Bonds between dog and man are powerful and real

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If the big black dog had a name, I never knew it. I see him from my driver's-side window about 7 a.m. on a Saturday in August 1981. In the sleepy little town of Coahoma, Texas, it's not the least unusual to see a dog lying in the road, but this dog catches my eye because it thrashes helplessly in a posture nature does not permit. Something is wrong.

I investigate. There's blood mixed with the dirt. The dog's hind legs are useless. No collar. No ID. A neighbor steps out into the front yard, and tells me the dog was struck by a car maybe an hour ago. I manage to swallow the indignation rising in my throat: And you were just going to watch it die in the Panhandle summer sun?

The dog tries to lick my hand.

I walk around the corner to the sheriff's office. I tell the nice lady to please call the sheriff and have somebody send this animal to heaven right away. "Ahh wheel," she says in the bright, friendly song that pervades the natives of west Texas.

I kneel at the dog's head, and hear myself say that help is on the way. Reluctantly, I drive to work.

It's after 1 p.m. when I retrace my way home. The sun, unhindered by the clear blue Texas sky, bounces 104 degrees off the valiant efforts of my Toyota's air conditioner.

The dog is still there. Still alive. Panting, now. Tongue caked with dirt.

My next visit to the friendly lady in the sheriff's office is less cordial than the first. Equal parts helplessness, guilt and rage -- not a pleasant cocktail. I promised mercy to The Four Legged, and I didn't deliver. I repeat my request of earlier that morning, this time with a colorful metaphor.

In a move later nominated for Pathos of the Year, I resolve to sprint the few blocks to my home and get the dog some water. Couldn't have timed it more perfectly if I was in a stage play. Plastic jug in one hand, bowl in the other, I manage to turn the corner around the sheriff's office just in time to see the sheriff shoot the dog. Twice.

I make it back to my front porch stoop before I sit down and cry like the damned.

Human beings began to coax the domestic dog out of wolf and dingo DNA about 100,000 years ago. A few tribes ate them and used their fur. Other tribes used them as beasts of burden. But mostly dogs became friends, guardians and co-workers. Their depictions guard Egyptian tombs. American Indians saw in them totem power, and believed dogs protected them from dark forces during journeys in the spirit world. Pagans in Europe had similar ideas, but used the name "familiars," an idea widely misunderstood and vilified by the superstitious ignorance of Western religion.

Of course animals aren't the same as humans. When eccentric pop legend Michael Jackson says his chimpanzee is his best friend, I believe him. And I'm concerned.

But the bonds between dogs and human beings are powerful and real. Dogs are archetypal. They move us. If we'll allow it, they make us more human. They'll break our heart.

Kelly is an Aussie shepherd mix who one day walked right off the Hopi Indian reservation into my sister's backyard. And waited for me. "Want a dog?" my sister called to ask. "Nah," I said, like I knew what the hell I was talking about.

She's here on the floor right now while I type. Watching me. If I go to any other room in the house, you never have to count more than 60 seconds before she'll trot in and lie near me. I would tell you that I run two miles a day with her, but it's more like she's a sled dog pulling my sorry carcass around the neighborhood. She runs like the wind.

She's my friend. My guardian.

Which is why I can barely breathe on the evening in February when my son calls me over to say something is wrong with Kelly. Her right side is useless to her. She's in pain. No evidence of trauma. I wonder if she's poisoned. I wonder if she's had a stroke. Into the next morning, it's a mystery to the vet, too. I try to concentrate at work, but I'm waiting for the phone call that gently informs me why I'm going to have to put her down.

The call comes. My dog, it seems, has fallen into the golden barrel cactus in my backyard, and managed to drive cactus spines into the joints of her front and back right legs. She'll be fine.

Stupid dog.

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