Oscar’s Story

Oscar

Oscar part 1

Are You Feeding an Elephant? 

“How on earth are you going to see? Can you even get this to the truck?” my friend asked impatiently from behind the tower of dog food precariously balanced on my cart. 
“Please! I do this all the time. Don’t worry—people move out of my way.” 
“Yeah, because they think you’re a crazy dog hoarder. You’re insane!” she laughed. 
“I don’t have that many dogs. I just have a few very big ones at the moment,” I said, flinging another fifty-pound bag onto my already groaning cart. 
It was true—back then I had fewer than ten dogs. Funny how that sounds almost normal. Normal compared to the now nearly thirty, ever-growing menagerie of mouthy misfits I live with today. 
Getting the cart to the front of the store turned into a bit of a workout, due to a wonky wheel—not the load, thank you very much. As expected, I collected a few well-earned heckles along the way. 
“Damn, what are you feeding—an ELEPHANT?” a man called out.  
The checkout line was at least ten deep when a rough-looking, middle-aged couple joined behind us. The woman curiously eyed my cart; he looked away. 
“I’m not a hoarder, just a rescuer,” I said, shooting her a disarming grin. Stuck in line? Why not use the time to promote rescuing? 
“Oh, well then you should rescue our dog,” said the woman. “He really needs rescuing—or my husband’s gonna shoot him.” 
I laughed nervously, hoping she was joking… though it wasn’t funny. 
She ain’t kidding,” the man cut in, holding up his bandaged hand for effect. “After he done bit me again, dog’s gotta go, or I’m gonna shoot his ass. I already dug his grave last night. I’m done,” he said flatly. This was no joke. 
What could I say—Okay then, good luck with your evening of dog murdering. Drive safe? Not on my watch.  
Dog food loaded, my friend and I found ourselves trailing their rattling old sedan into a rough neighborhood. Our first clue, the corner house sported a giant hand‑painted sign: “NO SELLING DRUGS ON THIS PROPERTY!” 
“Oh great,” I muttered under my breath, “this should be interesting.” 
We pulled into the driveway of a dilapidated duplex,  the yard decorated with  an impressive  collection of beer bottles and cans. I took a deep breath, doing my best to  ignore the knot of tension growing in my stomach. 

 Part 2

“Over here,” the lady said, waving us in. The house was dark, barring a single ominous bulb hanging from the ceiling. Even the walls were dirty. I shivered. Just get the dog and get out, I coaxed myself.
“He behind the couch. Been back there ever since we got im six months ago. They weird—Peanut, his brother, warmed right up, but But Oscar been sketchy from the beginning.” She lit a cigarette, pressed it between her lips, and shoved the couch away from the wall, exposing Oscar—and the pile of Oscar’s excrement beside him.
The couch exposed a horror I had only imagined until that moment. To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more terrified animal. Panicked, the poor creature tried desperately to squeeze under the couch—but he didn’t fit. When he realized he couldn’t escape, he froze like a statue, except for the violent trembling that shook his whole body.
I  looked him over carefully, avoiding eye contact and keeping my body turned slightly sideways. When a dog is this scared, the way you approach them is crucial. My body language said, I’m not a threat. You’re safe. I won’t pressure you. My movements were slow, quiet, and completely predictable.
He was a pathetic sight—skinny, with a dull chestnut coat and patches of missing fur. His ridiculously large, adorable ears, his gangly adolescent body, and that long nose only made him look even thinner. My best guess, he was a Chiweenie, a dachshund mixed with Chihuahua.
“It’s okay, boy. I’m here to help you,” I whispered, but even the sound of a soft, gentle voice made him flinch.

Part 3

It’s okay, boy,” I murmured. “I’d be growling too.” Then, in a singsong voice that dogs love, I said, “Just trust me when I tell you—if you come with me, you’ll have an incredible life. A farm. Open space to run, lots of doggie friends, and love—lots of love.”
“Okay,” I said, looking at the woman and forcing calm into my voice, “do you have any ideas how we can get him from here to my truck?” I didn’t want to lose an arm, but if that was the cost of getting him out, it was a sacrifice I would make. Though, judging by his size, losing a few fingers seemed the more realistic outcome.
“I honestly don’t know,” she said, retreating from the couch, fear in her voice. “I’ll be in here if you need me.” She disappeared down the hall to join her husband, who had removed himself from the situation entirely. I was relieved by his absence; it was obvious he was the reason this poor dog was so terrified.
“Any suggestions?” I asked my friend, who looked just as overwhelmed as I felt.
Luckily they had a bag of beef jerky, so we sat behind the couch for nearly an hour, patiently coaxing the dog forward, inch by inch. Then, without warning—almost as if he had made a decision—he leapt into my arms, and we were off.
My friend drove while the frightened animal wedged himself between the seat and my back, trembling. I whispered to him over and over, “You’re going to be okay. Everything’s going to be fine. Just trust me. I promise I won’t hurt you. You’ll never be hurt again.”
I didn’t lie. I kept that promise.
It has been nearly seventeen years. As I write this, sweet, gray-faced Oscar lies beneath my desk. It took a very long time for him to feel safe. The abuse he endured still lives in him, quiet but present. Even now, there are only three people in the world who can pick him up without triggering panic or fear.
But he has run. He has played. He has barked and lived fully—the life he always deserved. He has been a character in every sense of the word, and he has brought immeasurable joy into my life.
I cannot fully express how grateful I am for this little soul. His journey was my journey, his pain mine—and when he was happy, I took a deep breath and realized that this is what life is all about: helping animals and making a difference in their lives. That’s what truly fills my soul.