Strangers Stopping Strangers

For most people, it was a typical Wednesday night commute.  Not for me, since I don't live or work in New York City.  I was on the train, heading in to go to a concert, to see my favorite bass player*, Phil Lesh, in  a concert in Central Park.  So while most people were just thinking about getting home, I was excited to meet my brother and friends for a fun night under the stars, listening to my favorite music.  I knew the band Phil (we all call him Phil, with love and reverence) had put together would be stellar, and historically, New York City seemed to bring the best out of him.

The ride from my town to Secaucus was uneventful.  I texted with the people I was going to meet, and did a crossword puzzle.  At Secaucus I had to change trains for New York's Penn Station.  This is a 16 minute trip that delivers you right underneath Madison Square Garden.  It's the best if your concert is right there, but still pretty handy to get anywhere else, because it's a subway hub.  (Not that I have the slightest idea which subway lines go where, but luckily, my brother does.)

It was on that 16-minute ride that something somewhat extraordinary happened.

I found a seat right away, and gave the guy already sitting in the other seat the "mind if I sit here?" look.  He moved his stuff away, but apparently he did mind. He was wearing khakis, and a short-sleeve plaid shirt, and now put his brief case on his lap to make room for me.  He gave me a sort of put-off quasi-disgusted look, as if I just ruined his day.  (Yes, I had showered that day, and NO I was not wearing patchouli oil.) I sat down, putting my bag with the concert supplies on the floor, and my pocketbook on my lap.  He took his phone out and was furiously texting or emailing. 

As the train started to go, we sat like that, in silence, ignoring each other. I was lost in thought.  He was typing away on his phone.  

About 6 minutes into the ride the door between the cars opened, and a man came stumbling into our car. He seemed to be an older guy, pants drooping down, three or four shirts sloppily layered on, with a torn jacket over all of them. As I was on the aisle, I could smell him as he walked by, an unpleasant smell of urine and something else... beer maybe?  His hand was out, and I remember his hands most of all. Gnarled knuckles, and fingernails that were too long.  They looked like old man's hands. I saw two different sleeves, frayed and torn. 

And he was shouting this up and down our car,  "I need two-fifty for the 3 train uptown. I need two-fifty for the 3 train uptown. Who's gonna give me my two-fifty for the 3 train uptown?"

Everyone looked down.  Or out the window.  Or at their iPhones, which don't work under the Hudson River. But I didn't look away. I looked at this guy.  Wandering on a train asking for $2.50. 

And I did what I always do.

I took out my wallet.  And if the story ended there, I would not be writing about it.

But as I was getting money out for this man in need, Mr. Plaid Shirt was taking out his wallet, and saying to me, "I'll split the difference with you."  

I just looked at him, and started to smile.  

He continued, "If you will give it to him."

I took the dollar from Mr. Plaid Shirt and took a dollar from my wallet, and stood up and yelled, "Excuse me, sir?" and the man stumbled back to where we were sitting and took the money.  He had almost left the car when he remembered to mumble, "Gah bleh you" before the door slammed shut.

Plaidman was a different person now. He smiled at me and said, "I was making all kinds of excuses in my head about why I couldn't give him the money.  I can't reach my wallet.  We're almost at Penn Station. What if it's not safe to give it him?  What if he just spends it on drugs?  Then I saw how easy it was for you to do it and I realized I could do it too. Thank you."

"Yea," I said, "It's not up to us to decide what he might spend it on, it's sad enough he's at the point where he needs to beg. I give it to him and remember to be grateful that I can."

My new friend smiled and admitted that he always wants to give, but he just walks past "those people."

Remembering the countless stories I'd heard from people who had found themselves homeless, I said, "If, God forbid, I am ever down and out, I hope my acts of kindness will come back to me.  Maybe your act today will start a chain of good deeds."

"I was thinking that maybe by helping that guy, I just prevented something really bad from happening to me," he replies.

"Oh, I never thought of that.  So if you go and have a fantastic day, you'll know you got your reward?"

"Something like that!" he says, and he is smiling now.

"I picture you walking around the city, just barely missing pianos and anvils falling on your head!  You could write a children's book about that!" I say, now really enjoying the idea of doing a mitzvah and protecting yourself from harm.

"I think that's for other people to do."

We are almost at Penn Station.  We are both standing up near the door.  I wonder if he will be empowered to give to the next person in need.  He is certainly a different person than the one I sat next to 14 1/2 minutes ago.

We say good-bye.  He goes off to his life, protected, I hope by his act of kindness.  I go off to mine, already in progress.

As a reward for my act of kindness, Phil plays a song just for me.  I hold it close as the music and words pour into my soul and fill me with joy. 

