CHAPTER SIX

Memory Lane

AFTER SCHEDULING MY APPOINTMENT WITH DR. NUSSBAUM FOR a week after the phone call from Dr. Lucas, my warm feelings about the growing trust of my little ball of black fur mixed with foreboding. I recalled that shortly before Dr. Lucas’s call, without warning or reason, I’d been having the strangest visual episodes. A pounding sensation would start in my forehead between my eyebrows like boulders barreling down from a mountaintop, and disturbing images would push toward the surface of my mind. I felt dumbfounded by this unstoppable visual barrage.

I was driving to the office one day when suddenly snapshots of past events appeared like images on a high-definition screen. I struggled to focus on the traffic around me. Each memory reminded me of a moment when I’d been petty, bitter, or selfish toward my family. Although I hadn’t thought about these incidents in years, they now appeared to be etched on my psyche.

Some of the most disturbing memories were of arresting violent people. Movies and television dramas that depict police in action show them quickly moving from one incident to the next without much reflection. In reality, the aftermath of a horrid crime sticks in a cop’s mind like poison.

I finally made it into the parking garage and slammed my car door with more force than I had intended. The mental snapshots ended as quickly as they had started.

The troubling images continued to invade my mind with varying levels of intensity over the next few weeks. Occasionally I’d have two or three days free of the attacks. But soon the memories would begin again with even more ferocity.

I knew there had to be a reason for this, but what could it be? I had done good things in my life. I’d always worked hard at each job. Why wasn’t I recalling personal accomplishments? After all, I’d been a decent person—a good son, father, friend, employee, brother, and husband. And now a person who was helping a broken dog become whole again.

Having all these unbidden flashes of my previous mistakes caused me to contemplate how I’d arrived at this point in my life. With Leaf soundly snoring on my chest after our nightly walks, I reflected on how single events, even ones that seemed unremarkable at the time, could change the direction of a person’s life.

In Atlanta I’d been assigned to a high-crime section of the city. I answered a domestic-dispute call late one night. By the time I arrived at the apartment’s ground-level entrance, the verbal battle between a man and woman was in full swing. Theirs was a classic domestic fight over money, and the use of drugs and alcohol had made it escalate.

I worked to bring the noise level down a couple of notches and calm the craziness. A young boy of about seven or eight sat on the battling couple’s stained green sofa near a dimly lit lamp. Next to him cuddled a shorthaired mutt. The dog clung to the boy’s side and licked tears off the dazed child’s cheeks. This little dog took it upon himself to protect the boy while chaos swirled around them.

The couple’s emotions eventually cooled off. Like many domestic disputes, my only recourse was to separate these two people for the night. I hoped that they would have a less threatening discussion of their differences the following day.

I took a mental snapshot of the scene of the child and his comforting dog. Observing the love between them in such an extreme circumstance caused me to think about our family’s golden retriever Prana. She often restored my sanity and helped heal me after the intensity of a full watch on inner-city patrol. After one especially rough night-watch in Atlanta, I came home exhausted. Linda and the kids were sleeping, and I didn’t want to wake them. Still in uniform, with my gun belt on, I slowly dropped my weary body onto the carpeted floor. Prana sidled next to me. She pressed herself hard against my side. I looked over to see her gently licking my hand. Without taking her eyes off me, she started caressing my cheek with her soft tongue. I felt all the stress and emotions of that night slowly dissipate. It was as if Prana soaked up all the negativity and took away my burdens. She gave without asking anything in return.

Police work was convincing me that people were rarely good at finding safety and love with one another. But that night with the little boy and dog, something inside switched. I decided that I wanted to write about how animals brought unconditional love, healing, and security to people when they needed it most.

Now, this wish was being fulfilled in my work with Linda. I remembered that afternoon years ago when she and I talked about the next stage of our lives as we walked Taylor around Lake Harriet.

“Animals really are like angels,” Linda commented. I watched a lone, white seagull fly near the water’s edge.

“We’re not alone in how strongly we feel about our pets,” I said. “Think how empty and quiet our home would be without the gang there.”

“We both love to write and we love animals,” Linda said with a grin. “What if we combined the two things?”

“Are enough people interested in that kind of writing?”

Many people I knew thought of their pets as disposable property. I wondered if there were others who observed and believed in the spiritual nature of animals as sentient beings.

Linda suggested that we help ordinary people express their appreciation for animal heroes in everyday life. Taking a deep breath, Linda looked at me and said, “Since we want to bring out the spiritual element in animals, let’s call our writing ‘Angel Animals.’ ”

A few months later, we were calling ourselves the Angel Animals Network. We started publishing true stories from around the world in our homegrown, subscription-based Angel Animals Newsletter. Within a year we were doing fund-raisers for local animal shelters, were featured on local TV and in newspapers, and were having articles about us picked up by national wire services. We had more than a thousand subscribers to our newsletter, wrote a proposal for our first book, acquired a literary agent, and signed a contract for Angel Animals, the book. One book grew into dozens more.

Minnesota turned out to be the best spot on earth for launching a project that focused on books about animals and the nice people who love them. It was the land of ducks, geese, and innocence. Being polite, known as “Minnesota Nice,” seemed to be number one on the list of requirements for living here. A four-way stop at an intersection took forever to get through. Nobody wanted to be overly presumptuous or appear rude by going first. Instead, without any honking, drivers waved for others to proceed until someone finally moved. For the first time in my life, I saw traffic on a busy four-lane highway stop both ways while drivers patiently waited for a family of mallard ducks to waddle across the highway.

Before we had even made the decision to move from Atlanta, on our first visit to Minneapolis and St. Paul, Linda pointed to graffiti scrawled on the underpass of a concrete bridge wall. “All the words are correctly spelled and punctuated,” she said. When my face didn’t register the humor in her statement, she continued, “They take education seriously in Minnesota.”

At fast-food restaurants, clean-cut servers spoke intelligently and appeared to have been transported from jobs at Disneyland. Minnesota had one of the highest literacy rates and number of people finishing high school. When a teenage server at a coffee shop asked, “Would you like cutlery with your muffin?” I knew we were home.

Now, on the nights prior to my appointment with the brain surgeon, I sat with Leaf’s relaxed body spread across my knees. I did not yet know how Leaf would transform from an emotionally needy pup into a fiercely courageous healer in my future. I wondered if the upsetting flashbacks to my past mistakes and regrets were serving as preludes to the treacherous course my life was about to take.

Although my strong faith would strengthen my connection with family, friends, and coworkers, ultimately, no matter how much they loved me, there would be a time when no one could give me the assurance I needed. I would have to rely on the help of a slender, floppy-eared dog. He would be the heavenly messenger to save my life as surely as if he had swum out into the ocean and pulled my drowning body to shore.