This time I lost a best friend … an adopted family member.

In early 1996, I received a call from a business associate and fellow dog-person. It was 4PM on a Monday afternoon.

She told me that a dog, brought to the animal hospital three days earlier, was the victim of a hit-and-run.

A witness stopped her car in the traffic lane to protect the dog from being hit again. A police car arrived at the scene shortly after and was able to transport the injured canine to the hospital.

A male, estimated to be at least two years old and about 80-pounds, was wearing no identification. An x-ray discovered a fracture in the dog’s pelvis, which would mend itself.

The hospital’s rules regarding strays specified that if the owner could not be found in three days, they turn the stray over to animal control. Because he was limping, that would have been a death sentence. Since animal control is overwhelmed with strays and unwanted pets, and have no way to care for an injured animal, this dog would have been euthanized almost immediately.

But in his short three days with the hospital staff, he became a favorite to all. Even though injured and in a strange place, his friendly and peaceful disposition got everyone there making calls to find him a home. He had just two hours remaining before animal control was due to arrive when my phone rang.

It was about a 30 mile drive for me, in rush hour traffic, to a place I had never been. I told my friend that I was leaving immediately, and just make sure he’s still there.

That day began a relationship unlike any I had ever experienced with a dog. I saved him, but he also saved me. It was by accident that his name ended up to be Woodrow Wilson, though we called him Woody.

Responsibility

As the final, and by far, the most difficult responsibility of a dog owner, I had Woody taken out of his pain — peacefully and painlessly — yesterday, April 15, 2008. The first shot he received was a sedative, that would gentle put him under, over a course of five to six minutes. During that time, alone on the floor next to him, I held him, rubbed his back, and continually whispered to him, thanking him for everything, and telling him how incredible he was. He was very calm and peaceful, as he held his head against mine, listening to every word. Within a few minutes, he gently placed his head down to sleep. All dogs go to heaven.

Woody lived a relatively long life of 14 or 15 years, including the 12 unbelievable years with us. He leaves behind our two other rescued dogs.

Godspeed Woody — you’ll always be with us.