Exploring The Power of the Dog: A Story of Rescue and Love

Sometimes, certain things are incredibly difficult to put into words, yet the act of writing them can feel like a vital release. This is one of those moments where having this platform is a comfort, even as sharing this story feels incredibly hard. It begins on April 30, 2007, when I made a decision that would profoundly illustrate The Power Of The Dog in a human life.

On that rainy day, driving home after a recording session, I noticed a large, pale dog by the side of the freeway slip road. My initial thought was that he was merely exploring and knew his way around. However, a second glance revealed absolute terror in his eyes. He was shaking, clearly lost or dangerously scared by the passing cars, and in danger of bolting onto the busy freeway. I immediately pulled over, crossed the road, and approached him. He was skittish and nervous at first, backing away, but then cautiously came towards me, still trembling. He had no collar or identification, only a choke chain. He was large, very wet, and very muddy. Given the traffic, the safest course of action was to get him into my car while I figured out what to do. My car at the time was a Mini. I opened the door, and he clambered in. He took up most of the space not occupied by me, and a fair amount of the space that was. Big dog, small car.

I called my assistant, Lorraine, and asked her to contact the local Humane Society, who were wonderful people with a no-kill policy, to let them know we’d be arriving soon with a dog. Then I drove home, navigating the road with a significantly obstructed view thanks to my enormous passenger. We spent time running in the garden until we were both tired. I sincerely hoped he was just lost and that his family was searching for him; it was hard to imagine someone abandoning such a seemingly cool dog. After that, I transferred him to a car much larger than the Mini and took him to the Humane Society. There, he was met with great fondness. One of the ladies there suggested he might be a husky-wolf cross, and she could very well have been right. He struck me as a survivor.

Large rescued dog, muddy and wet, sitting in a small Mini car.

That was how he looked the moment he climbed into the Mini.

A few days later, the Humane Society called. I shared the update on my blog at the time: it seemed I had acquired a dog. The call began by stating that the owner of the dog I found on Monday had contacted the Humane Society and collected him. While I was happy the dog was back with his family, I found myself unexpectedly saddened – I realised I had secretly hoped no one would claim him. The call continued with the information that the dog’s owner, a local farmer, who kept him chained up in the yard and couldn’t walk him due to mobility issues, considered the dog a nuisance. The dog was always escaping and heading towards the freeway, and the owner feared he would eventually cause an accident. When the Humane Society representative mentioned that the person who found him had taken a liking to him, the farmer offered him to me if I came to pick him up. So, I did.

White dog, Cabal, standing outside, fur around neck stained gray from a chain.

It took a considerable amount of time for the fur around his neck and chest to lose the grey stain left by the metal chain. He had been named Buck on the farm, but he didn’t respond to it, and frankly, it seemed no one had actually used the name. I decided to name him Cabal, after King Arthur’s white dog said to see the wind. He seemed to appreciate having a name he could connect with. I had never owned a dog before, and I don’t believe he had ever truly had a person. We bonded quickly and deeply. Over the next six years, we both underwent changes and grew together.

My home in the Midwest sits on approximately 17 acres of woodland. Thanks to Cabal, I rediscovered every inch of those acres, as well as the surrounding local meadows. He became a much-needed friend during a period of significant loneliness in my life. I had separated from my children’s mother four years prior, and the house felt very empty. I didn’t really feel like I had anyone truly mine in my life at that moment.

Cabal provided an unwavering, unquestioning love. It wasn’t a subservient kind of love. When we went for walks, he seemed quite certain he was in charge – after all, he was faster, could smell things far better, and had a much clearer understanding of the woods than I did. He was fearless, except for thunderstorms and elevators. His journey from being an american underdog found by the roadside to a cherished companion was remarkable.

I took so many photographs of him exploring the woods that someone even created a Tumblr feed dedicated to him. He was less comfortable inside the house. Sometimes his back legs would splay out from under him. He was wary of shiny surfaces, as if he had years of difficulty walking on ice in his former farmyard life. We were, in many ways, an Odd Couple, each fascinated and delighted by the other, and fiercely protective. He would position himself between me and strangers, or move just out of my direct line of sight to plant himself there, determined to protect me even from my own cats, despite the fact that I had several and had to divide the house into Cat and Dog territories. I’m still not sure he ever realised this division was primarily for his safety, not theirs.

