Pixie is Ready to Rumble
What makes a hero?
Can a timid dog be a hero? Can a timid human be one?
Pixie is 65 pounds of muscle and teeth. But she runs from little yappers when they bark at her. There is not an ounce of aggression in her.
When we walk the gauntlet of barking dogs in my neighborhood, she just keeps her head down and aims for home. There is a family down the street from us — large husband, tiny wife, two preschool aged children, and a hound dog. The dog is nice, but he’s a hound. He barks. Pixie looks at him and wrinkles her brow and tilts her head as if to say, Why?
My friend Sarah next door can come over and let herself in to borrow what she needs from my kitchen, and Pixie does not rise from her bed on the floor.
Sarah’s little boy Jasper brought me a jar of yogurt yesterday. They had made it at home and wanted to share. Jasper and I stood on the porch talking enthusiastically about toppings: berries, honey, lemon custard. Pixie stood as close as she could to Jasper, smiling and licking the air around him. She did not even want to lick his skin, because, you know, that might be perceived as a microaggression. So she only licked the air around him.
The only time she barks is when a man comes up on the porch.
Good dog.
Two months ago I had a rather serious medical procedure. I had a type of back surgery called a laminectomy where the doctors cut me open and scraped material away from my spinal cord as if they were deveining a shrimp.
My friend Bonnie was heroic. She was not my designated driver. She was my designated person. She went with me to the hospital, stayed with me through everything but the surgery itself, and took me back to her place to stay the night.
Another friend brought Pixie over to Bonnie’s house to stay with me. Bonnie set us both up in a spare room, and Pixie and I both slept like logs. Pixie always sleeps like a log and rather resembles one. I was still medicated and exhausted and crashed into the bed with gratitude.
The next morning, Bonnie gave me and Pixie our breakfasts. Bonnie and I sat around drinking coffee and chatting until I felt like I needed a mid-morning nap. Pixie and I retreated to the spare room and went back to sleep. Pixie pressed herself against me as she always does.
About an hour later, Bonnie came to the door to check on us. She knocked and inched the door open.
“Hey, how are you feeling?”
I barely lifted my head. Pixie perked up and sat up in bed, forehead wrinkled. I was still medicated from the anesthesia from the day before plus the oxycodone prescription they had given me. I didn’t immediately respond to Bonnie. I was out of it.
Pixie looked at me, looked at Bonnie, and hopped off the bed and ran to the door.
I cannot emphasize this enough. Pixie does not have an aggressive bone in her body. But she loves me. I rescued her after a year and a half in a shelter and about seven years as a neglected yard dog. She and I bring so much love and appreciation to each other’s lives. We adore each other.
She would not harm a soul.
But she also would not let a soul harm me.
She understood that Bonnie was the best thing we had going at the moment. She understood that Bonnie was feeding us and taking care of us and loved us.
But she also knew that I was more vulnerable in that moment than at any time in the three years that she had lived with me. She knew that if there was any moment when she needed to protect me, this was it.
Bonnie is a full grown woman. I’m going to say 5’6”, 60 years old, strong and independent. And she was in her own home where she reigns over the household and any friends who come to visit. A gracious host, but also a force of nature.
Pixie stands about knee high to Bonnie and runs from a sharp word.
But in that moment, Pixie ran to the door and turned her body sideways to block Bonnie from coming into the room. My Boxer Pittie mix stood there doing her best to block passage, stretching her body to the fullest to take up the space of the entire doorframe.
When Bonnie inched forward,
Pixie rumbled.
I would not call it a growl, not even close to a bark. No baring of teeth. No bristling of hair on her back. Just a low rumble through her thick neck and silver muzzle.
Bonnie’s jaw dropped. I spoke to Pixie telling her to be quiet, that Bonnie is our friend. Pixie just looked at me and back to Bonnie and then took a neutral stance, staring into empty air. But she did not move, and she let out another lower and softer rumble.
I spoke sharply to her, “Come!”
She left her post and jumped up on the bed by me, but still positioned herself between me and the door.
I apologized to Bonnie and told her I was fine and would be out in a minute. Bonnie closed the door and walked back through the house.
I hugged Pixie to me and scratched her head and neck, patted her butt, rubbed her belly. I had never been more proud of her.
On September 11, 2001, I worked in Treasury Management on the 28th floor of the Bank of America Plaza in Charlotte. We didn’t understand what was going on. We didn’t know what was what. The internet was still young. The messages we were getting were confused and incomplete. We were told that terrorists were flying large passenger planes into towers that represented key American financial centers. We were told that we might be next.
An evacuation was ordered for our building.
Weirdly, I was the appointed fire captain for our floor. I had chuckled about the odd responsibility. All it had ever amounted to was making sure people got off the floor when there was a fire drill, which was only done annually. We had all laughed even more about the neon orange foam trucker cap I had to put on during the drills.
I hung up the phone with security, opened a drawer at my desk, pulled out the cap, and started ordering people off the floor. I found an athletic young man and told him to stay with a wheelchair-bound employee until she was out of the building. I put both of them on the service elevator. I forced other people to hang up their phones. I asked colleagues to check the bathrooms.
Once I had cleared the floor, it was just me and Nick Alex, the senior manager of our team. He and I confirmed with each other that everyone was off the floor. We opened the door into the stairwell and saw the few people still making their way down.
“Let’s go,” Nick said.
We stepped into the stairwell and Nick started down. I hesitated. Nick looked back at me.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“I’m going up,” I told him.
“What?”
“I’m going to clear the other floors.”
Nick looked at me and made a motion to come back up toward me, to join me.
“You have children,” I said.
Nick nodded at me and turned. He walked down the steps.
I walked up.
I went through several floors above me, clearing people off, clearing out stubborn people who tried to refuse to leave.
After I’d cleared about three additional floors, I was beginning to grow nervous. I took a deep breath and prepared myself to go up another floor. As I reached for the door handle, I got scared. I doubled over, placing my hands on my knees. I hyperventilated for a few seconds.
I thought, “I’m going to die in this building.”
You have to understand what we had been told, what we were expecting.
I stood up and walked up another flight.
I continued clearing floors until I met up with firefighters who had somehow started at the top floor and were clearing people out as they went down. They were fully outfitted in their suits and gear.
“What are you doing?” the commander asked, looking quizzically at my goofy orange hat.
“I’m clearing floors,” I said.
There was a long pause as we stared at each other.
Together we worked our way down the floors.
I was not at risk. We learned as the news unfolded that our building had never been at risk.
And Bonnie posed no risk to me all these years later as I lay in her spare bedroom.
Was I a hero?
Was Bonnie a hero?
Was Pixie a hero?
What is bravery? Actual risk or assessed risk?
What determines heroism? Outcome or intention?
What is love? What is devotion? What is courage? What is humanity?
Who’s a good dog?
