Leashed to Hope Read online

  Leashed to Hope

  by

  Vicky Kaseorg

  Copyright 2018 Vicky Kaseorg

  All rights reserved to author.

  ISBN-13: 978-1719399654

  ISBN-10: 1719399654

  Cover Design: Asherel Herman, Asherel.com

  This is a work of fiction.

  As with most fictional works, some of the characters are developed from a compilation of people the author has met. Some of the events described are fictionalized from actual accounts of people involved in the situations depicted. However, no character or event is based on a single factual person or event. No character is intended to represent a specific person, living or dead…other than Jesus.

  Psalm 36:6,9

  ...You, Lord, preserve both people and animals...

  For with you is the fountain of life;

  in your light we see light.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Author’s Note

  Other Books by Vicky Kaseorg

  To Connect with Vicky Kaseorg

  Chapter 1

  Inconceivable. How could this day get any worse? As if there were not enough ice picks stabbing and then probing for every nerve in the vicinity of moral conscience, now the stupid brown dog, as skinny as the same icepick piercing my heart, was dodging four lanes of rush hour maniacs.

  With the usual display of human decency, not a soul stopped or even swerved. I don’t know how the dog had made it as far as he had. Wait. She. She had full teats. Don’t tell me puppies were playing dodgeball with the cars too? Her belly looked bloated despite the ribs laid out like piano keys along her side. Maybe she was still pregnant. Due any moment from the looks of it.

  Perfect. Just perfect. God, if He existed, had a sense of humor for sure. A cruel sense of humor. The last thing I needed to see right now were more babies dying through the foolish intent of their mother.

  I stood transfixed on the sidewalk, despite my very sincere desire to look away, watching the mutt. She had made it half way and was paused now in a thin molecule of safety between the blurs of racing cars. She did not look panicked. Just resigned. Weary.

  Knowing the inevitable outcome, I was on the verge of ripping my eyes away when she spotted me. No. No! She kept her eyes on me, with a faint wag of her patchy tail, and started trotting towards me. Now there were cars honking, swerving, slamming on brakes. A melee of squeals and thuds and shrieking metal. I pressed my hands to my eyes as I heard the yipping of the dog.

  Next thing I knew, something was licking my knee. I peeked through my fingers. Incredible. Impossible. The dog stood at my feet, licking my jeans. She had soft, sad brown eyes. Beseeching. I am not a dog person but how could you not applaud the miracle of making it across that highway unscathed? And no decent human being could look at the emaciated creature, ready to pop puppies any second, without some compassion.

  She was not a big dog. Especially given her obvious starvation. No tags. No collar. Nothing to indicate anyone had ever loved her or cared for her needs. I had a package of crumbly saltines left over from my lunch of chicken noodle soup in my purse. While she gazed at me, I pulled them out of my purse and split open the wrapper.

  Her erect ears perked forward and she cocked her head to the crinkle of the cellophane. I dropped the crackers on the ground in front of her. She looked up at me as though asking my permission to eat them. Pretty respectful of her given her condition.

  “Go ahead. I don’t want them.”

  Instantly she dropped her muzzle to the ground and gobbled down every crumb of the saltines. She licked the pavement for a painful eternity while my already bleeding heart dripped till it was dry. Then she looked back up, expecting more.

  “It’s all I have,” I explained.

  With that pronouncement, she sat down and barked. I have to say, it was the strangest bark I had ever heard. It was almost a human sound. It could have been thank you, or it could have been no way is that all you have to offer. Like I said, I’m not a dog person and I don’t speak DOG. In answer, I turned around and continued my depressed path towards home. The dog followed at my heel.

  “I can’t keep you,” I said. “I don’t even know if my landlord allows dogs. Even if he did, I can’t keep you.”

