Two Good Deeds

Two Good Deeds

From Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul

Two Good Deeds

I was planting flowers in my garden one day, when I spotted a battered old boxer with a broken chain around his neck, staggering up the road. He had the look of a dog who had been abused. Without any hesitation, he proceeded to walk down my driveway and lie down next to me. Exhausted, he just lay there, his eyes following me as I ran inside to get him a dish of water. Returning with the water, I looked into his dark, soulful eyes. A ripple of shock ran through my body: I knew this dog!

About eight years earlier I’d been in the center of town one morning, when a beautiful, fawn-colored boxer puppy ran up to me. Bending down to pet him, I noticed his beautiful eyes—and the ID tag around his collar. The tag said he belonged to Mrs. Reynolds and gave a local telephone number. She lived not too far away and came to pick him up in a matter of minutes. After a few wet kisses, the boxer went home. That was the last time I had seen the dog.

My husband came out of the house. I told him I was sure this dog was the one I’d found in town years ago. He thought I was crazy. “How can you be certain? He doesn’t have a collar on and there’s no way to identify him. It has to be another dog. This one is so abused; it couldn’t belong to that nice family. Besides, do you even remember the name of the family?”

Somehow, I did. “It was Reynolds,” I said. “I know it sounds crazy, but I’m sure this is their dog!”

Running inside, I grabbed the telephone book and called the first Reynolds listed. Mr. Reynolds answered and told me he didn’t have a boxer. However, just as he was about to hang up, he said that his brother once had a boxer, and gave me his brother’s number.

When I called the first Mr. Reynolds’s brother, he said it couldn’t be his dog because his dog had been stolen six years before. I convinced him to let me bring the dog over so he could look at him. I put the dog into my car. He collapsed in the backseat and lay very still. Crossing over the main highway going into the town, he started to move around. As we passed through the center of town, he started jumping and bouncing around in the backseat.

When I pulled into the Reynolds’ driveway, there was no containing him. Three teenagers ran out of the house, and when I opened the car door, the dog bounded out and raced to them, whining and yelping in his excitement.

As the dog licked them, they looked himover. Suddenly, one of the boys yelled, “It’s him, it’s him! Look, here’s the big scar he got over his eyebrow when he went through the sliding glass door.”

I stayed a few minutes longer, watching the entire family hug and kiss the old dog, now rejuvenated by joy. They proceeded to run into the house with him.

Backing out of the driveway, I thought again of that morning so many years ago when I had first helped the lost boxer find his family. I went home happy, knowing I had been part of a miracle—for the second time in one dog’s life.

Rosemarie Miele

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