Diary Of A Dog Woman by Rohana Chomick

I am honored this week to be the first to publish this fictional story by Tampa writer, Rohana Chomick, who has many years of experience rescuing stray cats and dogs.


Day 1: She scared the hell out of me. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a dark mass roaring out from under a car parked on the street, heading for the open area under a little green bungalow. All I could tell was that it was some sort of animal.

Day 2: It was hard to tell what she was. So fast, like a greyhound chasing a terrified rabbit, down the street she went, vanishing into the burgeoning uncut bushes in front of a sagging house. I only wanted to give her food, but she followed “The X-Files” axiom – trust no one. What she didn’t know is that I’m a patient and persistent person, and I have all the time in the world since I’m unemployed.

Day 5: Haven’t seen her for days. I call her a “she” because…well, just because. Today as I round a street corner with my plastic baggie of dry dog food (stolen from my own dog) and a red throwaway plastic bowl, I see something hovering behind a pile of broken cement. I call, here, puppy, puppy. Not that I can really tell if it’s her, or if it’s her, that she’s a dog. Could be a large raggedy cat. All I can see is torn ears. Then, suddenly with no warning, it blasts out of its hiding place and races into the trash-strewn, overgrown alley. It’s her, and she’s some sort of small dog.

Day 7: For two days I scout around the pile of cement and the alley where I last saw her, but she’s nowhere in that vicinity, at least not that my human eyes can see. I call her silently, hoping she can hear my spirit call to hers. Nothing. For the second time, I turn to go but then I hear a slight rustle in the wild azalea to my right. I don’t turn to look; I slowly put the red plastic bowl on the weeds in front of me and dump the dog food into it. I trek back quietly, step by slow step, until I’m on the street. I notice a small nose poke out of the azalea, sniffing the gift a couple of feet away. I don’t move; a stone statue has nothing on me. The nose becomes a dark-colored muzzle, and then eyes and forehead. Even from where I stand I can see the blood and the gnats flying around her face. Inside I am crying, but in the real world I am a tree, not moving, barely breathing, hoping for invisibility. Her eyes gobble the food but she quickly disappears back into the safety of the azalea. I have been spotted or sniffed. I walk away, hoping she’ll eat the food before it rains or raccoons scarf it up.

Day 8: The bowl is empty, but whether she has eaten it is another story. I pour more food into the bowl and walk away. There’s an aging oak tree across the street and I hide behind it. Today I made sure not to lather on any lotion or cologne, but I know a dog can still smell my human aroma. I’m guessing that she’s sickly so maybe she can’t sniff me out across the street, concealed behind a thick tree trunk. I stand there for 30 minutes, peeking out every few minutes, but no one comes to eat the food. She may have moved on, or perhaps she has died. Tears come readily to my eyes, but I’m not ready to give up yet.

Day 9: The bowl is empty again. I hope that she is the one who has eaten it. I call her again. Puppy, Puppy, come here. Of course she doesn’t come. I decide to give her a name. Everyone needs a name. It’s true that once upon a time she did have a name, but that name and life are long gone. I will give her a name to honor her new life, even though it’s a desolate existence right now. I will give her a name that promises an amazing future. I sit on the pile of cement and think. Of course, I’m not even sure if she’s a she, or if she’s still alive, but stuff like that has never stopped me from going forward. I stand up and walk to the alley. I say out loud, I christen you Wyoming. Wild. Free. Beautiful. My only answer is the distant cry of a police siren.

Day 10: The woman who lives in the house by Wyoming’s alley is watering a frog bowl of wilting impatiens when I come by today. I ask her if she’s seen a stray dog. She stares at me like she’s trying to figure out what I am and then says, that thing your dog? Have you seen her today, I say. Yeah, I called the dog catcher people, but I ain’t seen them yet. No, I scream. She backs away from me, dropping her water pitcher, and hastens into her house, slamming the wood screen door. No, no, no, I yell. I have to find Wyoming. I have to rescue her. I know Animal Services will most likely euthanize her the minute they get their hands on her because she’s in poor health. Wyoming, I call. Wyoming. The woman gawks at me over a half-curtained window and then backs into the gloom of her house when she sees me looking right at her. I search everywhere but I can’t find Wyoming. I search for hours. I see the Animal Services truck cruising the streets but it leaves after 30 minutes. Wyoming has hidden herself like a pro. From all of us.

