This is the short, sad story of Winston’s 4th of July.
On the night of July 4, amid the blast of firecrackers and an occasional thunderous explosion that rattled the windows, I heard a sudden yelling outside my home. I opened the door just in time to see a knot of people scattering as a loose black-and-white horse ran up the street and onto my driveway. This was my first glimpse of Winston, who turned out not to be a horse but an extra-large Great Dane.
Winston was frantic. He raced crazily across my driveway and then disappeared on the stairs that extend up the side of my house. At that point, I could no longer see Winston, but I could track his progress by the clatter of potted plants being overturned; and I knew he had reached the top step when I heard what sounded like a water buffalo crashing into the fence that surrounds my back yard. Granted, I’ve never actually heard a water buffalo crash into my fence, but I imagine the sound would be a lot like what I heard that night.
There was more crashing as the panicked Winston ran back down the side of my house, onto my lawn and into the street, where he disappeared into the distance like a fading white light on the back of the Shinkansen, only faster.
The entire affair took less than a minute, and then it was over. I felt sorry for the big fellow, as I had no doubt he had been left terror-stricken by the thunderous booms that had been shattering the night. But now he was long gone, probably in Kahuku already, and there was nothing I could do to help, so I went back to my book.
Sometime around midnight, I noticed two guys in the street, and one was approaching my driveway. He didn’t appear to be a neighbor, and he had a flashlight. I went outside, and he hailed me.
He was a local fellow, nice guy, and I was relieved to see he was wearing a jacket that had the words, “Humane Society” on the back. We exchanged pleasantries, and then he asked if I had a Great Dane or if I knew of a neighbor who did. I told him no one around here owned a Great Dane, and then I told him I saw one earlier in the night, running at full speed up my driveway.
“I know that,” he said. “We tracked its path.”
And then he pointed his light at my driveway, and a line of red, bloody paw prints ran all the way up the concrete to the steps at the side of my house. It was a little startling. I assumed Winston had either run so far that he tore open the pads on his paws or he had been so scared that he smashed through the jalousies at his home and sliced his paws as he escaped through broken glass.
After the fellow left, I grabbed my flashlight and followed Winston’s frantic path up and down my driveway and steps, and I stopped occasionally to pick up items that had not survived the onslaught. I was not sure if I would still be able to detect his prints when I reached the point where my stairs ended and the grass began, but you didn’t need to be Daniel Boone to track this path. Bloody footprints led all the way down the grass to the street.
As the night passed, I kept thinking about Winston, and I could not help but recall how distraught he had looked during his crazed gallop up my driveway. Great Danes are usually pictures of elegance, sweet-natured, gentle, drooling giants that tolerate children and play affectionately. They are not meant to be running wide-eyed and panicked into the night, leaving a trail of blood behind.
And that’s why I was relieved on the following day when I learned that the two Humane Society employees had somehow rounded up the big fellow, and he would be fine after medical attention.
A week has passed, the rain has scoured the driveway, and there is no longer any evidence of Winston’s visit. But I hope he will return someday under more pleasant circumstances. I have a biscuit waiting for him.
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A final note: I was impressed to find the two Humane Society employees hard at work at midnight on a holiday. This is a worthy organization that does a tough job, and I send them money every year. This year I will increase my donation because as long as there are people in this world who will do bad things to good dogs, such as the recent case in Waianae that is too tragic to describe here, the Humane Society will be needed. I invite others to join me.
Winston would appreciate it.
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