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Chapter 20. The Rescue of Coby “ The Dog I Did Not Want To Bring Home
It was a chilly day in early April, 1992.
My friend, Anita and I set out to East Harlem to feed some stray cats on East 108th Street with the intended idea of rescuing one or two. We decided to walk from my apartment on East 95th Street. We headed up First Ave, but only got as far as 102nd Street.
About halfway up the block, between First and Second Avenues, was the saddest looking animal we had ever seen.
The big, yellowish, mangy-looking mutt slowly ambled aimlessly down the block between rows of similarly dilapidated apartment buildings. He seemed to have no direction or place to go. His head was down, his tail between his legs. Dirt and old scars covered the dog's dingy and straggly coat.
Anita and I looked at each other and quickly stopped in our tracks. There was no way we could continue on. We had to try and help this dog.
We pulled a couple of cans of cat food from our bag and quickly opened them, trying to gently call to the dog. Here, boy. Are you hungry?
The dog did not seem interested in food, however the sound of our voices caught his attention. He looked up at us and it was then, with horror, we noticed that one of his eyes appeared to be recently gouged out. Dried, cracked blood traced deep, dark red lines down his face from where his eye had been to his sunken-in mouth. Everything about this old Shepherd/Chow's look seemed to say, Leave me alone. I just want to die.
The forlorn mutt turned up the block to walk away from us. But, Anita and I were determined not to let the bedraggled animal escape to die on the street. We quickly followed.
As the worn out dog was so depleted of any energy, it did not take long for Anita and I to catch up to him. I pulled out a slip leash from my bag that I carried for such emergencies and carefully slipped it around the dog's head. Neither Anita nor I attempted to pet the big dog as we could not know what to expect from him. The dog was obviously suffering badly and had to be in pain. An injured, frightened animal could be a threat to bite. With no visible body language from the dog such as wagging tail or eye contact, we had to be extremely careful. His head remained down and his body defeated. Anita and I stood on the corner of 102nd Street and Second Ave for what seemed hours trying desperately to flag down a cab to take us to the Animal Medical Center. But, no passing cabs would stop for two people with a filthy, mangy, unpredictable, big dog.
The winds were blustering and the light clothing Anita and I wore was not sufficient to keep us warm standing on the chilly street corner. We called car services, but none would come for us. Finally, some passersby in a car were kind enough to stop for us and offer us a ride to the AMC. The car whizzed through the streets of Manhattan down to 62nd Street near the East River.
When noting the horrifying condition of the dog we had just brought in, staffers at the AMC quickly arranged for a vet to see us immediately.
The young, good looking, kid who invited us into an exam room looked like he had just gotten out of vet school. "Well, what have we here?" he said. "This poor guy looks like he's been through a few things, but nothing we can't fix!"
Anita and I looked at each other. While we had not spoken of any specific plan for the dog, we both assumed the best thing for an older suffering animal like this was to put him out of his misery. Besides, where would we put the dog we had quickly named, "Coby" (after some recent space probe object) when finished at the AMC? Nobody would adopt a dog like this!
I was already fostering two rescued dogs in my apartment, along with 6 cats. Surely, I could not bring home a third dog, especially one whose temperament was impossible to access or predict under these conditions!
The vet continued to examine the dog. "Well, he's got a good, strong heart! And we can clean him up and stitch up the eye!" he smiled. "Hm, but what can you tell us about his age and temperament?"I asked, trying to stumble for time and some kind of plan.
"He's maybe about eight-years-old" the vet said, "but really, he's in good shape medically." "Good, strong heart," he repeated.
With the smiling, optimistic vet standing before us, neither Anita nor I had the guts to say we think he should be put to sleep. Instead, we reluctantly agreed to let the dog stay at the AMC for a few days for clean up and stitching of the eye socket. I would have to worry later over what to do with "Coby."
Over the next few days, I made dozens of desperate calls seeking some kind of place or foster for Coby, but got no offers. I was fast running out of ideas and options.
