Goldy

It was Saturday morning when my wife and I were on our way to baby-sit our grandchildren: three-year-old Adam and nine-year-old Sally. Their parents were leaving for a group trip to the Lake Tahoe recreational area and were not due back until 8 p.m. We were happy to spend the day with our grandchildren, so we got up early to be on time.

The roads were almost empty and after a short drive through the countryside, we reached our son's house. The children cheered when we arrived and Goldy, their dog, circled us joyously. At about 8 a.m. the parents left with their oldest son, David, and we settled in for a day of fun.

Goldy, the golden retriever, had beautiful coloring, a mixture of yellow, light brown, and gold. She was born around the same time as Adam, and they grew together in the same home. When Adam was a baby, I often wondered how Goldy coped with the extra attention he got from his mother. The baby was kissed and hugged constantly, and Goldy was often left aside, looking a bit envious. She was petted mostly by Adam's father, but as Adam grew, Goldy's love for him deepened, even though the boy sometimes stepped on her or pulled her ears. Goldy never minded. She behaved as if it were a game and felt like an integral part of the family.

Adam's mother trusted Goldy to watch over him and often left the two alone in the living room while she was busy elsewhere. Whenever the baby went off the carpet and onto the cold floor, Goldy was there to push him back to the warm carpet with her nose. When a toy was thrown too far, she always fetched it and brought it back.

When Adam climbed on furniture or tried his first walking steps, Goldy was his guardian and safety net. Whenever Adam lost his balance, Goldy served as a cushion to soften his fall. Adam took Goldy's care for granted and did not think much of it. He just knew that when something went wrong, someone would come to his rescue. More often than not, it was Goldy who kept him out of trouble.

Around noon I was about to take a walk around the neighborhood. My wife suggested that I take Sally and Goldy along. I asked Sally for the leash, but she said, “You don't need any leash. I take Goldy almost every day for a stroll and I don't use the leash at all.” I insisted, but my wife said, “You can trust Sally. She lives here, she's old enough, and she knows what she's doing.” I wasn't so sure, so I took the leash anyway.

We were in a newly built residential area with single-family homes, red tile roofs, and various types of fences. Each house had a neatly landscaped yard and artistic signs displaying the family name. Even though it was late December, the sun was shining and the streets were clean. It was very pleasant and peaceful.

Goldy, Sally, and I strolled along the empty streets toward the nearby road. Goldy was free, running from one yard to the next, searching and sniffing as dogs often do. After a while we noticed that Goldy was gone. Sally called her a few times and eventually Goldy reappeared with her nose to the ground, as if she knew she had been misbehaving. I told Sally how I felt about losing sight of Goldy and said, “Next time if we lose track of her, she will be leashed.” Sally understood and said, “Don't worry, everything will be all right.”

We continued walking and Goldy strayed farther and farther from us. Sally called her several times; sometimes the dog came back to stroll beside us, but after several incidents of losing and calling, I thought to myself, “Who is responsible here? Who will be to blame if something goes wrong?”

While chasing Goldy, Sally crossed roads without proper attention. Neighborhood dogs barked like mad. What if something happened to Sally or the dog? I asked myself again, “Who would be responsible?” The answer was obvious. There was no other choice; I had to take the situation into my own hands. “Fortunately I have the leash,” I told myself. The next time Goldy returned, I tied the leash to her collar.

The three of us walked on the short, sloping road toward home. Sally was fuming, silent, her demeanor ice-cold. Home was about three miles down the road. Goldy didn't seem to mind being tied. She strolled beside me quietly, her nose in the ground, as if nothing had changed.

Sally couldn't help it. She kept arguing, pleading, and nagging again and again to free Goldy from the leash. She felt as if the leash were tied to her own collar. After trying for a while to convince me, Sally started to walk faster toward her house. To tell the truth, I wasn't sure about the situation either. I kept calculating my steps and asked myself, “What happened here? I came to visit my grandchildren to have a good time with them on the weekend and now I'm going to lose my good relationship with my lovable granddaughter?”

All of a sudden a large van passed by us. The van was unusually quiet, as if its engine wasn't running. I looked at the driver's seat—there was no one there. I saw Sally about a mile in front of us. I shouted, “Watch out! Watch out!” but she either didn't hear me or was too stubborn to answer. Goldy became restless and pulled forward on the leash. She probably realized what was happening.

The van was moving quietly and rapidly toward Sally, and I knew what I had to do. I freed Goldy, and she ran furiously toward Sally, past the rolling van, and jumped on her with all her weight. Goldy and Sally were thrown to the sidewalk in the last minute, and the van passed by, missing them by a few inches. The van continued a little farther until it hit one of the stone fences. Neighbors rushed to the wrecked vehicle, opened the driver-side door, and found a boy about six years old sitting by the steering wheel, smiling.