A Dog Named Leaf: The Hero From Heaven Who Saved My Life

by Allen Anderson

  Sounding like Homer Simpson, I crooned, “Uhmm. Tea.”

  She escorted me downstairs and deposited me on the living room couch. Leaf, being a good caregiver-team member, came over to seal the deal. He planted himself with his body across my leg so I wouldn’t get up. While Linda made tea in the kitchen, I thought I also heard the sound of rattling metal. Was she hiding the car keys?

  As the days of my recovery at home continued, Leaf worked hard to get me to become more active. He frequently brought his favorite ball to me, and his eyes pleaded for playtime. “OK, here it goes,” I would say, throwing the ball down the hallway for him to chase. It wasn’t our beloved dog park. But it was the best I could do.

  The first day Linda drove Leaf and me to the dog park in an attempt to get back to our normal routine, I was every bit as much of a sight as the recovering patients I’d seen in Dr. Nussbaum’s office. A tan baseball cap covered the neatly stitched surgery scar that wound from the center of my skull to below my ear. It would eventually be covered by my hair. But in this early stage, its swollen pink stitches were visible. The right side of my face blossomed with black-and-blue bruises. I looked like an extra from the movie Fight Club.

  I sat on the picnic bench, debilitated and morose. I didn’t have enough strength to throw the ball for my eager dog. Instead, Leaf had to settle for Linda. He looked disappointed when she didn’t throw his ball as far. Each time he brought it back, he dropped it at my feet instead of hers. His face read, She throws like a girl.

  The day after I got home, our neighbor, a kind man with a quintessential Minnesotan accent, knocked at our back door. Linda was upstairs working, so I answered. When I saw who it was, I remembered that he had offered to cut our grass.

  “I finished the lawn,” he said after I opened the door. I motioned for him to come in, but he stayed at the doorstep. Maybe because this was his first glimpse of my bruised face and swollen eye.

  “Thanks so much,” I said. I would have liked to be more cheerful. But as he stood in the doorway, bright sunlight shone behind him and hit my eyes like bricks. My head started pounding with pain.

  Trying to be helpful, he said, “You have to remember to pick up those pinecones. They got stuck in my mower when I ran over them. Almost broke the blades.”

  I knew my neighbor, retired from a full-time job he’d held for thirty years, meant well. He wanted me to know that I had to take care of this pinecone business if I didn’t want damage to my own lawn mower.

  After he left and I closed the door, I went back to bed feeling depleted that I hadn’t been able to keep up with my lawn. I resolved to free myself from this uncomfortable state of dependency.

  A couple of weeks into my recovery, Linda and I walked with Leaf by my side along the Mississippi River in dog-park heaven. I threw the ball for Leaf to chase, but it landed in water too deep for his comfort zone.

  A small fish jumped near where his ball had landed. Leaf was not about to swim where there might be creatures underneath trying to nibble at his paws. He stared at the ball, turned his head to look at me, and barked.

  Surprisingly, my little guy mirrored the determination I now had. He was not going to ask anyone for help. I’m going to man up, he seemed to say.

  Leaf tentatively moved toward the ball, which now floated even farther away. He quickly lost his nerve and backed off. He barked at the ball again. He whined and pleaded for it to change course and return to him.

  Leaf knew how to swim. He just didn’t seem to be confident in himself in these rapidly moving waters. The swift river currents would give anyone pause. They might be strong enough to sweep up a small dog and carry him away.

  Leaf’s frustration grew. I prepared to remove my shoes and wade out to rescue my fellow’s ball. Linda said, “He has so many other balls. Just let that one go.”

  Of course, her logic made sense. But my brain still wasn’t consistently sending or receiving logical thought. “He’s really upset. He needs his ball,” I replied.

  Before I could finish untying my shoelaces, a family walked by with its own short-legged dog trotting alongside. Their dog, a terrier-mix, took note of the situation and instantly figured out what was happening. From the shore, the dog looked at Leaf alternately pining for and glaring at his ball floating away on top of the dark water.

