(Published in the Janesville Messenger, 3-23-14)
It was one of those summer evenings years ago when the sun seems to stay up forever. One of those days when teenagers are out looking for something fun to do outside.
I was driving on a quiet country road after picking up a friend. Where we were going now is lost to memory, but this much is not. As I drove, I saw a small dog in the road ahead. It was in my lane, only a couple of feet from the ditch.
The idea seemed so good in my head. I was going to give my friend a momentary shock by pretending I was going to purposely flatten the dog. So I declared, "Two points!" and proceeded to temporarily point my ’71 Cutlass toward the dog.
Of course, I had no intention of actually running over someone’s pet. I figured the dog would quickly scoot off the right side of the road, and I would make a wide berth to the left to make sure I avoided it.
The previous paragraph should give you all the proof you need that teenagers’ brains aren’t always wired properly. When the dog noticed my car approaching, it did not take the shorter route to safety. Instead, it took off toward the house on the opposite side of the road and ran directly in front of my car, which was already veering toward the left. I tried to swerve back to the right to miss it, but was unsuccessful.
I felt absolutely horrible. My friend was livid, accusing me of intentional canicide. I tried to explain to him that it was all a terrible mistake. And it was.
Our assumption was that the dog’s owners lived in the house that the poor little canine was running to. Filled with shame and guilt, I knocked on the door to inform the owners that I had stupidly removed their pet from this world. No one answered, which actually gave me a sense of relief that I did not have to own up to my deed.
I should have stopped by the next day and tried again. If they weren’t home again, I could have left a note in their door. That would have been the right thing to do. But I didn’t do that. And the next day became the next day, became the next week, became the next month, became the next year.
Flash forward about 20 years later. I was riding my bicycle in the countryside on a beautiful day, taking lesser-traveled roads whenever I could. My route took me to that road where, many years ago, I ended the life of someone’s little dog. I recognized the scene as I approached. Thinking about what happened, I still felt the shame. Then I looked toward the house the dog was running to. Next to it was a business sign.
The property was now a pet cemetery.
When I saw the sign, I nearly fell off my bike. It felt like more than a coincidence.
My assumption, of course, was that the dog I ran over was the inspiration for their business. I do not know if this is true. Part of me doesn’t want to know.
Since that day, it has stuck in my mind that often we don’t realize how our actions directly affect the lives of others. All I can do is hope that something good came out of my teenage irresponsibility. Maybe a grieving family decided to offer care and support to others who had suffered the loss of a beloved pet, and helped them find comfort.
It’s a theme that was explored in Mitch Albom’s "The Five People You Meet in Heaven," as the main character learns that there are no random events in life, and all individuals and experiences are connected in some way. It’s a humbling and somewhat frightening thought.
And one worth remembering.