Day 11: In all the fracas yesterday, I forgot to leave food during the day but I filled the bowl last night around 9:00 pm. Today the bowl is empty. I pour more food in the bowl and add a bit of cooked chicken to spice up the aroma. Then I quickly walk to my hiding place behind the oak tree. The woman who called Animal Services is not home today; at least her car is gone, so maybe Wyoming will show up to eat the food. After 15 minutes, when I peer around tree, I spot a lithe gray cat eating the chicken. I leap out and yell, get away from that food. Startled, the cat jumps up, drops the piece of chicken it was chewing, and dashes down the alley, dodging beer cans, broken furniture, and dangling branches, and scoots under a wood privacy fence. I go back into hiding. I wait for an hour but no cat and no Wyoming. I probably scared away every animal within a block. And then it begins to rain, light at first, then an all-out assault. I walk home, defeated once again.

Day 14: The food has vanished for days but no sightings of Wyoming. She’s probably dead, either from what ailed her, starvation, another dog, or Animal Services. For two weeks my life has been focused on rescuing this poor little dog and now it seems as if hope has died along with Wyoming. I fill the food bowl out of habit, and then I walk over to the pile of cement and begin to cry. A crow squawks overhead as it lands on a tree branch; it’s soon joined by a couple of other crows and they begin a raucous conversation. I listen as the tears travel down my face. Life just isn’t fair. I don’t know how or why Wyoming wound up in the streets, alone, sick, hungry. I tried to help her, but all my efforts were not enough. I just want to scream to God, why, why, why. I sense one of the crows leaving its perch and flying to the alley floor. I hear a yip. I quickly get up from the pile of cement and peek around the wood fence. There’s Wyoming, defending her food against the intruder crow. Now I can see all of her. Definitely a female. Probably a terrier mix. I notice bloody sores, patches of fur missing, matted fur, a white scar trailing down her left hind leg, ragged ears, and a swollen right foot. But she’s alive! I back away so she doesn’t see me and flee. It’s time for a serious rescue.

Day 20: A happy ending. Just the way I like it. Here’s how it went: four days ago I caught Wyoming by positioning her red plastic food bowl, filled with cooked chicken and raw beef, in a humane trap in the alley. It took two days of trying and I stayed behind that oak tree all day, each day, watching, waiting. Occasionally a cat would drift by, sniffing the food and the trap. One almost took the bait but I scared it away by waving my arm from behind the tree. The poor cat probably lost one of its lives thinking the tree had come to life.

I didn’t see Wyoming the first day. That night the trap caught a raccoon who was not pleased to be jailed. I released it and watched it zip down the alley like an Olympic athlete. Then I refilled the bowl with the same food as yesterday. After about an hour or so, the good food aroma beckoned Wyoming from her hiding place under an overturned sofa. She walked around and around the trap, trying to figure out how to get the food without going into the trap. She sat at the entrance for awhile. I could see saliva dripping from her mouth. Then she stood up and rushed into the trap, in an effort no doubt to grab the food and run. It didn’t work. The trap door came down and she was caught. She howled in anger and fear. I ran to her, talking to her, calling her by name. She shrank against the side of the trap, growling. I picked up the trap with a thick towel in case of an attack and laboriously carried her home (she may have been small and thin, but she and the trap were heavy).

I placed the trap on my enclosed porch and sat in a chair near her, talking to her, telling her that everything was going to be alright. She glared at me, but I saw her tail slightly flick back and forth.

In the four days since I caught Wyoming she has changed from a wild, frightened dog into a friendly, somewhat skittish pal to me and my old Malamute, Juneau, who has taken quite a liking to her. I figure at one point in her life Wyoming was well-loved and taken care of by someone who had the resources to do so. I don’t know what happened to change her circumstances, but once she came to understand that I was going to feed her, take care of her (which included a visit to the vet), and love her, she calmed down and began to let go of her reservations. It always amazes me how fast and willing children, dogs, and cats are to jettison their former circumstances and reach out for the love offered to them by a caring individual. Perhaps it’s an innate trust, something that I should probably learn to cultivate when it comes to humans.

Day 130: I’ve been so busy these past few months. Wyoming has healed beautifully. She now weighs about 25 pounds and her fur is a shiny salt and pepper color. Her left hind leg still bears the white scar and her ears are still torn, but nowadays she prances like a loved dog. She has a happy face and sleeps well, although she sometimes has flashback episodes that leave her inconsolable for a little while. It’s always Juneau who retrieves her from the land of her painful memories. And with her youthful enthusiasm (the vet guesses her to be about 3 years old), she has brought new life into my 10-year-old Juneau. The other day I saw him actually running and chasing Wyoming and her Cocker Spaniel friend in a dog park we like to visit.

It’s almost Christmas, my favorite time of year. There’s a lot to reflect upon and a lot to do, but what I do know for sure is that this Christmas there will be three joyful family members in my holiday photo – me, Juneau, and Wyoming. Ain’t life grand….