On Sunday, as Toby and I were walking around our neighborhood, we came upon a chihuahua. The reason he stood out was because he was in really bad shape. Along with the trouble he had walking, his ears were bloody and his nose as well. There was a woman standing near him. She was talking to him. She kept asking him if he was alright. Of course, I stopped because seeing an animal in pain is exactly what keeps me up at night; some people worry about the homeless, some worry about aborted babies, others worry about war and terrorism. Me? I worry about the welfare of animals.

It’s not that I don’t care about everything else, nor am I particularly proud of this passion. It’s that I honestly have no control over it. If I see an animal in pain – even a rat – it sticks with me for days, sometimes years. To be honest, it’s something I wish I could get a hold of. I think my life might be more enjoyable if it didn’t bother me so much.

There have been times, people have told stories which they probably find harmless, stories about animals and how they died in spite of their attempts to save them. While I appreciate the possible intentions behind this type of story, I can honestly say that if the story doesn’t end with a happy ending, I would rather never have had heard it at all. I know it’s juvenile, but I have learned that when it comes to animal cruelty, it’s best to not share it with me. There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t ponder the number of animals who die so someone can have lunch. This sort of thing really does shake me to my core. For me, ignorance is bliss when it comes to how humans treat (or mistreat) animals.

But I digress, the chihuahua was hurt and this woman was trying to help it. She asked me to go inside a building to see if he belonged to anyone. At which point I suggested taking the dog anyway, especially given the shape he was in. I pictured someone claiming the dog, taking him back, and doing absolutely nothing for the fella. And he needed help. Badly.

Together, we called the local Bedford animal clinic and the emergency vet. Anna (the woman who first found him) took the dog and walked the animal to the vet, personally.

Toby furiously jotted down her phone number and email onto the palm of his hand because I needed to know that the pooch was going to be cared for. Today, I tried to write her and the email bounced. Apparently, we were one number off. I hope to find out about this fella somehow.