Finding Roket (Part 1)

So, I bought a watch. Then, I started counting. I started changing small things here and there in an effort to maximize my daily ‘turns’ and, perhaps, improve my existence. Blah, blah, blah… I've written all about that before here. What I have not written about is what I experienced on the night of my first day of counting.

There I was, minding my own business, reflecting on my daily interactions with my Russian colleagues. I wondered if I was as successful as I wanted to be while trying to react in a more constructive manner to all of the bureaucracy and nonsense that I put up with on a daily basis. Deep in thought, I replayed certain moments as I drove home from work along the new “freeway” that has been built for the Games. This new road is no more than two lanes, in each direction, with complicated interchanges and exits which suggest a blind man, with a freshly cooked handful of spaghetti, dropped his noodles on a map and dubbed it the design for THE new road for “The City of The Future”.  A small highway at best, hardly the freeways most of us are used to, and woefully inadequate to accommodate the tens of thousands of guests due to visit Sochi in just over five months! And then, I tried to remind myself that dwelling on those types of frustrations waste turns from my day, instead of maximizing them. So, I shifted my thinking just as traffic began to slow.

That’s right; this brand new road is already incapable of handling the current traffic flow, much less the mass influx expected in February. Just as the frustration inside of me began to swell again, as I dreaded another 3 hour commute to cover the less than 10 kilometers from my office to our flat, my awareness of my turns brought me back. The traffic congestion ahead of me was due to a crash. I saw a large excursion jeep, normally used to carry unwitting tourists from the seaside on a four hour jaunt to the mountains on an off road excursion better suited for knocking the fillings in your teeth loose rather than a comfortable mountain getaway, facing the wrong direction with a smaller, late model SUV in front of it. There were various amounts of debris strewn along the road. The bent roll bar on the open top jeep, and the manner in which the debris was distributed along the roadway, suggested that the jeep had rolled before coming to a stop with all four tires on the ground. The jeep was now facing me as I approached. As the traffic parted around the vehicles and debris, I could see a few people casually standing around speaking on their mobile phones, bewildered, as they looked around from one person to another. One person cautiously did his best ‘Frogger’ impression as he darted in and out of traffic as he picked up various bits of clothing, drink containers and other miscellaneous items that had, presumably, been thrown from the jeep as it rolled. The menagerie of items on the road gave me the impression that a homeless college student who was living out of his car had been driving the jeep.

As the last car in front of me slalomed around the debris field, I saw -him-. A young puppy was sitting in the middle of the only available lane. The puppy was sitting, with his back to me, as he looked around more bewildered than any of the humans in the vicinity were. As I inched closer, I saw this puppy was not just waiting his turn to play ‘Frogger’. In fact, this puppy was probably the reason the jeep was forced into a wheels-up somersault to begin with. The puppy couldn't walk. He tried, twice, and fell back to the ground. He couldn't get his back legs under him. He was hurt. Then, it happened. He turned to look at, yet another, large vehicle barreling down on him as he sat helpless in the road. I was only coasting forward, with the clutch barely engaged on my 4-wheel drive, extended cab, Volkswagen pick-up truck. Regardless, this puppy -knew- my vehicle was the one that would do him in. When he turned and looked right at me, I could see this fear in his eyes. He couldn't move and he was waiting for the car I was driving to finish the job the last vehicle didn't  To make matters worse, as he turned to face me, the blood pouring from his nose and mouth suggested one of two things; either he had sustained severe head trauma, or was experiencing internal bleeding.

There I was, recently aware of the thousands of wasted moments I have let fly past me, so far, in my lifetime. Now, I, in my vehicle, am the only thing standing between this puppy and the throng of cars stacking up behind me as I contemplate what to do. The honking and yelling coming from the angry mob to the rear made me painfully aware I was the only one even hesitating as we tried to pick our way through the mess. The cars behind me were beginning to pass me, on the right, at a speed much too high for the present situation. One car nearly ended the man’s bid at a high score in Frogger, and another nearly ended the puppy. I had no choice but to move forward slowly. By moving on slowly, I effectively clogged the only available route. It also allowed the building horde behind me an outlet that left them two choices. Follow the slow 4-wheel drive pick-up truck. Or, run over a puppy. It was a calculated risk. But, the drivers behind me had already demonstrated their utter disregard for all things other than themselves, as they sped through the wreckage. By allowing them to move forward, it staved off an inevitable, second crash.

