Mitchell Harris rushed out of the conference room, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his tailored suit. The board’s decision stuck like Velcro to his soul. No one was secure, and nothing could be done to rescue the unfortunate. Dozens of names had been nixed. Families, couples, retirees-it didn’t seem to matter. Foreclosure was foreclosure. “Just business,” the CEO had muttered.
Mitchell had nodded and slumped in his chair. Was justice blind?
He loosened the Windsor knot at his throat and pushed through the glass doors at the bank. The air on the street was crisp, even biting. Across the street, the icy river churned, swollen from the deluge earlier in the day. Dull grey clouds hibernated overhead, ignoring the dull sheen suffocating the city.
A sharp, panicked yelp penetrated the traffic noises. He oriented himself, seeing nothing obvious. It sounded again. Across the way. In the river?
He slipped through the traffic and strained to see. A small dog paddled frantically, caught in a current that spun it around. Front paws clawed helplessly at a slick concrete embankment.
He tossed his coat on a bench as he raced forward.
“Hey!” the hot dog vendor shouted, but Mitchell was already sliding down the bank to the edge of the river. His leather Oxfords skidded out from under him and left him face-first, reaching for the stray. The terrier whined, eyes wide and terrified.
“Easy, boy,” Mitchell whispered. “Just a little more.”
Ignoring the rip in his knee, he unbuckled his belt, looped an end around a rusty railing, and anchored himself. Stretching himself, he caught the sodden collar. “Got you!”
Grunting and gasping, he heaved the shivering animal up. Its hind claws anchored themselves on his chest. The animal quivered violently, then, realizing it was safe, erupted into joyous licks and tail wags, smearing water and slobber all over Mitchell’s face.
“Alright, alright,” Mitchell chuckled, catching his breath. He hoisted the terrier-muddy, dripping, still panting-carrying it back to his black Volvo. At his cozy apartment, he wrapped the dog in a thick towel and set him by the gas fireplace. Warm water over kibbles didn’t stay in a mixing bowl long.
“Who do you belong to?” he asked, drying the terrier’s ears. “What’s your name? How does River sound?” The dog thumped its tail and barked. A collar tag yielded a phone number, but the number was disconnected. There was no address, no chip, no other markings.
Animal services noted his find, but had no leads. Mitchell took River for a walk through the neighborhood close to his workplace, asking about the dog at every shop and café. At a bus shelter two blocks from the river, he found her.
An older woman, draped in a torn wool coat, with her legs wrapped in a blanket, sat in a wheelchair. Her windburned cheeks and blue fingers betrayed her suffering. Beside her lay an empty leash.
When she saw the terrier, her eyes grew big as saucers. “Muffin,” she called.
River lurched forward with a yelp of delight, barking, tail thrashing, running in circles around the chair. The woman reached down, burying her face in his fur, whispering through her sobs.
Mitchell crouched, throat constricted.
“Sorry,” the woman said. “He got spooked last night from the fireworks. Took off before I could grab him.”
“He nearly drowned in the river,” Mitchell said softly.
“Thanks for bringing him back. I’m Clarice.”
They talked. Mitchell and Clarice. She’d lost her apartment to foreclosure six months previously when her disability assistance was delayed. The dog was her only family.
“It’s cold out,” Mitchell noted. “Where will you spend the night?”
She shook her head. “Shelters are already full. Most don’t take dogs. I don’t even have a phone.”
He scanned the rickety wheelchair, Clarice's hollowed cheeks, and the trembling dog in her arms. Something cracked inside him. He pulled out his phone.
A friend at a nonprofit housing group, a former colleague now at City Hall, and even an old college roommate who ran a veterinary clinic. By dusk, Clarice had a temporary residence, and Muffin had a clean bill of health. Mitchell sat across from them, sipping coffee and relaxing on a couch donated by a community church.
“You saved us,” Clarice said, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Maybe you saved me,” Mitchell said. “Rescuing your pup may have rescued me.”
Clarisse smiled. “You’ve got the heart of a rescuer. Maybe it needed to beat differently. Like Jesus.”