People often commented that we resembled each other, with some even trying to “prove” it with photo comparisons.

Split portrait comparing a human face with a white dog's face.

My wife, Amanda, often says he taught me how to love, and she is probably right. He developed problems with his back legs; he would run too fast, too far, too hard, sometimes injuring a leg or ripping a tendon and continuing onward. He underwent operations, one on each leg, about a year apart. He always slept in my bedroom at night. As he had increasing trouble navigating the stairs, I moved my bedroom downstairs specifically so he wouldn’t have to manage them. We even installed a ramp outside the house to make entry and exit easier for him.

Walking outside became more challenging as well; his front legs would go where he intended, but his back legs would wander and lurch. He was three years old when I found him. By this time, he was nine and had been diagnosed with a degenerative condition called degenerative canine myelopathy, essentially like MS for dogs. Despite this, he remained consistently cheerful, friendly, and surprisingly, still capable of outrunning a human in the woods if something sufficiently interesting caught his attention.

My frequent travels made him sad and lonely, so I brought Lola into our lives to keep him company. It worked beautifully. When I returned from trips, he was noticeably more cheerful. Lola absolutely adored him and seemed to tolerate me primarily because Cabal remained convinced I was the pack leader. He was nine years old, an old, large dog by many standards. But he was still uniquely mine, offering a determined, unquestioning love and loyalty unlike anything I had ever known.

When I rented a place in Cambridge, I initially planned to bring him out immediately. However, seeing the house with its shiny, slippery wooden floors and numerous stairs made me realise that wouldn’t be feasible for him. The dogs were scheduled to join me in about eight weeks, when the weather would be warm enough for me to move my workspace into the conservatory. In the meantime, I was travelling home whenever possible to spend time with him and Lola, and my daughters during Christmas. I had been with him there just a week before. I was due to return in two weeks for another visit and was already making plans for activities with both dogs during that time.

The call came last night from Hans, who manages the grounds and the house, phoning from the vet’s office. Cabal had had a normal, enjoyable day, and then suddenly became very ill. He was vomiting and struggling to breathe. I had missed the last plane that night and was planning to fly home first thing this morning to be with him. Then, another call: he and Mary, my housekeeper, were with Cabal, both in tears. They put the vet on the phone. She was trying to get Cabal to the animal hospital but he couldn’t breathe, and she suspected a blood clot in his lung. Another call followed swiftly: he wasn’t going to make it to the hospital. His heart had stopped. The vet had managed to bring him back, but he was barely breathing, and she was concerned about him going into seizures and dying in pain.

And I wasn’t there. I felt strongly that if I had been there, he would have been okay, whatever was happening. If I had been there, it would have felt safe for him to pass on. I spoke to him on the phone, intending to offer calm reassurance so he could hear my voice. Instead, I simply cried and repeatedly told him how sorry I was that I wasn’t there with him. I spoke to the vet one last time and gave her permission to let him go.

White dog, Cabal, lying peacefully on the ground.

This photo of us was taken by Kimberley Butler, who titled it Unconditional Love.

I cried deeply. Amanda came and held me while I continued to cry. Holly called, and when I told her what had happened, she cried too. It was so sudden, so unexpected, and the fact that I wasn’t there with him when he passed was incredibly painful. I had lost my dearest friend. I thought I had no more tears left, but then I heard that Lola had taken his collar from the counter top and slept with it all night. The news broke me again, and I cried once more.

So many kind emails and messages of all kinds followed. I am profoundly grateful for every single one of them, and to all of you who reached out. I am eternally glad that I knew him, and profoundly grateful that we found each other that rainy day by the side of the road. I don’t believe I will ever experience another bond quite like the one we shared in my lifetime. If only dogs lived longer. Understanding the deep connection shared between humans and pets, sometimes it feels like they possess abilities akin to super pets in how they touch our lives.

As Kipling so eloquently put it:

THERE is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

We can attempt to beware all we like. But the poem itself is titled “The Power of a Dog,” and it speaks to a very real, potent force. As Kipling understood, this power is ultimately a good thing. Cabal was, without question, the best dog in the universe, and the void left by his absence is immense. I will miss him every single day.