By this time, I knew I was no longer contemplating what to do. I had decided, pretty quickly and as if someone or something else had decided for me, this dog needed help and I was the one who had to help him. In fact, it was as if I was given no choice at all. Now, the decision was how quickly and safely I could stop and pick this dog up. I, the pied piper, led this line of mechanical vermin through the crash site before I had room to pull over. By this time, I had a moment to take pause and check to see if there were any human casualties. It was apparent by the cursing and yelling going on that no one was hurt…other than egos.  On a side note, yes, I have been in Russia long enough to know cursing when I hear it.

My efforts of assuaging the maniacs behind me had worked. As I pulled over, I looked in my rear view mirror to see the column of cars as it snaked around the puppy, the man playing Frogger and then again around the backwards jeep. They were all falling into line nicely. The other thing I witnessed in the rear view mirror was a man picking up the puppy and placing him in the bushes on the side of the road. At first look, dumping this injured puppy on the side of the road seems like a cruel and vile thing to do. Leaving a small dog, in his current condition, on the side of the road is nothing more than leaving it for dead. However, maybe it’s because I am now keenly aware of my actions, or maybe it’s because I've been in Russia for nearly 18 months and have never seen anything like this before, but I understood that by moving the dog out of the road, into the bushes, this man was showing more compassion to this dog than any of the more than 20 people standing around. In this environment, this is as compassionate as it gets. The norm is represented by the speeding cars, passing on the right, not even aware enough to consider other humans, including their toddlers standing backwards in the front passenger seat as they speed around traffic. The utter lack of consideration for human life, much less that of an animal, that abounds here made me understand that the first man to move the puppy was not being cruel. He was showing compassion for an injured animal by making sure the dog was not hit by another car. It’s all about perspective. At home, in the States, most people would consider what I witnessed to be cruel. Here, in this environment, I recognize it as compassion.

Finally, I parked on the side of the road and walked towards the backwards jeep and smaller SUV. Now, traffic was picking up again. Frogger-man was finished collecting his goods, the puppy was out of the roadway and the old, blind man driving that big, 4-wheel drive pick-up truck had finally pulled over. I squeezed between the concrete barrier on the right side of the road and the dented bumper of the jeep. I moved past the late model SUV, in the direction of where I saw the man place the dog. I found the puppy there, right where he was left. He did not move. He could not move.

From the time I first slowed for the traffic congestion to the time I walked up to this puppy lying, bloody, in the bushes, I estimate that no more than 90 seconds had elapsed. I was still slightly on edge from seeing this dog in the road in front of me and the sadness I felt for his plight. I took a deep breath and approached. He lay there, in the bush, curled up like a dog does. If not for the blood and the fact that I saw he could not walk, this dog could be mistaken for a puppy curled up in front of a fireplace for the night; except, there was blood and his eyes told a story of a puppy that had nowhere to turn.  I didn't know what to do. I don’t even know why I stopped. What could I do for this little guy?  