  The dog swiveled her ears at my voice, but didn’t heed my warning at all. She continued trotting behind me. I only lived two miles from work. Sometimes I took the bus in the morning, but almost every afternoon, unless it was bitter cold and raining, I walked home. It helped empty my mind of the assault of images that had accumulated despite every attempt to shut them out.

  The only saving grace, and the reason I had taken the job at all was the pay was good. Better than most unskilled jobs in the area. Sure it’s easy if you have a degree and a life that wasn’t stolen from you at age eleven to get jobs that don’t suck your soul clean out of you. Oh and that teensy misdemeanor. Aggravated assault. That was a crock how that judgment went down. The loser I beat up (yes, I admit I beat him up) was pawing a little girl. The girl got away and it was my word against his. The judge took one look at my background and I was the one charged. So I took the only job that would have me. Losers in life’s lottery can’t be picky.

  As though hearing my thoughts, the dog looked up at me and nudged my leg. It felt like she was letting me know she could relate. Given the looks of her, I’d have to agree. She hadn’t been on the glutton’s end of the gravy train either.

  At least the distraction of the dog kept my mind off of all the horror I had buried from my stint in the bowels of the devil. That is not how I’d categorized that place when I first applied. I really thought I would be helping women. Women like me who had no other choice and just needed a safe, cheap way to handle the mess life handed them.

  I had no idea what it would really be like. Even the presence of the dog could not completely obliterate what I had the nauseating joy of witnessing today. The woman was 19 weeks 5 days. Right on the edge of legal. Probably over, judging from the size of her belly. Those numbers could be fudged, and I knew now, they often were. Two day procedure. I got to hold the hands and comfort the ladies before they went in for the procedure and then try to console them afterwards.

  Not my dream job by any stretch but better than what they were telling me I had to start doing next month. I would be in the procedure room then. Unless I killed myself first. Believe me, that is not a joke.

  But today, the lady was in the bathroom, groaning. I called to her, “Are you okay?”

  She swung open the door and stood there, the baby dangling out of her…moving. Alive. I must have screamed and called the doctor because he came running. I had to sit down, fighting not to vomit.

  “Ruth!” he snapped at me, “Call Melanie. Tell her to bring my tools.”

  He helped the poor woman to the exam table. I didn’t see what happened next, since I was off to find Melanie. That, and my head was swimming in a bucket of nasty goo, or might as well have been. I could hardly breathe I was so freaked out.

  I saw Melanie later carrying a biohazard bag. I was assigned to clean up the mess that covered the floor from the bathroom to the table where they had managed to transport the girl. I closed my eyes and saw the biohazard bag. It was moving.

  The woman was in the recovery room weeping. That’s what they all do. I don’t know why they had put me on cleaning duty except maybe they k
new I knew what they had done, and they didn’t want me near the woman. Afraid she’d ask. Afraid I’d tell.

  The doctor was super nice to me afterwards, reminding me about the strict confidentiality of everything that happened in the clinic. I got the warning. Shut up, do your job, and we would be just dandy.

  Well maybe he was just dandy, but if the dog hadn’t come along and needed some help, I can’t promise I wouldn’t have been playing Russian roulette in the traffic with her. I shook my head to try to dislodge the nasty memories of my day. The dog shook her head too, and then groaned.

  Oh oh. I knew that groan. It is the same sound that girl made in the bathroom before the grisly scene from my morning.

  “Hang in there, Dog,” I ordered, “We are almost home.”

  She panted, even though it was cold outside but stopped groaning. Fortunately, we made it to my apartment and since I am not a heartless creep, I opened the door, and let her in. She plopped down on the floor and the groans started back up. Panting. Licking her privates. Flopping over. I may not be a dog person, but I knew a creature in labor when I saw it.

  I hurried to my linen closet and grabbed a blanket. Folding it a few times for padding, I laid it on the floor beside her. She lifted her head. Then I snapped the plastic table cloth off my kitchen table. No use ruining a perfectly good blanket. I knew what to expect with my work at the women’s clinic. I smoothed the plastic covering over the blanket.