  Without hesitation, she jumped into the water, swam, grabbed the ball in her mouth, and brought it back to shore. Her family watched the scene unfold. When she dropped the ball at Leaf’s feet, they shouted, “Good girl!”

  Leaf grabbed the precious ball and wagged his tail with gusto. “Thank you,” I said to the dog’s cheering section. They looked quizzically at my tan baseball hat and visible scar. Their expressions conveyed both sympathy and the instant revulsion I was becoming accustomed to.

  “What’s your dog’s name?” Linda asked.

  This broke the Frankenstein monster spell. “Lizzy,” they answered. They proceeded to tell us what a great dog their little pooch was.

  “She’s very brave,” I added, as they turned away to continue their walk. “Thank you,” I called after them. I felt grateful that I hadn’t needed to get my feet wet.

  After they left, Linda looked relieved. “I’m so glad that little hero kept you from going in after Leaf’s ball. What if you had slipped on the rocks?”

  As we resumed our walk, I thought about Lizzy. She’d made the conscious decision to help a dog she didn’t know. No complaints. No fuss. Just do the good, kind deed, the right action, and be on your way. Maybe receiving help from others didn’t have to be such a sticky proposition after all.

  I had to go back to my job in just a few days. I was not about to take disability. I assumed that the stigma of having been incapacitated enough to qualify for disability would follow me to any new job. Anxiety over what might happen when I went on my next business trip filled me with stress. I’d have to do computer-software training for a class of strong-willed, talkative people in my weakened and often confused state.

  I would need all the help I could get. And I’d better learn how to ask for and accept it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Alpha Leaf

  MY BRAIN HAD BEEN TAMPERED WITH, AND ITS MATRIX OF CONNECTIONS disrupted. My frontal lobe, the section of the brain that regulates emotions, had slipped from what I hoped was tip-top performing condition into obvious unreliability.

  Supposedly as people age, their frontal lobes weaken. This is why the stereotype of the senior citizen who blurts out whatever is on his mind exists. Postsurgery, my frontal-lobe-impaired emotions fluctuated wildly. They ran the scale from deep gratitude for my life to sadness over not being able to function fully. I dreaded that everything had changed and I had no control over any of it.

  My mood swings began to take a toll on our empathetic dog. In spite of all he went through before we found him, he’d gradually acquired more trust in me and confidence in my strength. His resiliency, complex intelligence, and engaging personality had enabled him to form a whole and healthy emotional life. But for every step I took forward in my recovery, Leaf seemed to be taking two steps back. He was regressing into the anxious dog who could rely on no one but himself for protection.

  Probably feeling like I was no longer on the job as Alpha of our household, he stepped up his alertness. Prior to my surgery, with the help of treats and rewards whenever anyone came to the house, he’d started to display less fearfulness and was acting friendlier to strangers when we walked around the neighborhood or played at the dog park. After my surgery he reverted to growling at visitors and barking until they left or flinching at anyone who unexpectedly tried to pet him.

  It seemed like he was campaigning for Alpha Dog of the World again. If Linda took him out for exercise, his eyes darted around warily as if expecting to fight attackers behind every tree. His regression made it clear that healing from his own past traumas and now dealing with mine was depleting his emotional reserves.

  “What’s happening, pup?” I a
sked him one day. He sat on the couch next to me and looked out the front window. He had just gone ballistic at a delivery truck that drove by our house. He hurled his body so hard against the picture window that I thought he might have broken a rib. I had to run my hands along his ribcage to make sure everything was still intact.

  This was a dog who needed to feel secure and safe. He had to know he could rely on me. But I was in no condition for anyone to rely on me for anything.

  As my days recovering at home dwindled, I was grateful to my publisher, editor, and literary agent for not panicking when I told them about the brain surgery. Our editor had sent us a card and gift certificate for a visit to our favorite restaurant. Since I’d soon be thrust back into the business world and also wanted to give Linda a break from caring for me, I suggested that we use the gift certificate before I returned to work.