I did the only thing I could think of. I cleared my energy to be as calm as possible. I took a deep breath, projected strength and knelt down in front of him. I spoke softly to him, but not in a cooed, baby voice. I told him it was OK. I told him I would help him. He bowed his head as if he understood every word I said. I lightly touched the top of his head, with two fingers tips, to gauge his reaction to my touch. He hardly blinked. He stared right into my eyes and never looked away. I ran my hand down the back of his head, along his spine to his hind quarters. I couldn't see or feel anything that was obviously out of place. I worked my way back up towards his ribs. Still, there was nothing. The blood coming from his nose did not appear to slow. He needed help. But, he was covered in blood, dirt and grease from his shoulders to the tip of his nose. I couldn't tell how badly he was injured, but there was nothing else to do. I placed both hands around his rib cage, just behind his shoulders and lifted, ever so slightly. I knew that if he had broken ribs or other injuries he would let me know. He just stared at me. I picked him up and he hung, nearly lifeless, in my hands as I walked back to the truck. He bled, more and more, as we walked. I placed him in the bed of the truck, gave him one last pet and told him to hold on. I called Danielle to tell her I would be late getting home. She could tell something was wrong. I explained what happened and told her I was taking the puppy to the vet. We know of a couple of veterinarian clinics in the area where we have taken our two dogs. The closest clinic, open 24 hours, was about ten minutes away without traffic, from where I was. The drive took 45 minutes.

During the drive, I had time to reflect. At first I was frustrated that the traffic was preventing me from getting to the vet quickly. Then I replayed my interaction with this puppy, as he lay in the bushes. He submitted to me. He trusted me. I cared for him more than anybody, or anything ever had. He knew it and I knew it. I knew that if he died in the back of the truck, the last thing he would have felt was my touch, telling him to hold on. If he -had- to die, I took solace in the fact that I did all that I could and he would die knowing kindness.

I finally arrived to the vet and jumped out of the truck. I quickly, yet cautiously, approached the bed, not knowing what I would find. The puppy heard me approach and opened his eyes. I softly spoke to him and he wagged his tail a bit. I laid my hand on his back and said, “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”  I went in to the clinic. There was one party already waiting.

Going in to this, I knew the song and dance I would have to perform to get the Russian speaking veterinarian staff to understand what I had going on in the back of my truck. I had prepared by using my phone and Google translate to learn the word “emergency”. I already knew “dog”, “car” and any other necessary words. I've also become quite good at pantomiming to communicate. None the less, I approached the receptionist and in my best broken Russian, I asked if she spoke English. Of course, she did not. “Dance monkey”, I heard the director in my head call out. So, on I go. “Dog”, “car” gesture a crash, “bad”, “emergency!”  She got it! I’d like to thank the academy…

I did my best to remain calm and tried not be that “crazy American screaming about this dog that was hit by a car when hundreds of dogs are run over every week”, kind of guy. But, I was tired. Instead of being quietly calm, I must have been quietly “sad and distraught and my life will end if this dog dies”, kind of guy; the antithesis of calm. The woman looked at me with great concern and grabbed her phone. She called her daughter who spoke very good English. As it turns out, the receptionist got nothing of what I said; she just knew something was wrong. I really need to work on my Russian. After exchanging the phone back and forth a few times, the daughter tells me the doctor is in with another animal and they will help me as soon as they are finished. They were not going to make me wait in line. I told the receptionist I would be outside with the dog. She followed me to the door to see where I was parked and she acknowledged the “zheep” I pointed to. The Russians call all 4-wheel drive vehicles, “Jeeps”.

I went to be with the puppy hoping he was still with us. At this point, it had been more than an hour since he had been hit by the car. I still didn't know what could be done for him. I was just hoping to make him a little more comfortable. His bleeding had slowed. Although that may have been partly due to the fact that the majority of the bed of the truck was covered in blood and other fluids and he may not have had much blood left. At first, I just reached in to lay my hand on his back while I talked to him. But, I was straining to reach him as he lay in the middle of the bed and I was uncomfortable. I could only imagine the energy I was sharing with him. He was already uncomfortable enough without my discomfort flowing into him. I decided to climb in to the bed of the truck.