Anita and I went to visit Coby at the AMC over the following three days. Although he had a bath, the dog still looked filthy from what must have been years of neglect and ground in dirt. I figured Coby to have been someone's junk yard dog. He didn't appear to have ever been in a home.
But, worst than the filth, was the dog's complete unresponsiveness to us. Each day a technician brought the dog to us, his head remained down and his tail tucked beneath his legs. He reacted to no soft words or even pets on the head. Coby was like a zombie.
Then, on the third day, Anita cupped her hands out to the indifferent dog and said, "Paw? " Suddenly, something way back in the dog's memory seemed to stir and he enthusiastically, lifted his paw up to her!
"Oh my God, look at that!" I said, for the first time feeling some sense of optimism about this impossibly dismal situation. "He must have been trained to do that at some point!"
Something in Coby finally responded to the people around him. He looked at us poignantly and for the first time, raised his tail. There was just a hint of a wag.
By the fourth day, the AMC had done all they could for Coby and we had to pick him up. I had no choice, but to bring him home with me. I was terrified, not knowing what to expect. Would this big dog attack my cats? What about the other two foster dogs? Would he fight with Bambi and Sheena? How would Coby be with my daughter, Tara? But, none of the worries turned out to be realities. Coby was the sweetest, most gentle dog imaginable. While I was not thrilled hat the fist thing he did when coming into my apartment was to lift his leg and pee against my stereo speakers, I was greatly relieved that he posed no threat to either the other animals, me or my daughter. Coby just wanted to lie by me most of the time. He greatly delighted in getting a pat on the head and going for short walks.
By the second day, Coby was completely housebroken and seemed to be settling in very well. A very mellow dog, Coby over the next few weeks, became totally devoted to Tara and me. I didn't need a leash to walk him, as he would not venture more than a foot from me. The dog I so feared on bringing home, turned out to be the most loving and gentle soul. I felt ashamed for initially planning to have Coby euthanized. Desperation is not an excuse for doing the wrong thing. Thank God, I got the young, optimistic vet just out of vet school at the AMC. I hoped he would never lose that optimism. It is a gift.
About a month after the rescue of Coby, I had a letter about him published in The New York Times. The letter drew a number of supportive responses to my home address and even some donations to help pay Coby's vet bills and care. But, there were no offers for adoption. About a year later, Coby's story was also picked up by Good Housekeeping magazine. But, there was no response to that. It didn't matter. By that time, Coby was mine.
I attempted to have Coby neutered shortly after rescue, but my vet told me he was at least ten years old and the surgery would be risky. I decided to leave Coby intact as the other dogs were spayed.
I had Coby for more than 4 years when the arthritis that he suffered took hold on his back legs and he became slowly crippled. Medications only helped marginally. Walking became very painful for Coby and he could not navigate the stairs in my building. It would sometimes take a half hour for him to slowly struggled up the two flights of stairs. Because he was more than 75 lbs, I could not lift and carry him.
Eventually there came a time when I tried desperately to "paper train" Coby to spare him the misery of the stairs. But, he was so housebroken, he would rather bust his bladder than mess up in the house. My heart broke.
Tara accompanied me the day I finally had to bring Coby back to the Animal Medical Center for euthanasia. It was one of the darkest days of my life.
Although I had to face this decision with the previous dogs in my life from Sheppie to Heidi, in those cases, there had been terminal illnesses such as kidney failure and cancer that left me no choices. In Coby's case, I felt I was forced to kill him because he was incurably housebroken. He was still in otherwise, good shape and Coby still had a "good, strong heart."
Coby was in fact, ALL heart.
Mine broke on that fateful day when I had to say, Goodbye to the dog I so loved, but so begrudgingly brought home 4 years earlier.
Some animals are forever part of your life, your experiences and your heart. But, Coby was part of my soul. Never before or since, as an animal so touched my core. Even now, years later, I still cry at Coby's loss.
I know if there is a heaven, I will one day see Coby. But, he will be young and whole and his legs will run free. And Coby will have two beautiful, soft brown and seeing eyes.