"I still wasn't sure what to do next, but when it walked into the glass-filled  gutter and began nibbling at garbage, my heart melted. I picked it up and put it on the passenger seat of my Dodge…"





A true story by Mike Waters De Luz (aka “Tispaquin”)

Our paths crossed on a raw, rainy night in Providence, in April.  It was nearly midnight, and I was driving my truck to a nightclub a few miles away, just off of Broad St. on the South side of the city. That night I was ‘flying solo’; my friends were at home with their spouses and kids.

The previous year had been a tough one.  My engagement to a wonderful lady from the Caribbean had ended abruptly.  Through no fault of my own, a professional setback had caused me to submit my letter of resignation to my long-time employer.  My  habit of self-medicating was on the increase. All these issues were going through my mind as the raindrops came down on my windshield.   

Suddenly, a small dark form edged into the busy urban street.  I swerved to avoid it.  At the last second, the form, which had been trotting in the gutter in a meandering fashion, lunged back toward the curb.  My truck just missed it, and at that moment I noticed it was a small black dog.

Momentarily shaken, I exclaimed to myself, “What the heck is wrong with that crazy dog?!”  However, as quickly as the incident occurred, it became unimportant as I resumed my normal driving and started thinking about the girls I might meet at the upscale R&B club.  Inexplicably, though, as I drove away I glanced back in the rear-view mirror, and noticed the dog, just a dark form again, trotting south on Broad St., Close to the center line.

“No way is that little dog going to make it through the night” , I remember thinking, as I drove past La Inca, a Latino restaurant.  Over the years, this section of Providence had taken on a decidedly Hispanic flavor, and I could hear the Salsa and Meringue music blaring  from the cars of the young partyers.

Picking up speed, I shifted gears, focusing again on the nightclub. After only about two or three blocks, however, my thoughts returned  to that meandering silhouette.  Had it somehow gotten lost?  I pictured a little child, in an apartment building nearby, crying herself to sleep because her pet dog had run away. I decided I needed to help.

Clumsily executing a quick U-turn, I reversed direction, looking left, then right, after passing La Inca. It was then that I again noticed the dog. It had somehow managed to make it safely across the street, which was swarming with speeding vehicles.

I approached it in front of Perla del Caribe, a small Latino market.  To my surprise, it didn’t flinch or run away when I reached out my arm to check it’s tags. There were none.  It’s collar was ragged and dirty.  A Terrier-Poodle mix, its hair was so long and unkempt it reminded me of a Rastafarian’s dreadlocks. I still wasn’t sure what to do next, but when it walked into the glass-filled gutter and began nibbling at garbage, my heart melted. I picked it up and put it on the passenger seat of my Dodge.

We drove the two miles or so back to my house in nearby Cranston.  Lifting her out of my truck, I noticed her bulging nipples, which answered the gender question.  With no dog food in the house, I sliced off meat from leftover chicken wings, and she wolfed them down. 

On Monday,  I called the campus where I worked as a College Professor, and took a personal day off.  I felt that I should help out my new visitor. The morning was spent at the grooming salon, and a visit to a nearby Veterinarian took place in the afternoon.  By now, she was already answering to the name “Sparki”, which amazed my neighbor Jo-Anne, a certified doglover and owner of two large boxers.

With little experience caring for dogs, I relied on the advice of professionals. The grooming salon employees told me that the bulging nipples indicated that Sparki had recently given birth.  They estimated that she had spent about two or three months homeless on the streets. During the Veterinarian visit, Sparki was given a series of shots, and she also supplied me with heartworm medication.

Concerning the ownership issue, the newspaper ad that I had immediately placed in the “Pets / Lost & Found” section went unanswered. We returned to same Latin neighborhood, where I searched for flyers that may have been placed by her actual owner. Nothing turned up. I had instantly become Sparki’s owner, although I saw myself as more of her caretaker.

My family took a liking to Sparki,  and vice-versa.  A couple of weeks later, I brought my new pet to another Vet, a friend of mine in nearby New Bedford, to perform a neutering operation.  But something very unexpected occurred during surgery. The entire family was shocked and saddened to learn that Sparki had actually been pregnant with five puppies. None had survived.  I felt horrible until my Vet’s assistant told me the puppies were actually a week overdue, and had already died inside her womb.   Out on the streets for  nearly her entire pregnancy, Sparki wasn’t getting anything close to proper nutrition, and nature had taken its course. If we hadn’t scheduled the surgery when we did – but instead, had waited a few more days -  Sparki may have died.
 
As I write these words several months later, people are still amazed at the unconditional, constant affection Sparki shows to me. At an estimated age of five, she should be around for quite a few more years.  And I’ve learned some important lessons from my four-legged companion. Sharing seems more natural to me now. And I’m much more skilled with a shovel than I ever thought I’d be. But most of all, connecting with Sparki has reminded me how unpredictable life is, and that special bonds can form at any moment, even on a raw, drizzly night, on a loud, garbage-strewn street corner.