  “Get on here,” I said, pointing. “It will be more comfortable.”

  The dog was smart. I will give her that. She clearly understood everything I had been saying so far. She hobbled to the blanket, climbed on the soft cushioning, and collapsed again. Not a moment too soon. Her water broke and almost immediately she started pushing pups out like nobody’s business.

  It seemed like ten seconds, but by the time she was finished and the last pup squeezed out there were five babies and three hours had gone by. Two of the pups were not breathing and no amount of licking by mama could rouse them. I guess the deprivation she’d endured was too hard on the pups. While she was busy licking the other three who had already found her full teats, I snuck the poor dead pups out of the makeshift bed and headed for the cabinet where I stored plastic grocery bags. I put one little speckled guy in the first bag and tied it closed. As I was gently plopping the little golden carbon copy of his mama into the second bag, it wriggled and gasped.

  I had another flashback of the baby dangling from between the woman’s legs and shuddered. Quickly, I ran the pup back to the mother dog and put him between her paws. She sniffed him, then began washing him all over, vigorously licking him nose to tail.

  He made little mewing noises, more like a cat than a dog, and stretched his little pink paws. He started to squirm towards her belly. I helped him along, directing him to an unoccupied nozzle. Right away he latched on and started nursing like crazy.

  I didn’t even know I was crying. Not until the mama dog started licking my hand that was stroking the little pup. Even her comfort was not enough that time. I just couldn’t shake the thought what if someone had tried to help that little baby dangling from between the mother’s legs? Could he have made it?

  That’s when I decided I was quitting. I wasn’t going back. Not ever. I don’t know how I would manage but it didn’t matter. I felt the first easing of the pain in my soul that had been gripping me the day I started there.

  How had I gone so far off track? And how would I find my way back? And back…to what? When was the last time I had felt like I had made a good choice…at least before opening my door for the dog? And was that a good choice or just another in a long line of stupid?

  Speaking of the dog, she had to be starving. She was a wretched pile of skin and bones to start with, and had just spent the past three hours birthing five puppies.

  I wiped my tears and stood up. She watched me as I opened the fridge, perusing dog-friendly vittles. Left over chicken and rice. That would work, I bet. I pulled the container out and scooped a big blob of rice and a piece of chicken onto a plate. Then I cut it all into small pieces. Would not want her choking since my guess is she would eat it in one bite.

  “Should I heat this for you?” I asked. I had no idea. Remember: not dog person.

  She watched me, her tail thumping. The four little suck faces were still guzzling their dinner. At some point, I would have to take away the plastic sheet (really good move having put it over the blanket) but for now, I didn’t think I should disturb the little family.

  And I needed a box of some sort. I couldn’t have those pups scattering all over the kitchen. I decided to heat the dog chow for thirty seconds, just warm to the touch, and then put the plate in front of her nose. Just like with the cracker, she looked at me first, waiting.

  “You are a polite little dog,” I said. “Go ahead. You earned it.”

  She wagged her tail and scarfed down the chicken and rice. Licked her plate clean. I got a small bowl of water and put it in front of her now. She didn’t ask if it was ok to lap the water. In no time she had drained half the bowl.

  “If we are going to be roomies for a while, you need a name,” I said

  She watched me, her soft brown eyes unblinking.

  “You might have had a name before,” I said. “You have nice manners, so I bet someone owned you once.”

  I knelt down again beside her and petted her neck, digging my fingernails in her thick ruff. She was mostly sleek with a thin coat of golden hair, but around her neck the fur was thick and the ends flecked in white. Brown fur circled each eye, like eye liner. Her muzzle was darker than the rest of her face. Her ears were large erect triangles, really too big for her tiny head. The fur near her shoulder was white, positioned where an angel wing would be. I don’t know why that imagery came to mind. I’m not religious.

