On driving, thinking, and caring

Or how three rescue dogs keep my heart from breaking

This is Papa. He’s 17-years-old. Ancient for any dog, even a small dog. My partner and I recently drove south to pick up Papa. His human was murdered by her daughter. And where should I begin this story? Another year just flipped over.

What am I going to do with my aliveness?

Dogs deserve love. So do humans. It struck me, driving from Washington through Oregon and into California. The homeless tents and camps were anywhere and everywhere that human communities existed. But the unhoused are treated as modern pariahs.

Coco is Papa’s daughter. Her mom was murdered too, and she felt it most. She chose me as her person very quickly. And she howls when I leave. Her dad joins in sometimes. I’m talking to her every day. Letting her know I’m fierce and resourceful. Reminding her I slow the roll before anything ends in murder. She demands that I hold her. Coco is 15, and blind in one eye. Just like this country I adopted.

It could all be beautiful if humanity didn’t keep choosing ugliness.

I am sort of surprised no other member of my species has managed to murder me. Life can be ugly. I want Papa and Coco to have something lovely instead.

Graham, aka Big Head, is a gentle giant. He’s got my heart, but he knew something, and while I deserved kisses, he sleeps in the front bedroom of his new home, where he can guard better.

We always have choices to make. I chose an eight-year-old pit bull, and his bonded companions, the father-daughter team of ancient Dachshunds. These dogs deserve better. Our society does too.

The unhoused ‘problem’ is one of cognitive blindness and cultural values. If I don’t intercede to make the lives I can better, who will? If we don’t protest the MAGA cult, who will? If we don’t demand the illegitimate packed Supreme Court be recalibrated, what’s next?

I worry about the new trio, and I look forward to their settling in. I know they will soon feel safe. I don’t want our human failures to stunt the rest of their lives. We must do better, because we are the self-appointed stewards of every living thing on this planet. Papa, Loco Coco, and Graham Cracker all hope that we can collectively keep our promises.

Our track record has room to improve. I might overthink things, but I cannot see any good reason eight humans control the amount of wealth four billion others can only dream of. In fact, I’m sickened when I think about all the suffering they could alleviate if they weren’t busy stroking their own egos.

Cognitive blindness disgusts me, but all I can do is drive past the tents and the untreated mental illness to pick up some dogs who don’t deserve to suffer because billionaires are also mentally ill and our culture does not seem to care.

I’ll begin the story where I rescue a trio of old dogs. I’ll begin with asking you, dear reader, if you are willing to save something or someone that needs a safe place? If we don’t band together, we are destined to continue falling apart.