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Raleigh was a black Labrador Retriever who was a gentle giant. He was my companion from June of 2009 until he crossed the rainbow bridge in October of 2016. Raleigh's Remedy is a story about how dogs can help us connect with people in ways we never expected.
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The pale hulk of a man struggled up the path to the shopping center, swaying from side to side as if his legs couldn’t bear the full weight of his body. His oversize T-shirt hung askew, exposing a bare shoulder. He bent his shaved head toward the ground in an unspoken message:
Leave me alone! Raleigh and I often met him on our daily walks along the same path. I wasn’t surprised by his lack of communication. He lived in the neighborhood halfway house for men recovering from mental illness. Still, I thought T-shirt Man man might be afraid of a large black dog like Raleigh. I shortened Raleigh’s leash and pulled him close to me, as the man and I passed without speaking. One day I noticed T-shirt Man on a bench in front of Walmart. He sat hunched over his knees with his eyes to the ground, oblivious to the people coming and going around him. But the man next to him was as talkative as T-shirt Man was taciturn. He called to me as I passed: “What a great-looking dog! Can I pet him?” “Yes, he loves the attention.” Raleigh was the strong silent type, but few could resist his soulful brown eyes. He stood quietly while the man patted his head and scratched his ears. “He has a gray muzzle. Is he old?” “Yes, he’s a senior citizen as dogs go. He’s eleven years old.” “I suppose he has arthritis, just like I do. Seems to me there is something they give dogs for that. I’m not sure what it’s called.” “Glucosamine.” Not only the correct answer, but the first word I had ever heard T-shirt Man utter. “It’s called Glucosamine.” He repeated it, as if we might not have heard him the first time. I turned to T-Shirt Man, who had now raised his head and was looking at Raleigh. “You must be a dog lover. Not everyone knows about Glucosamine.” “I had a dog a long time ago. She had arthritis. That’s what I gave her.” “I have to apologize, then. I thought you might be afraid of a large black dog. That’s why I always held him back from you.” “No, I’m not afraid of dogs.” He reached out to pet Raleigh. “Did you say his name is Raleigh?” “Yes. And what is yours?” “I’m Brian.” When we met on the path after that, Brian always stopped to pet Raleigh. While he scratched Raleigh’s ears, I learned more about him. Like me, he suffered from bipolar disorder. But unlike me, he hadn’t found a treatment that helped. He couldn’t work, and was living on disability. We talked about his struggles, his family, and his past. We talked about dogs. A year after we met, Brian relapsed and had to return to the hospital. We never saw him again. I miss him—that giant of a man who suffered so much, but always had a gentle touch for Raleigh. I still watch for him in the hope that someday he’ll come lumbering down the path, his white T-shirt flapping in the wind, a smile on his face. A smile that tells me he has found a cure. * * * The bearded man sat on a bench in the mini-park next to the bus stop. Raleigh and I passed him every day. He smoked cigarettes and drank coffee from a Styrofoam cup, a quiet presence amid the turmoil of the shopping center. But one day there was no coffee or cigarette. The man hunched in the pouring rain, wrapped in a poncho and holding a broken umbrella over his head. I called the police. “This isn’t a complaint, but there’s a man sitting on a bench in the rain at the shopping center. Could you just check on him and make sure he’s Okay?” Minutes later an officer called: “We’ve talked to him. He’s fine. He’s a homeless man, but he doesn’t want us to take him to a shelter. He prefers to stay where he is.” A homeless man? In my suburban shopping center? I began waving to the man every time Raleigh and I walked by. He waved back. Then one day I moved toward him, holding Raleigh close. “Do you like dogs?” “Sure.” “Would you like to meet Raleigh?” “Sure.” And that’s how Raleigh and I met Cecil. Visiting with Cecil became part of our daily walk. I brought extra dog biscuits for Cecil to give Raleigh, who took them gently from his fingers. We sat on the bench together and, while Cecil petted Raleigh and fed him treats, he told me his life story. That autumn, the weather turned suddenly cold. I worried about Cecil. I knew that he slept on the ground, rolled up in a poncho. But would that keep him warm enough? I ran to the nearest sporting goods store for a couple of space blankets. It was dark by the time I got to Cecil with the packages, but he was still in his usual place. “Cecil, it’s going to be very cold tonight. I hope these will help to keep you warm. It’s the best I could do on short notice.” Cecil took the packages. “What do we have here?” He held the plastic wrappers close to his face. He turned them sideways and upside down. He fumbled with the flaps. “What did you give me?” That’s when I discovered that Cecil was nearly blind. It was Cecil’s good fortune to be homeless in our shopping center. He had a large support system—a man who drove by every Saturday to give him cash, a woman who bought him a new back pack, local police officers who brought fast food, managers of the gas station who allowed him to use their restroom. We joked that people brought so many Thanksgiving dinners he couldn’t eat them all. His supporters rushed to do something about Cecil’s eyesight. We made phone calls. We wrote letters. We filled binders with paperwork for Social Security and Medicaid. We worked with non-profit groups that support the homeless. It took many months, but Cecil got his medical evaluation. Good news. He wasn’t permanently blind. He had severe cataracts, but once they were removed, he would have normal vision. Surgery completed, Cecil was a new man. The last time Raleigh and I saw Cecil, we sat together once again on the bench in the shopping center. He was full of enthusiasm for the future. He was going to get a job. He would find an apartment. He looked at me: “You’re a blonde. I always thought you had black hair.” We laughed. Cecil and I shook hands. He patted Raleigh’s head. We said “Good-bye.” Cecil was on his way to a new life. * * * Brian and Cecil were Raleigh’s special friends. But he also had a larger fan club. Like a local politician, he trotted the length of the shopping center, stopping along the way to meet and greet his “public.” There was Oscar, who worked at Target and took his break in front of the store so that he could give Raleigh a treat. There was the man we called Sushi Man, who drank his morning coffee on the empty patio of the sushi restaurant where we stopped to say “Good morning” and talk about the weather. For the holiday season, Raleigh sported a large red bow on his harness. People smiled when they saw him, even if they didn’t stop to talk. And Raleigh’s biggest fan, the manager of the Hallmark store, gave him a Christmas gift of red and green tennis balls. * * * To Raleigh, everyone was a friend. He drew me to people I might not have spoken to without him. Friendship. It was Raleigh’s remedy for the blues. |
