NOTEBOOK -- steve marble

This is a story of rehabilitation and triumph, a story of a lost soul who

-- though it was hard to see at first -- made a difference.

When I first met Morgan, she was in lock-down at the far edge of the

county animal shelter, a place of steel and wire mesh and concrete. This

is where they bring the castoffs, the hopelessly lost, the malcontents,

the unloved, those who just haven’t quite had a fair shake in life.

Morgan wasn’t the kind of dog you were instinctively drawn to. She sat,

slack-jawed in the back of a pen, withdrawn, brooding. I figured her as a

high-risk candidate, probably filled with a dark anger over the hand

she’d been dealt.

My daughter, though, had a soft spot for the unfortunates of the world.

She wanted the dog, she named the dog right then and there and -- sure

enough -- that dog came home with us that day.

The workers at the pound didn’t know much about Morgan, only that she’d

been found wandering. Maybe she’d been dumped, maybe she was lost, or

maybe she’d just opted to strike out on her own one day. She was part

shepherd, part Akita, part whatever -- a dog with an uncertain identity

and a hazy past.

And all ours.

For two days, she sat in the backyard, hunched over under a leaky faucet,

letting the water dip on her head.

“Maybe she’s retarded,” my wife ventured.

I said that was a pretty good bet.

She slowly emerged from her shell, but her institutional past was never

far off. She cowered when you pet her. She ran away when you offered

food. She tucked her tail between her legs and scampered off toward the

corners of our yard whenever she heard a noise.

My kids adored her just the same. They took her for walks, combed her,

played with her and all but smothered her in affection. But there were

darker instincts pulling at her.

Whenever the opportunity presented itself, she made a break for it. We

would spend entire afternoons chasing her around the neighborhood. She

would gallop off and then pause long enough for us to nearly catch up and

then bolt off again. It wasn’t a playful thing. It was more like someone

who felt the need to buck the system.

One morning she bolted out the side gate as I was getting ready for work.

The lesser part of me said: just let her go. Let her be free and see how

that suits her.

But my heart wouldn’t have it. So I took off after her, my necktie

flopping over my shoulder and my loafers burning on my feet.

I ran up the street, out of the tract and up the main boulevard. I was

gaining on her. She shifted over to the median. I did too. She crossed

back over to the other side. So did I. She paused. I took off my loafers,

soaked and muddied. Then she sprinted off again, this time shifting gears

and vanishing.

As always, she was eventually rounded up and we redoubled our efforts to

break through the demons that seemed to guide her.

But the other day she got sick and the vet said it was time for some

tough decisions. Her kidneys had failed. She probably had cancer. She

couldn’t eat. She could barely walk.

The doctor put her on dialysis, took X-rays, did a blood chemistry. He

told me that she would probably need constant dialysis, maybe some

chemotherapy. She said something about a transplant.

Now we’re taught that in situations like this, money is not an object.

But when you start talking about chemo and dialysis and transplants,

well, you know the meter’s running pretty hard.

The truth was that -- even with such heroics -- Morgan’s life was running

out. We could let her suffer or we could let her go with a touch of

dignity. At least that was my read.

My kids wanted to see her one final time. So, on a dark but warm Friday

evening, we went up there for a last visit.

The dog crawled slowly in the room and I knew her days of running were

well behind her. She panted hard and kept her head down, almost as if she

was slightly embarrassed about the way things had turned out.

We stayed in there for 15 minutes, maybe longer. Finally, my son put on

her leash, told me he’d meet us out front and led her back to the vet.

And when we drove home, nobody said anything. There was no need for talk.

* STEVE MARBLE is the managing editor of Times Community News. He can be

reached at o7 Steve.Marble@latimes.comf7 .