Yella is a yellow lab—a homeless yellow dog who staked out a two-block area about a mile from my home. I didn’t know he was homeless until months later when I was able to strike up a conversation on the front lawn of one of his adopted caretakers.
I met the yellow dog while walking back in the fall—maybe it was October; I don’t recall exactly. He was on the road I occasionally hike to get more steps in. On the east side of this street is a wooded area, and on the west side is the neighborhood’s edge.
I had heard there was a homeless compound somewhere in the wooded area. I’m not sure what a ‘homeless compound’ is, and I don’t know if its existence is actual, but it seems possible. I’ve heard it more than once, so there may be one.
I was walking briskly along when suddenly he appeared and came toward me, barking and barking—he scared the bejeebers out of me. Most loose dogs are bad news for walkers.
We played this not-so-fun game for a few minutes. The dog would come at me, and I’d yell, “No! Get!” and he’d skedaddle away a few yards. When I turned to leave, he’d run toward me again, and the whole game repeated until I was no longer in his view.
I figured out later that he had adopted the two blocks as his area to protect, and he had taken it very seriously. He barked at any passerby on foot or by bicycle as if he was going to gobble us up like we were the chickens and he was the not-so-sly fox.
Little did I know he was acting out of a great deal of fear, not anger.
I assumed the dog had a family because he seemed nice and fat. I didn’t know about the bunch of softies who fed him daily from the three or four houses on the block he patrolled.
The people around thought maybe he lived in the woods. I wondered why no one called the pound on the poor boy. I assumed if someone called the pound, they’d pick him up to be rehomed and taken better care of instead of being left to survive on his own.
Rumor has it that the pound tried to catch him several times but never got close enough to grab him.
Somebody told me they’d put him down if they caught him. I didn’t know that. And after 90 days, he’d go on to Heaven if there was no rescue. I didn’t know that either.
I had no idea at the time Yella, as Dr. McCulloh nicknamed him, had a terrible fright of humans.
Dr. McCulloh’s house was one of the places he hung out because Doc had a new dog. Doc’s dog and Yella got along fine, but humans were a big no-no for him, even though the kind-hearted humans tolerated and fed him. They’d put food out and then walk away so Yella, also nicked-named Cujo by one of the other neighbors, could eat in peace.
After a few run-ins with him, I avoided the area for a couple of weeks, but as months passed, I’d see him here and there, and I started getting used to him barking at me. I even called for him to come, but he only barked and danced from side to side, trying to stay where he was and, at the same time, run away. I think he wanted to come, but his fear was too strong.
Now it’s the second week of June. A few days ago, I decided to stroll over to see him, call out, and see if he’d made any progress in coming near people, but he was nowhere around. It was very unusual for him to be gone.
I struck up a conversation with a nearby man relaxing on his porch. I wanted to know if he knew anything about the dog.
He did.
He gave me the lowdown on Cujo (his nickname for the yellow lab). He said Cujo didn’t belong to anyone. Everyone along his street was feeding him, and he became the neighborhood watchdog. He said, “Everyone tried to pet him, but he didn’t trust humans, so there was no getting close to him.” I could tell he cared for the homeless dog-it was in the sound of his voice.
I don’t blame him, I thought to myself. I don’t trust very many humans, either.
He also said he noticed one of the regular bicycle riders, whom he deemed a grumpy old man, driving his truck one day and stopping near the woods. “The old man had something in his hands,” he explained. “He wadded it up like this,” the porch guy did the patty-cake movement with his hands as he continued with his story, “and tossed it in the woods where Cujo stays.”
He didn’t like the look of it and supposed the man was trying to poison the dog.
Being a writer, I wished Yella-Cujo could tell me a few stories. I’d ask him questions like, what happened to you, boy? Did you ever belong to a family? Why are you so fearful of those trying to take care of you? Come, sit a while, and let’s talk about this situation. I have so many more questions.
After talking to the man on the porch, I walked farther up the road and saw the warm-hearted doctor walking his dog. I was lucky I ran into him. I always enjoy conversations with Dr. McCulloh. When I asked about the yellow lab, he smiled as if I had brought up an old friend’s name. He told me Yella was still around. He comes out about 6:30 in the morning and sometimes late in the evening.
Then he told me the story of him being naughty that same morning. He said he had to clean up the neighbor’s yard (he pointed at the house) because Yella tore up what looked like an old dog bed, and stuffing was all over the place. He hurriedly cleaned it up before the people in the house saw it. He didn’t think they’d take too kindly to a mess in their yard.
Doc McCulloh has grown a certain fondness toward the dog, I think.
I was relieved to hear Yella was still around and not poisoned, but I still wish he’d find a good home where he could run and play and enjoy regular meals, vet care, and, mostly, lots of lovin’.
He is a wild dog, and it will take a great deal of work to help him change, but if he’d let down his walls and accept one of those wonderful softies who tries to nurture him, he’d have a fantastic life, and change would slowly come.
It was 7 a.m. when I walked this morning. I strolled by his stomping grounds, hoping to get a glimpse of him—to see the annoying animal for whom I feel a certain fondness for now, too…because I know his story.
But, once again, the elusive, fearful, large yellow lab known by two different names was nowhere to be seen…but maybe I’ll get lucky tomorrow.
Much love,
Sharon