And for a little while, all is right with the world.

Photo credit: Jack Baribault

Pictured: Jack, Peter White, me, and my brother Geoffrey's back. I forget why we are showing the number one. Maybe someone can enlighten me. 



*Phil Lesh is my favorite bass player, except for my cousin, Rick Cantor.

Going to the Dogs

I have been working a lot lately.  Too much. Yesterday, on a bright, sunny May day... I was forced to wear Hanukkah socks because I was so far behind with my laundry.  I have simply had no time for laundry, or doing dishes, or getting the garden ready for planting... nothing but work.

I was sitting at my desk in my home office. Staring at the newly budding leaves catching the sun, (as I am now actually), thinking what a shame it was that I was missing this glorious day because of the amount of work I had to get done.  My "To Do" list had given birth to triplets this week, and I hadn't seen my husband since Sunday...and neither of us was away.  As I felt my anxiety level begin to run dangerously high (how much caffeine HAD I actually had??).  Scout, one of my two dogs, came into my office and began to bark at me.  This happens sometimes when he hears his buddy Taylor outside, and he wants to go and play. Or if he hears someone coming up the driveway.  Or when he needs a walk.  So I of course tried to ignore him.   Sometimes that works and he sits under my desk while I work.

Not yesterday.  Scout continued to bark at me until I got up.  I followed him to the front door, but there was nobody there, no other dogs outside.  He led me to the back door, which I opened for him.  And it was obvious what he wanted.  He ran out a few steps, and looked back at me with those puppy dog eyes (literally), tail wagging, and waited.  He wanted me to come outside too.  And right on cue, from somewhere in the house, Bear, my other dog, woke up from his second mid-to late morning nap and tentatively approached the back door.

And out we went.  I couldn't go back and grab my phone or a pile of work.  No picking up the laptop or iPad to maximize the time outside. How would I explain, "I'll be right back," to the dogs?  It was perfect outside.  74 degrees, sunny, quiet, and a few geese to chase off the property.   I sat down in the soft grass and both dogs plopped down right next to me and it was good.   It was better than good.  The anxiety I had felt a few minutes ago started to fade away.  I picked a few weeds from a patch that would soon show off my irises and lilies. I looked over at Scout.  He was rolling around on his back.  I was thinking more clearly now.  And laughing.  And letting myself be okay with not finishing everything.   Bear came back behind me and nuzzled my neck in a very affectionate way.   Our revelry was ended when the UPS guy came and the dogs had to protect me.  But it was great while it lasted.

Some people are not dog people... but those of us who are can relate.

We adopted our first dog, Jerry, in 1995 from the animal shelter, right after Jerry Garcia died. (Actually the shelter named him Romeo, but that would be pretty ridiculous, me yelling out the door, "Romeo, oh Romeo, where are you, Romeo?")  My grandmother was mortified that we gave the dog the name of Jerry, since I had two living uncles with that name, and that would give them both the evil eye (kina hora).  Jerry was a great dog, loving, snuggly, and well-behaved in the house.  Grandma and both uncles outlived him.  He died, at the young age of 11 and we were pretty miserable.

Our Jerry, of blessed memory, gone too soon, like his namesake.

When it was time for a new dog, we had decided not to get such a big dog.  Jerry was over 60 pounds, and in his final days, we had to carry him.  At this point we had moved to a new home which had a fenced in yard, and the three kids were all old enough to help with the dog care, so we considered a puppy.  We had not had a dog in the house for about 2 1/2 years.  Just a cat, Jinx and many goldfish. We made several trips to the animal shelter, but there had been a run on pit bulls, and we didn't feel we were a pit bull family.   Then on one visit we saw a dog named Solomon cowering in his cage.  The workers at the animal shelter tried to dissuade us.  "He's a little nervous."  

Bear, in the snow.  So handsome.

But we liked the looks of him.  He resembled Jerry, but not too much.  He was very big, but at this point, we weren't going to get a puppy and we were really ready for a dog. Solomon was more than just "a little nervous."  During our trial walk he was so afraid that he tried to get away from me when I was holding the leash and pulled me down onto the ground.   He wouldn't let us pet him.  He was anxious to get back into the cage.  He was malnourished, though they said he was now healthy enough to adopt.   Looking back, I don't know why we picked him.  Or did he pick us?