  We drove to a cheery restaurant in downtown Minneapolis. Its menu of organic foods, white tablecloths, and wide glass walls that allowed for people-watching made eating there a special occasion. After ordering our meals I looked at our predominantly green-filled plate and said, “It feels like we’re on Sesame Street. This meal is being brought to you by the color green.”

  Linda laughed. It felt good to have a lighthearted conversation that didn’t revolve around medications, looming medical bills, my job, the next deadline for a book, or Leaf and his issues. We raised our glasses of Perrier and clinked them together. My heart filled with gratitude. Maybe things would get back to normal. Maybe sooner than later.

  During my healing process Leaf became my channel for viewing and living in the strange postsurgery world where my body could no longer be trusted to do what was necessary. After I was cleared to drive again, I took Leaf to the dog park so both of us could relax. With my frontal lobe still not in total functioning mode, other drivers agitated me. I now understood how a person could be overtaken by road rage. To my embarrassment, I found myself yelling at drivers who lingered at stoplights. It irritated me that they crossed lanes too close in front of my car, chattered on their cell phones, or indulged in other poor driving habits. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have been fazed much and just made sure I got out of their way.

  In our car CD player, we keep a recording of around five thousand people chanting the mantra “HU.” For me, it is an incredibly soothing sound. The voices of all these chanters fluctuate and harmonize into a magnificent, unrehearsed symphony of high vibrational sound. When I’m driving I often push the button on the car stereo system and listen to the uplifting song waft through the speakers. With Leaf in the car, I doubly enjoy the chant, sensing that it also soothes and comforts him.

  On this day Leaf watched me from the front seat as my anger erupted at other drivers. I was like someone with Tourette’s syndrome, unable to censor my negative mind talk. After watching me scream at a bus that stopped frequently in front of my car, Leaf reached his paw over to the CD player. Out of six buttons on the stereo, he firmly pressed the one that allowed the CD to play.

  The timing, position of his paw, his selection of buttons, and the CD that happened to be in the stereo could have all been coincidental. I didn’t care. I needed it. Consciously or not, I knew Leaf was being God’s messenger for me. His act of compassion had its desired effect. I calmed down and let the chant heal my troubled, aching heart and mind. Gratitude welled up in me. My dog had figured out how to supply exactly what I needed to dissolve a passion of the mind I couldn’t control.

  I looked over at him. As if nothing had happened, as if he did this sort of thing every day, his attention returned to the traffic. His curious eyes darted back and forth as he watched cars whiz by. Who was this dog? If I couldn’t register an oncoming vehicle, would he lean over and steer the car out of the way for me too?

  Later that day I sat on the living room couch with Leaf in his usual spot. His body draped across my torso, and his head rested on my crossed leg. Although I’d grown over the months to appreciate him at deeper levels, at this moment I experienced an epiphany about our relationship.

  I looked at my little adopted dog and realized that we were both emotionally damaged goods. My lack of trust in people, fear of being dependent like my stroke-ridden father, discomfort when people expressed their emotions, and an overwhelming need for privacy all sprung from a childhood in which I never had enough strength to feel safe. Eight years of police work had confronted me with some of the worst humanity had to offer. With its random violence, it had reinforced my low opinion of anyone’s, including my own, trustworthiness.

  Leaf’s fear, mistrust, and mercurial emotions arose from losing everything he’d ever known and being left without any safety net but his own street smarts. Although he’d been the abandoned shelter dog we rescued, without a doubt he had more than returned the favor. I knew now that life had turned our relationship to its flip side. Leaf was rescuing and trying to heal me. This little black cocker spaniel, abandoned and thrown out like someone’s trash, named after a motorcycle he detested, had become nothing less than a spiritual giant in my life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Name Game

  STANDING AT MY OFFICE DOOR, THE PRESIDENT OF MY COMPANY SAID to me, “We’re having a company-wide meeting in ten minutes in the conference area. As a test of your mental capacity, you’ll need to remember everybody by name.” Knowing his sense of humor—at times, humor only he appreciated—I looked up at him with a grin. Then I checked the position of my trusty tan cap. It covered disconcerting visual reminders of my brain surgery.

