intricate, inlaid collage. One of the neighbours, Carole, whom I know just a bit from walking our dogs, made it, especially for me, and when I read the message she had written, the tears started and they didn’t stop.
On Tuesday morning, coming back from our regular morning stroll on Wandsworth Common, Harley and Buster were set upon by two huge “Staffie”-type dogs wearing studded leather harnesses. I had seen both dogs a few times before. They had snarled more than once in our direction but were then firmly on the lead.
This time, we had no chance. One dog picked Buster up in his jaws, worrying him as if he were a rat or a squeaky toy. The other set about Harley who was nimble enough to escape and shoot back to our rented house. The owner stood by & watched as I – possibly foolishly – tried to extricate Buster. The second dog then joined in, snapping at my flapping elbows & then seizing my ankle. The neighbours, alerted by my screams, later told me the dog did not let go until I was struggling across the road with Buster in my arms.
In the parable, the Good Samaritan does not walk past the man set upon by thieves. He tends to his wounds, gets him to the inn and leaves two silver pieces for his care. If you have a Bible handy, I’ll remind you that it is from Luke’s Gospel (10: 25-37) and that the epithet is now shorthand for anyone who helps a stranger.
In the next 72 hours, I was repeatedly rendered speechless by the kindness of strangers and not only that of the neighbours who called the ambulance & the police as I stood gibbering. There was the lady jogging past who located Harley, calmed her and made sure she was safe. There was the chatty, tactile girl in the waiting room of the hospital who gave me a much-needed hug. There was the young vet who operated all afternoon to reattach skin to muscle around Buster’s neck and ears. There was the steady stream of emails from local residents, none of whom I knew, but all of whom took time to express their sympathy, outrage and support. And of course, there was Carole, Bob and their dog, Ash, who made a card for me and came to drop it off.
Via the magic of the worldwide intrawebs, I have also been the recipient of cyber-support from not quite so strange friends and acquaintances, doggy and otherwise, from New Zealand to Nova Scotia, quite literally. If you are reading this, you probably already know where I stand on the authenticity and utility of online communities. I can absolutely assure you that every single Facebook comment, Twitter DM or simple click of the “Like” button under uploaded pictures of the brave but heavily bandaged Buster helped.
It helped me to realise that for every insecure young man who stands by while his patently dangerous dogs attack much-loved pets and innocent passers-by, there are scores and scores of fundamentally good people who will not stand by but rather stand up, with compassion, for their neighbour, whether known to them or not, and for the common good.
The “Big Society” doesn’t necessarily need a Westminster campaign and a huge chunk of taxpayers’ money to get it off the ground. As far as I can tell, and this whole experience has reinforced my conviction: the “Big Society” is alive and well; at least it is in my small corner of South London.
On a more prosaic note, my new local friends and I are now hoping to identify the owner of the dogs. Obviously, being the sad, mad dog woman that you all know I am, I would far rather that they were not destroyed. It is not the dogs themselves who are at fault here. It is their owner who cannot control them and who may even be encouraging their aggression.
However, as yet another of my new e-mail pals pointed out, what if their next victim were a child?
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