But we did.  And it was rough for all of us.  We renamed him Bear.  He looked like a Bear, at first, anyway, and we hoped a strong name would empower him.  But poor Bear had been badly abused by a previous owner.  He would not leave the crate.  He would not ask to go out.  We would walk him when we knew it was time to go out, but we would have to put the leash on him in the crate and drag him out, or tip the crate to get him out. And he wouldn't eat his food until the middle of the night.  He was completely house trained, and, as we learned, property trained.  He wasn't afraid of typical things like thunder, or the vacuum.  But when I brought out the brush to try to brush him, he yelped when he saw it and ran away.   He never let anyone pet him.  He ran from our presence.   He would walk nicely on the leash, but when he realized you were too close behind him, he'd start to pull away.  He liked other dogs we'd meet in the neighborhood, but could never get too close, because he was petrified of their owners.  Someone had really done something terrible to him.  It was heartbreaking to see such an outstanding dog so mistreated that he cowered when you came near him.  And he weighed in at about 65 lbs, malnourished.

For two years we saw incremental improvements.  Every day when we came home, he'd run FROM the door and hide.  He'd never sleep in anyone's room, only under the dining room table.  (I got rid of the crate, with the hopes he'd come around to joining us in the living room on the expensive bed I bough him.)  He never took a dog treat that was offered to him.  He would not eat table scraps when we did the dishes.  But here and there we saw some changes.  He let me pet him when we were outside once in a while.  And he played like a puppy with my youngest son in a very physical way.   He would come when we called him to go for a walk, and not shy away when I tried to put the leash on him.  Once the leash was on, I could sometimes pet him, even though his ears were back, and his tail was down.  When we walked Bear, he always walked like that, tail down, ears back, face down.  But when we let him run in the back yard, he was magnificent.  Pure muscle and freedom.  We longed to see that life in him at other times.

But Bear had plateaued.  I thought that if we got a puppy, Bear could re-learn how to be a dog.  I realized this could backfire, and our puppy could grow to be an aloof older dog.  But I was tired of a dog that was just fed and walked and taken to the vet once a year.  I needed dog love and so did the rest of the family.


So, we headed back to the shelter. This time there were some puppies!  Adorable puppies! A whole litter had been delivered.  To our delight, each as soft, and cute and fluffy and as the next.  We picked the quietest one (so we thought) and set up the crate and puppy-proofed out house. Scout came home the next day.

I know that every parent and every dog owner says this, but there has never been a puppy as cute as Scout. And I will never get another dog as a puppy again.  6 pairs of shoes, a laptop charger, a cellphone, 3 plants, countless magazines and newspapers, pillows and blankets not to mention all the carpets and rugs he has and continues to destroy... but this little border collie is the love of our lives, and has done exactly what we had hoped for Bear.

Puppy Scout. Awwwwww.

I come home to both of their faces in the front window and dog hugs at the door each day.  Bear had also never barked before Scout.  He does now.  Bear is still more nervous and shy with humans, but it's not nearly to the point of him needing to bolt. And when he's outside, he's almost unrecognizable as the dog we brought home from the shelter 8 years ago. He still only eats his food when we go to sleep.  But he takes dog treats from my hand, and gladly will eat food scraps when we clean up.  He lets me pet him and brush him.  And when he hears that Scout is getting a bit of attention, he is now not far behind, making sure he's not missing something.  He walks with his head up, ears perked, and tail lifted and wagging.  Bear and Scout get frisky sometimes and have to be sent outside to play.  They hate when one is gone (usually to the vet) without the other.  They love it when any of the kids come home, especially our youngest son, who plays with them and takes them on the longest walks whenever he comes home.

Actually, Scout has become much more of a challenge now, exhibiting separation anxiety when we are gone for too long, requiring me to hire someone to "visit" him, and occasionally needing sedation. He follows me around when I am home, and is sitting on my feet as I type this declaration of love to my dogs.  With no children at home I sometimes wonder if my husband and I are turning into those people others make fun of, buying all kinds of pet treats and pet toys, and planning their work schedules around  dog walks.   (I spend time on the pet aisle at Shop-rite the way I used to go down the cereal aisle when the kids were little, finding something special that would make them smile.  But don't worry, I'm still not dressing the dogs up in little Yankees sweatshirts.)

I think I'll finish my tribute to my dogs now and go and give them some human attention.  I don't want them to get too lonely.

Scout and Bear, waiting for us to finish eating dinner.

Scout, asleep on someone's bed, as usual.

Can someone give him the remote, please?

Old Friends

Bear, relaxed at last.

By the way, all our pets were adopted from the Ramapo Bergen Animal shelter.  Maybe your next best friend is waiting for you there?

Post script:  Bear died yesterday, October 19, 2017.  He was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer about three weeks ago, and hung around so we could say our goodbyes and have some time to process this news.  By our figuring, he was about 13.  At the end, he was a great, loyal, calm, soulful dog.  He never misbehaved.  We will miss him always.  

Here's a picture of him playing just a year ago in the yard with Jacob and Scout.