The Voice of My Inner Nineteen-Year-Old Is Back
She always had a lot to say — and it was glorious
“Just leave me alone,” her tone was screechy, drug affected, and unhinged.
Over the last few months, derelict drug addicts have turned rumbling with the security guards into a sport of catch-me-if-you-can. Last week a brawl made the news. I glanced her way. It’s always better to know if the situation has the potential to explode.
The screechy woman was dragging a dog behind her.
The dog lay passively on its side, sliding across the tiles. The dog wasn’t far from choking; its collar pulled way too tight. The dog’s demeanor suggested that using the path of least resistance was a coping mechanism. This dog was used to being dragged about.
Someone had to stop this.
I looked about, a few people walking behind the woman attempted to talk her down. But she looked and sounded like she was as high as a kite. Talking wasn’t going to cut it. Someone had to do something now before the dog choked. No one should treat a dog like that. Either I could watch this happen or be part of the solution.
Thirty years ago, there would have been no hesitations. Nineteen-year-old Sandi was fearless. If you were being a wanker, she’d tell you straight. If someone was in danger, she’d protect them.
Nineteen-year-old Sandi’s fearlessness and brashness lasted around fifteen years. I was in my mid-thirties when my lungs started to decline rapidly. And as my lungs declined, so too did my enthusiasm for talking. It was just too hard. Fearless Sandi was no more — I was too busy focussing on staying alive. On forcing my manky lungs to last until donated lungs were available.
After my transplant, there was a period of adjustment, of finding who I was now. Of learning to make chit-chat again now that I could breathe. And just enjoying the simple pleasure of being alive.
Then the pandemic rolled in. And keeping safe behind a mask in public became my normal.
Throughout the pandemic, I’ve heard people talk loudly behind me as I’ve gone about my business in a mask.
“She shouldn’t be out in public if she’s sick.”
“Scardy cat afraid of a little virus.”
I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve heard variations of those two phrases.
Worse are the people who push past or crowd me as I steadfastly refuse to give up my 1.5 metres to the person in front of me.
Throughout it all, I’ve (mostly) kept my tongue and wondered where nineteen-year-old Sandi had disappeared to. At times she popped up — usually if I was confronted face-to-face. On one occasion, a relief worker at the post office judged my masked face and refused to serve me. “You really shouldn’t be going out when you are sick.”
I snapped straight back, “Left your manners behind this morning, did you? Forgot to consider I might be in the highest risk group of dying from COVID? There’s more than one reason to wear a mask. Maybe consider that first next time.”
But for the main part, my inner voice judged their selfishness, and I ignored them and went about my business.
But a dog being abused — this I couldn’t ignore.
I hitched up my big girl pants and bellowed, “YOU STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!” as I marched towards her.
I work in a school. I have a loud and commanding bellow that can stop the shenanigans of thirty twelve-year-olds in a heartbeat. While the woman kept charging ahead, pulling the dog along, people ahead of her, who’d been ignoring her until now, stopped and turned.
She had nowhere to go. Sensing that the crowd had turned against her, the woman jumped, knees first, on top of the dog. I increased my pace, arriving just as others pulled her off the dog. I tried to stand between her and the dog, but she slid past me, her knees sinking into the dog’s ribs again.
I bent, scrabbled to grab her left arm, and helped pull her off the dog. This time with the help of others, we successfully blocked her. Realising she was out of options, she ran from the shopping centre.
I turned my attention back to the dog. My initial thought was to stop the dog from being dragged and choked. But this dog was in a bad way. This dog was out of options. It was thin — way too thin — its ribs and backbone stuck out. It was half the weight it should have been for its size. A quick inspection of her feet revealed why she’d allowed herself to be dragged through the centre. Her pads were severely burnt, a typical sign that a dog has been walked over hot concrete. It’s not something a dog would do willingly.
There were other injuries, but no one wanted to move her. She was stressed; there was no point in adding to that stress. After we gave her a little water, the lady to my right, Michelle, fanned her with a paper bag to cool her down. I patted her to help keep her calm. Lisa, the lady to my left, manned her phone to register the dog with the R.S.P.C.A.
As we waited for the dog to be collected by council rangers, the shopping centre security guards kept an eye on us.
One said, “Thank you. She’s been in the centre many times, but we’re not allowed to remove the dog from her. We’re not allowed to touch her. All we can do is ask her to leave the centre.”
I was seething and indignant. This behaviour had happened before, and no one had stopped it?
Michelle asked a question, which opened a different can of worms, “Will we get in trouble?”
The security guard asked, “You didn’t put your hands on her, did you?”
Michelle and I both nodded.
“You might.”
“That’s fine, I said. “I’m happy to cop that. Someone had to do something.”
Michelle nodded, “Me too.”
My inner nineteen-year-old was already itching to testify and tell off anyone who thought she’d done the wrong thing.
It took nearly an hour for the police and rangers to arrive to collect the dog. Finally, just as the rangers arrived, Lisa received the confirmation she needed. Between her video footage of the abuse, the photos she’d taken of the dog’s condition, and witness statements from myself and Michelle, the R.S.P.C.A could claim the dog. She would be safe for the next four months.
As the rangers prepared to load the dog onto a trolley to transport her, the dog turned to face me. Then she gave me big slobbery kisses.
“Thank you,” those kisses said, “thank you for rescuing me.”
My inner-nineteen-year-old may hibernate more these days, but it’s nice to know she’ll drop back in when needed. She’s as loud than ever and ready to call you out if you’re being a wanker.
And if you’re abusing a dog, then she’s not afraid to jump in the fray and stop you.
Sandi Parsons lives and breathes stories as a reader, writer, and storyteller. She lives with her favorite husband and two problem puppies.
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First published in Sandi Stories — subscribe today and get my free eBook, The Last Walk & Other Stories.