  Only the resurrected pup looked like her. The others were darker brown or reddish.

  So. A name.

  “Fido?” I asked. She stared at me.

  “Too cliché? Ok, how about Goldi?”

  Again, the unblinking stare.

  “Cinderella?” No response.

  A name is important, so I didn’t want to rush this process. My name, Ruth, was supposed to be a great promise of a life dedicated to God. What a load of crap that turned out to be. If Mom had lived, maybe I would have claimed my destiny. Also, if her brother had died before he got a hold of me.

  “Ruthie,” Mom told me, “Your namesake is one of the heroines of the Bible. She left everything and most everyone she knew to follow God. Her reward is that she became one of the great great …not sure how many greats...grandmother of Jesus Christ.”

  “She didn’t know Him, did she?”

  “No…He was many generations later.”

  “So, she never got to see her reward?” I asked.

  “Well…no. But she’s in heaven now and she sees it!”

  In my opinion, that is a lifetime too late. That’s the problem with destiny. It’s either too far ahead of you to do any good, or by the time you claim it, you are too old to care. Or worse, dead, like Ruth of the Bible.

  But Mom didn’t live. Her brother did, and my destiny turned into torment instead. That started my personal exploration of every home in the foster system. I’m exaggerating a bit, but not by much. By the time I was eighteen, I’d lived in fifteen different foster homes.

  Don’t get the wrong idea. Only about half of those leap-frogging to the next one were my fault. The other half were the fault of foster parents who must’ve had lessons in depravity like Uncle Billy. I don’t think the entire foster system is evil, but the part of it that I saw sure was. No wonder I never made it to the shining beacon of adoption that every foster kid dreams about.

  I absorbed the message that I could avoid trouble if I just gave in and gave up. A string of addicted boyfriends followed, each a little meaner than the last. I justified both abortions with the fact that no child should be forced to enter the world of an abusive father. I ke
pt the revulsion over what I had done to myself. The third abortion doesn’t count since that one was forced on me by dear Uncle Billy.

  So, when I was on my own and looking for work, the clinic was the natural place for me to go. I would be part of the solution for women who had suffered like I had suffered. I would gladly help them find the freedom they deserved from the men who were destroying them. They didn’t need the bondage of pregnancy on top of their no-good boyfriends.

  Except I was wrong. But I didn’t know it. Not at first. At first, I felt like I was a knight in shining armor healing a huge societal wrong to women.

  But back to naming the dog.

  While I had been reliving my sordid miserable life, the dog had laid her head down and closed her eyes. The pups were all drunk on milk, tongues hanging half out of their little pink mouths, big bellies extended, tiny pink paws sprawled all over each other.

  The name could wait. This would be a good time to rummage for a bed for my new housemates. The basement of the apartment building housed the laundry room and a whole pile of boxes. When people moved in, they stacked the empty boxes in a corner of the cavernous dark basement. When they moved out, they retrieved boxes from the basement.

  I hurried out and the dog didn’t even open her eyes. I wondered how long it had been since she’d been in a warm safe place to sleep. I hurried downstairs and found a big box that looked to be about the right size to contain the pups. I could cut the sides down so Mama could get in and out easily.

  Dragging the box upstairs, an idea for a name popped into my head. It was a little silly maybe for a dog, but it was a name I remembered from the story of Ruth that my mom used to tell me. Boaz. She said he was Ruth’s ‘kinsman redeemer.’ I loved the way Mom would say that with shining eyes while lifting her chin. Even before I knew what it meant, I thought it was a glorious thing to be a kinsman redeemer. I could tell just by the way Mom would say it.

  The dog was not my kinsman, but she was a redeemer of sorts. She had certainly redeemed my gruesome day of death to a hopeful day of life. Now Boaz was a man, and the dog was a female…but my guess is the dog wouldn’t care and probably no one else would know Boaz was a man’s name. I could call her Bo for short, which was a very catchy name for a dog.