I have a dog named Stevie who sleeps on the couch with his nose pushed against the cushions and his back to the world. I don’t know if this is how all dogs sleep on the couch because we’ve never allowed any of our other dogs to jump up there. But we felt sorry for Stevie and did not have the heart to yell at him.
Stevie crawled out of a corner of hell and came to our home when he was about five years old. He had quite a history, and he brought along a bedroll of anxiety that hinted at his past. It is clear that it was not always a good past, although most of it is shrouded in mystery. For us, his history began in 2016 when the Sheriff’s Department and the Humane Society of Hawaii raided an animal “shelter” on the leeward coast that housed more than 300 dogs. Most were dirty and overrun with fleas and ticks, and others had open wounds or were malnourished and starving.
The rescued dogs were placed in the care of the Humane Society, where the lucky ones were cleaned, examined, refreshed and put up for adoption. Stevie was one of the lucky ones. It was perhaps the first time in his life he had been lucky. The second time was when our daughter saw him at the Humane Society. It was love at first sight. Well, actually, it was love at first sight for our daughter. It was not love at first sight for Stevie because Stevie is blind.
One of the first things we did was to take Stevie to the vet. The vet took one look in his mouth, saw immediately that all his lower front teeth were worn to nubs, and announced to Stevie, “I know what that’s from. That’s from chewing on cage bars all your life.” They were too worn to be of any use to him, so he was sedated, and they were all yanked. (When he sleeps now, the end of his tongue sticks out of his mouth because there are no teeth to block it.)
The vet could not explain why he was blind, and she was unable to determine the cause of suspicious circular scars inside his ear flaps. “Cigarette burns?” we asked. She did not know.
Stevie has been with us for about four years. It took a while, but he eventually figured out that his past life was, well . . . the past. It would never be replayed. No one in his new house would ever hurt him, and this was something new and wonderful for Stevie. He is happy. Life is good. And, of course, he’s a good boy.
We will never know the specifics of Stevie's past, but when he jumps onto the couch, turns his back to the world and shoves his snout against the cushions, it is as though he is shutting out all the ugliness and abuse in the world. And when his legs begin to kick, and he growls or groans, we wonder what demons from his past he is fighting. Somewhere during his journey, people failed Stevie.
I jog a lot, and one of my favorite trails is underneath the airport viaduct. I like it because it is sheltered from the sun, quiet and cool. I am not the only one under the viaduct. There are the homeless. Approximately a dozen reside along the path my route takes me. They come and they go, but there are some who stay, and they fashion crude homes from tarp and old lumber and cardboard.
About six months ago, I was running under the viaduct when I noticed a young local lady whom I had not seen before. She was slim and mixed-race with a dimpled face. She was not as disheveled as most of the homeless I see under the viaduct. Her clothes were clean. I was unsure if she was homeless or just passing through, but I saw her the next time I ran, too. It was not long before I realized she was a "new neighbor."
I have a few acquaintances who also run under the viaduct, but none of them had seen her arrive and, most likely, no one will notice when she leaves. Did she walk from somewhere? Or did a car pull up, order her out, toss out her belongings and then speed away?
She has established her residence alongside a concrete pillar, and she has neatly stacked a small pile of clothing, a shopping bag, bottles of water and other belongings. Always alone and seemingly invisible to the rest of the world, she sits and watches as life goes by. One day I smiled and waved, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she returned a weary smile. She has never accosted me for money, but a day came when I stopped and offered her $5. She seemed surprised by my kindness and a little wary, but she was quick to accept it, and then she thanked me again and again. I asked her name, and she told me. I told her mine, but she never remembers it. But that’s OK. Women have always been quick to forget my name.
Before long, I noticed something peculiar about her: She sleeps like my dog, Stevie.
She arranges her bedding alongside one of the huge concrete pillars that support the freeway, and then she turns her back to the world and pushes her face so close to the pillar that her nose nearly touches the concrete. I can only assume she is shutting out the same demons that have haunted Stevie throughout his life, the beatings, the abuse, the shame. She hides from the world alongside this ugly concrete pillar, just a few feet from where people walk their dogs or ride their bikes or relieve themselves in the night when they have had too much to drink and the bus is late.
Sometimes when I run by, she has awakened, and she waves at me from her bed in a sweet, childlike manner that reminds me of a time long ago when I would head to work in the morning, and my own daughter would momentarily wake up, wave to me in the same innocent, enchanting manner and then drift back to sleep. She reminds me a bit of my daughter, and that is why it is difficult for me to see her sleeping there. Some days are more difficult for me than others.
I know as much about her past as I know of Stevie’s past. In other words, nothing. But I do know that people don’t live under the viaduct unless they have experienced years of neglect or abuse or mistreatment. I can only imagine what she has endured that has led her to choose a life under the viaduct instead of a life where she can experience all the joys of the world.
Her eyes reveal many things she has not told me. They are similar to the eyes of the dogs that are pictured in the donation requests I receive from the ASPCA and the Humane Society, dogs that well know the feel of the belt across their backs, the hard kicks and the missing meals. They are fearful, wary eyes, but they retain some hopefulness, hopefulness that maybe, just maybe, there are people out there who want to shower her with love and kindness. I wonder sometimes, as I run by, where is the family that lovingly watched over this child as she lay asleep in her cradle; where is the mother who became alarmed each time she did not see her daughter's chest move for a few worrisome seconds, the mother around whose neck her daughter would wrap her chubby little arms and gurgle with delight.
One day when I stopped to hand her a few dollars, I asked why she lived under the viaduct.
“I have no place else to go,” she said.
Somewhere along the way, people have failed her, too.
Very moving story, Jim. Thanks for sharing. I do love your writing and always have.