It Happened To Me: My Dog Was Stolen in Broad Daylight
But this isn’t a story about one bad person. This is a story about a thousand good ones.
By Jesse James Madre
I knew it before the door swung closed behind me. You see, that's the thing about the screen door. It’ll swing closed, but never close. It lacks the will to latch itself shut, preferring to rest in a pseudo-closed position. Lazy son of a bitch. Both of us. I’d been meaning to fix that. And now it’s too late. It’s all too late. I am filled with something beyond panic. It’s a new monster in the pit of my being that I have no name for. My best friend is gone and I don't know how I knew it but I knew it and I knew my world would change.
Elijah, Eli, would greet me at the door with a low howl that sounded like an old cartoon horn — HoWooOoo! The second I stepped onto the porch I’d hear his call and then his comically swift little feet on the hardwood floor, running, sliding to the door. Only this time I didn't hear any of those sounds. Nothing to tell me I was home. I yell,”ELI!” “ELIJAH!” Nothing. I ran onto the porch yelling though I don't remember hearing my voice. Frantically I called my roommates to see if either of them took Eli to the park or for a walk. Maybe they took him to church or the Liberty Science Center. But they both thought he was at home with the other dog. And I know what happened.
It was a miscommunication. A simple miscommunication. It was a Tuesday and my day off and my routine had me out the door around 11:30 to take care of all the pesky life necessities. That end of May day was beautiful. The sun, shining so brightly like she was trying to say sorry for leaving us so cold all winter. A great day to give my buddy a bath and let those “summer’s on the way” beams do the drying. A miscommunication. One by one we left the house at staggered times. And I already told you about that damn door, a real son of a bitch. It’s happened to me before. I've been taking the trash out to the curb only to turn around to find Eli right behind me. He’s sneaky. He’s a little Gremlin-Hyena of a French bulldog and he just wants to hang out. He just wants to be around and snort in your face while you're telling him how good a boy he is. We were just being humans. Eli was just being a dog. Accidents happen.
What happened next could be an accident. Maybe Eli wanders off all happy and makes his way to the light rail station a few doors down. He’s shining in that sun I was telling you about, all clean and brand new, and he starts making friends. I get it, he’s a social guy and loves to love. I get wondering why a dog was on the light rail platform with no owner or tags. And I get taking steps to ensure the dog is safe and doesn't get hurt, or worse, running around the dangerous trains. I get it. I would step up for any pup in that situation. So Eli gets scooped up and taken for a ride. I know this from an eyewitness who heard my panicked screams for my dog. She told my roommate, who rushed back after my frantic call, that Eli had gotten on the light rail with a guy. That the train might have been heading towards Bayonne. At 3 pm on a Tuesday, I text my girlfriend, who’s very much at work, and tell her Eli is missing and I don't know what to do.
This is the end of this story seeming hopeless. The end of that something I still have no name for. This is the last moment we’re going to let the shadows creep in on our hearts and minds and focus on the light that gives the shadow its life. This story isn't a tragedy. It’s a triumph of humanity at its finest. Grandiose, I know! But this is what I believe and I’ll be damned if you don't too by the end of it.