I knelt next to the little pup and placed my hand on his back again. I didn’t want to pet his head because I was still unsure what was causing the bleeding. I was hesitant to stroke his back, as he was so malnourished, thin and frail looking I was afraid he was injured elsewhere and I didn’t want to aggravate anything. Therefore, I just laid my hand across his back, just behind his shoulders, cupping his spine in my palm. I gently touched him as I spoke to him. He was not doing well. His breathing was slow and shallow. He had lost so much blood that the corrugated truck bed had pools of fluid in it. At one point, his head dipped down and he appeared to stop breathing. I was afraid he would actually drown this way, with his nose resting directly in the middle of one of these pools. I grabbed his body, trying to get him to lay on his side. I tried to place him so he could rest comfortably, but he couldn’t move or adjust himself. Instead, he just lay in a lump, exactly where I moved him to, with his body twisted in a half sitting, half laying position. I decided not to try and move each of his limbs in fear of aggravating unknown injuries. At least, now, he wouldn’t drown.

I sat there, with this mangled puppy, and wondered how much longer the vet would be. The puppy’s breathing became slower and slower. I felt he was close to death. He was struggling. He was suffering and in pain. Again, with my hand on his back, I comforted him and told him that if he was tired, he didn’t have to fight anymore. I assured him he would be OK and, if he didn’t want to, he didn’t have to keep fighting. Maybe it was saying these words out loud, or maybe I was letting his pain in, but I had this incredible urge to break down and cry. I became sad. Nonetheless, I fought the sadness, again thinking of the energy I was exchanging with him. I took a deep breath and did my best to stay strong and calm for him. I again asked him to relax and I let him know it was OK if he didn’t want to fight anymore.

What happened next cannot be made up. Well, I suppose it can, because it was very similar to movie scenes we’re all familiar with. But, those scenes are fiction, occurring in fantasy worlds. This happened to me, kneeling in the bed of the truck, with my hand on a near lifeless puppy, in Russia. This is my life. Just as I finished telling him it was “OK”, and almost in direct response to my statement, his head shot up and he gasped a full, deep breath. He just as quickly laid his head back down. His breathing was still shallow and in small, quick bursts. He wasn't doing well. But, he was breathing. He was breathing and fighting. He wasn't too tired and he assured me it -wasn't- OK to give up. I smiled and said, “No. You’re a fighter. You stay right here”.

Re-energized by his fight, I was suddenly and profoundly aware no veterinarian staff had come out to get us yet. It must have been about 10 minutes since my initial visit with the receptionist. I wanted to go in and find out what was taking so long, but I was afraid that if I left and the little guy chose to stop fighting, he would be alone. I gave him a slight pat on the back and said, “You keep fighting. I’ll be right back”. I jumped out of the truck, crossed the parking area, and barged into the vet. The receptionist was already standing at the exam room door encouraging the doctor to hurry. She turned to me with a genuine look of understanding and told me it would be two more minutes. After nearly a year and a half of living in Russia, I knew this to mean anything from 10 to 30 minutes, but nothing close to two minutes. I said quite emphatically, without yelling and with as little drama as possible, “You need to hurry. He’s suffering.” I didn't bother with Russian or gestures.

I went back out to the truck and found the little fighter, right where I left him, very much alive and breathing. I climbed back into the bed of the truck to be with him. I took another deep breath and placed my hand on his back. I sat with him and comforted him until, after another ten minutes or so, the veterinary staff came out to meet us. I was approached first by the receptionist, followed by a nurse or technician, but due to her very young age, I presumed she was not the doctor. It would turn out that the “doctor” mentioned earlier was this young nurse and not actually a veterinarian doctor. I later learned the actual doctor would not be in until morning. We were all joined, almost immediately, by a cute, early college aged girl and an older, middle aged man. They came from across the other side of the parking area, not from inside the clinic.

There I sat, kneeling in drying fluid of various sources in the back of a truck with a mangled puppy by my side. The receptionist nodded in my direction, as if to confirm I was the one with the wounded puppy. Apparently, it was difficult to tell just by looking at me and the nurse needed confirmation. The receptionist went back into the clinic and left me there with the nurse, young woman and middle aged man. The young woman spoke to me first and told me she was the one I had spoken to earlier. I quickly understood this was the receptionist’s daughter who helped me over the phone when I first arrived at the clinic. I can only presume the gentleman with her was her father, the receptionist’s husband, but we were never properly introduced. The daughter told me she decided, after talking to me the first time, to drive to the clinic to help us all communicate better.