  I was back at work on the fourth Monday after my surgery, not yet fully recovered but feeling unreasonably optimistic. As far as anyone at the office knew, I was ready to operate at full throttle, ready to jump back into the game. The swelling on the right side of my face was now only slightly noticeable. The dark circles around my eyes had faded.

  “No problem,” I said, but of course, this was a huge problem. I could never remember names even before brain surgery.

  Much to Linda’s frustration, I’d remember very personal things about people—some of them embarrassing—rather than their names. “Dropped out of school when she was fifteen. Hates vanilla ice cream. Talks out loud to her cat,” I’d say about someone. Then I’d wait for Linda to piece together the puzzle and come up with the person’s name. It was an “endearing” habit of mine that drove her crazy.

  While I really liked my coworkers, I had no idea what most of their names were. I always felt that requiring nametags would be a good company policy for those of us, mostly me, who were name-retention impaired. Instead, I had to know their names strictly by memory. This didn’t happen in the best of times. And these were not the best of times.

  “You do know I couldn’t remember their names before surgery,” I reminded the president. “And you always have new people around here.”

  He smiled and said, “No worries,” and walked away.

  I glanced back at my computer screen and our network’s empty log-in fields, then down at my photo of Leaf. It was the same picture that had been on my desk the day I got the news about my unruptured brain aneurysm from the neurologist. I imagined that right about now, Leaf would be curled up on the couch, snoring and dreaming of a chase.

  I wondered why, other than due to an inadequate brain, my log-in didn’t work. It was a simple password that anybody, even I, could remember. It started with L and ended with F, with the letters E and A in the middle. I punched it in. Nothing. Access denied.

  I panicked that it was all my fault that I couldn’t remember my password. Luckily the IT tech walked by and saw that I was there. He called out casually, “All staff log-in credentials were changed while you were away.” Relief flooded my body.

  “It’s time for the meeting,” I heard the president say.

  So this was no joke. He really was going to make me remember everybody’s names. Filled with dread, I walked down the hallway to the makeshift conference area where our president stood surrounded by the rest of the staff.


  “Does anyone notice anything different?” he asked the group.

  Everyone looked at me.

  At that moment any delusion of being at full throttle evaporated. No longer able to rely on my core beliefs, I felt like a ghost of the man I had been. I fumbled with my cap to make sure it still covered my incision.

  “We’re all very happy that you’re back,” the president said with enthusiasm.

  These fifteen or so men and women I’d worked with for over three years clapped and smiled. They expressed heartfelt happiness that I’d survived and returned. Many came up later and personally told me they were glad I would be OK.

  From that point on, each of them did their part to provide a soft landing for me. My boss was able to reduce my stressful workload when colleagues offered to take on some of my clients. I will always appreciate everyone who helped and welcomed me back to Planet Day Job. With more optimism than I’d felt in a long time, I could let myself hope that things would get back to normal in record time.

  But progress was slow. During that first week at work, I grew increasingly concerned over my inability to focus. I could no longer count on my memory to kick in. Incessant headaches continued to pound my thought processes into submission. Now, it wasn’t only names I couldn’t remember. I had a tough time instantly recalling details of clients and job sites as well.

  I’d come to the office every day, sit at my desk, and struggle to stand tall on a wobbling brain stem.

  Prior to the surgery I was asked and had agreed to lead software implementation and training at a client site in North Carolina. This meant that at only the fifth week after my operation, I’d have to go to the airport, get on a plane, and drive a rental car to the site. To add to the tension, it was a troubled site with unresolved client issues. For reasons I’ve never understood, I had a reputation for handling thorny problems with diplomacy.