Living Out Loud: All Dogs Go to Heaven

When I laid the dog down on the sidewalk, I knew it was dying or already dead. Now, weeks later, I’m trying to come to terms with what I saw and how I handled it.

In early May, a friend asked me to take him to the airport. He knew I didn’t own a car but also knew my son did and that I could borrow it. Since I’m an early riser, he knew I wouldn’t object to helping him make his 8 o’clock flight.

Driving on my way back home and tiring of the interstate, I decided to make my way back across the river by taking Dixie Highway, something of a more scenic route. There wasn’t much traffic on this early Sunday morning. About half a mile up the road was a minivan, blue or black in color — I wasn’t paying much attention.

I saw the brake lights come on and the person driving the minivan opened his or her door. A black dog was thrown out onto the road, and the minivan sped off.

I watched the dog chase after it. Shocked, I started to pull my son’s car over to the side of the road, afraid I might hit the dog with the car.

Behind me was a car with a driver probably thinking I was driving too slowly. This person pulled around me not seeing the dog in the middle of the street. The driver slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The car ran over the dog.

The driver of this car also sped off. I sat in my son’s car stunned for several seconds. I looked at the dog in the middle of Dixie Highway not knowing what to do.

Eventually I got out of the car. There was no traffic coming on either side of the road, and I walked up to the dog.

Guts were hanging out. The dog’s mouth was open, and so were its eyes. I didn’t think it was breathing but maybe it was — I wasn’t sure. I was scared.

Trying not to think about what I was doing, I picked the dog up. The Greyhound Tavern restaurant was to my left. I laid the animal on the sidewalk. This way, I was thinking, it wouldn’t get hit by other cars.

Shaking, I looked at the dog for a while. Its hair was black and short. Its ears were long. I looked at the dog’s big feet, which told me it was really just a puppy.

When I got back home, I called the Fort Mitchell police department, told them what happened and what I’d done. The lady I talked to said they would arrange to have the animal removed.

I washed my hands with soap and water twice. I then went to my desk, sat down and cried.

For the rest of that day, I felt guilt — guilt that I didn’t do anything more. Maybe I should have taken the dog to a vet, maybe I could have saved it. But now, several weeks later, the reality is I couldn’t have done anything else. The dog most certainly was already dead.

I hope writing about this experience brings closure to it. I try hard not to think about that early morning on Dixie Highway, because when I do I get sick to my stomach. What we as human beings are capable of can be truly frightening at times.

Why would this person throw a dog out of a vehicle — dump it on a highway? Why wouldn’t this person try to give the puppy away? Why wouldn’t this person take it to an animal shelter that could find it a good home?

I would love to ask the driver of that goddamn minivan these questions, or maybe I would simply punch this worthless piece-of-shit human being in the face.

I love animals, all animals. So do my children. Back when they were little, in the early ’90s, our family dog, Bandit, passed away from stomach cancer. We were devastated from the loss and would often rent the video All Dogs Go to Heaven. We loved this animated movie, which was so moving and had so much heart. It helped us cope with the passing of our beloved friend and companion.

Since witnessing what happened on that early Sunday morning in May, I find myself thinking of the movie again and feeling sad about that dog I carried over to a sidewalk in Fort Mitchell.

I hope all dogs do go to heaven. That poor puppy surely deserved a lot better than being thrown onto a highway.

I hope the former owner of the poor thing goes straight to hell.

This article appears in Jul 12-18, 2006.