They all stood around the truck, me still kneeling inside, as we discussed the fact that this was not my dog and I shouldn’t have to pay for treatments he would receive. I assured them this was of no concern of mine and I just wanted to see if he could be helped. The nurse spoke in Russian to the young girl. The young girl spoke in English to me. I responded in English, of course, back to the young girl. Finally, the young girl responded back to the nurse, in Russian. Back and forth we went. For a few minutes, they talked about how this kind of thing doesn’t happen and they were genuinely concerned about me having to pay for a dog that didn’t belong to me. They asked me if I was willing to take care of the dog after it received treatment and was healthy. Finally, I blurted out, “He’s suffering. I will pay for the treatment and I will take him home, just help the damn dog!” No translation was needed. They finally understood that, perhaps, they should help the dog.

The nurse went back into the clinic and returned with a small gurney with an equally small, animal-sized backboard strapped to the top. The plan was to load the dog onto the backboard and carry him into the clinic. The nurse very gently tried to pick the puppy up, but he howled in apparent pain. The nurse let go of the puppy and he collapsed back into the truck. There he stayed, just as he was dropped, less animal, more a pile of fur and bones. If it wasn't for him looking at me, pleading with his eyes for help, I would have thought he was dead. He was not moving and I couldn't see if he was breathing. I looked to the nurse wondering if she would muster up some bedside manner and take care of this poor animal. Instead, she looked at me and gestured that I should pick him up. This was something I did not want to do. I was sure the nurse would have a better idea of how to handle this injured little puppy and I wasn't sure if I could do it. I felt as if I was barely holding it together as it was. Once the nurse came out to help, I was ready to take a back seat to the treatment of this pup. I let my guard down a bit and wasn't ready to muster my energy and manage his energy at the same time, again. The young translator aided me in arguing that, surely, the nurse was better trained for this type of thing. The nurse held firm, and even took a half step back and shook her head. Either I picked him up and placed him on the backboard, or he would stay in the back of the truck.

Again, I took a deep breath and began feeling my way down the puppy’s spine to his haunches, then back up along both sides of his rib cage. When the nurse tried to move him, he was clearly in pain.  I was looking for any indication of what was causing him pain so I would know how to move him. His neck and shoulders were clearly off limits. However, the puppy gave me no indication of how to help. He just stared into my eyes, intently. I whispered calmly to him that I was going to help him and I grasped him around his rib cage, just behind his shoulders, as I had before. He did not react. By this time, the young translator’s father was more help than the nurse was. He had opened the tailgate of the truck and placed the backboard on the tailgate. All I had to do was to lift the puppy a couple feet and place him on the board. I did this and the father helped me gently lay the puppy on his side. The nurse finally helped out and grabbed one edge of the backboard and motioned for me to grab the other. We carried the puppy into the clinic exam room, finally.

Once we were inside the exam room, I left the nurse to look after the puppy. The exam room was a sort of vestibule off the side of a larger, main exam room. Presumably, they used the smaller room for the x-ray machine that was mounted to the side of the exam table. Ultimately, the puppy would need x-rays. So, it made sense to treat him there, rather than have to move him again later. I stepped out into the main exam room and the receptionist handed me a clipboard with two documents attached. I was to sign them verifying that I would cover the cost of any treatment required and I would also take the dog home after he was treated. I signed the documents, which were completely in Russian, without a second thought. After all, the nurse was watching intently waiting for me to sign. She did not touch the dog until after the receptionist nodded her approval once I had signed. I sat and watched a bit as the nurse looked the puppy over. The little guy was quite uncomfortable, but for some reason, he had dramatically improved from his condition earlier in the truck. His eyes were clearer and there seemed to be less desperation in them. I stepped back in and helped the nurse hold the puppy while she examined his neck. There was a large, open wound below the dog’s chin, where a human adult male’s Adam’s apple might be. There was a lot of dirt, grime and blood near the wound that made it difficult to for me to see what the nurse was seeing. She had an exam light next to her that was shining over her shoulder, on to the wound site. This light was facing me as I held the puppy’s hind quarters. His whining and fidgeting was difficult to control. Whatever the nurse was doing, the puppy was in a lot of discomfort as a result. Suddenly, a second nurse arrived from somewhere unknown. To this point, I had not seen any other clinic staff other than the receptionist and the young nurse. With the arrival of this second nurse, I was essentially pushed out of the small room. There was simply not enough space for three people to fit around the exam table, with the x-ray machine mounted there as well.

I took this opportunity to step back from it all, literally and figuratively. As I moved back in to the larger exam room, I looked down and realized there was blood on my hands and my shoes. Somehow, I was able get through to this point without ruining any of my clothes. I took a minute to wash up in a small sink that was nearby the x-ray-turned-exam room, where the puppy was being looked after. By this time, the young translator had joined me and was explaining what the nurses were saying as they evaluated the dog. He had a large gash on his neck and bumps and bruises throughout his body. They were able to stop the bleeding from his neck, but they could not be sure of any internal injuries until they could take x-rays. I asked how long the x-rays would take. After a bit of back and forth between the nurses and the translator, I understood they would take the x-rays very soon, after they finished treating the neck wound. However, developing the x-rays would take a couple of hours. They suggested that I leave for the night and return in the morning when the doctor was on shift. The nurses explained that all they could do was give the dog an IV with antibiotics and pain relievers to make him more comfortable. He would have to stay the night in one of their kennels until he could be thoroughly examined and treated in the morning.

This did not sit well with me. I have been to this clinic a few times before, but had never been this far into it. We are usually in the lobby and in a small exam room near the front. Now, I was deep inside this very small clinic. From what I knew of the outside of the building and of the rooms I was familiar with, it didn't make sense there could be a proper kennel area anywhere in the clinic. I asked them to show me where he would stay for the night. The translator asked the nurses if she could show me the kennels, as both of them were busy with the puppy. They agreed and I was led around another corner to a door that resembled the type of large, rolling door you might find in an old textile building-turned New York City loft. From outward appearances, this entry was less door and more cinder block wall.  The door heaved back to reveal a small room containing five or six cages lining two walls and a stainless steel exam table in the middle. One cage had a fluffy grey cat inside with an IV in one of his front legs. I was pleasantly surprised at the conditions within this room, as well as impressed by the existence of the room in the first place. At every turn, this clinic was more and more like the inside of Mary Poppins’ bag. On the outside it was very small, almost a perfect square, with no visible additions or side rooms. Yet, inside it seemed like a labyrinth of room after room. It was not the cleanest place. However, considering the circumstances, I was quite comfortable with leaving the little guy there for the night. Except for one thing; I still didn't know what was wrong with him, or how bad his injuries were.

Apparently, this internal question I was struggling with showed itself to the nurses as I was led back towards the small exam room. The nurse said a few things to the translator, which were then relayed to me. A common occurrence in Russia, when working with translation, is the great disparity in the amount and length of words that are said, or written, in the Russian language and the simple, shortened English version that comes after translation. At work, I am sometimes left thinking that perhaps important details are being left out and I am missing something I need to be aware of. After all, if someone speaks for five minutes in Russian about a presentation and I am only given three sentences in English, how can I be sure I am getting all of the necessary information? This same phenomenon occurred as I watched the nurses treat the puppy while they talked to the translator. As the nurse finished her long dissertation that was probably better suited for her senior thesis on treating young dogs with neck wounds, rather than a simple update on this dog’s condition, the translation came with exactly the right amount of detail I needed. Three of the nicest, sweetest words I had ever heard, certainly this day, came from the translator. “He will live”. 

 Roket in his kennel at the vet.

Read the rest of Roket's story here.