Beyond Romance: A Valentine's Day Tale of Unexpected Connections
Keep your eyes open. Love often shows up in surprising ways.
A version of this piece was originally published five years ago today — Valentine’s Day — in The Post Grad Survival Guide.
I catch sight of the dark, shiny dog through the right side of my windshield, bounding along the snowy sidewalk, stopping just short of the curb. Thankfully, traffic’s crawling through this slippery slush and icy rain, so I scan the area for the dog’s owner…but nothing.
The dog then steps into the street.
Oh God, I think, please don’t let it get hit.
The car in front of me swerves to avoid it.
As I near it, I apply my brakes and feel my car sliding slightly. Once I come to a stop, I glance in my rearview mirror, then back to the dog — but it’s gone.
I next catch sight of it weaving between cars just ahead of me. I hold my breath. I can’t look away.
That dog is going to get hit today, I think.
My eyes widen as I lower my front windows and consider whistling for a dog whose name I do not know.
No, I think, don’t encourage him anywhere near the street.
And that’s when “it” kicks in — that feeling when the rest of the world fades away, blocking everything out except what needs to happen.
I don’t remember turning on my hazards or pulling my car over to the curb or opening my driver’s side door or exiting my vehicle. I don’t remember leaving my purse on the passenger seat or running toward that dog. I don’t remember asking myself if this is a bad idea. All I remember is not wanting it to get hit by a car, and thinking, I’m definitely gonna be late for my appointment.
I’ve had dogs before, including a yellow lab (Jack) who was hit by a car when he escaped our backyard (thankfully he survived), and a black lab mix (Chloe) who once lept out of my car when I stopped for gas at an oasis in Belvidere, Illinois.
When that second awful incident happened, I ran through the parking lot chasing Chloe, only to watch — in horror — as she bolted gleefully down a grassy embankment and straight onto the Jane Addams Memorial Tollway.
I’d gotten halfway down the hill, out of breath and tearfully calling her name, when it suddenly occurred to me: She sees this as a game of chase.
Ignoring my instincts to run toward her, I turned around and ran back up that hill, calling her name over my shoulder, praying an 18-wheeler wouldn’t mow her down and that she’d chase after me.
Miraculously, Chloe came bounding toward me, but I didn’t stop. I kept running until we both reached my car in the parking lot, where my driver’s side door still stood ajar.
Only then did I crouch down on the ground, tucking myself into the angular, den-like space between the open door and the driver’s seat, smothering her with all my love while slipping on the harness she’d wriggled out of.
As my legs shook uncontrollably and her panting fogged up the windshield, I sat in shock, petting my dog and repeating two words — thank you — over the pounding of my heart.
Now, twenty years later, I’m standing near a Burger King near my home, staring at yet another black dog whose broad chest is heaving in a very familiar way.
It stops twenty feet away, staring at me through snowy rain, as if to say, Give me one reason to trust you.
This time, I know enough not to run in the opposite direction, since that’ll take us directly into the street.
What am I to do?
I take a small step toward it, wishing I had a little treat or any little scrap of food…but it takes off running.
Then, a young man approaches.
He’s maybe nineteen or twenty — pale, no jacket, looking defeated — walking slowly toward me with a black leash in his hand.
“That your dog?” I ask, watching it bolt back into the street.
By now, traffic in both directions has stopped. Drivers step out of their cars, honking and pointing.
“He went that way!” someone yells.
“Oh God!” another bystander shouts to passing cars. “There’s a dog in the road!”
“I almost had him!” a man calls from across the street. “What’s his name?! Where’s the owner?”
“Rizzo!” the young guy yells with a hoarse voice. Draping the leash around his neck, he clasps his hands on top of his head. “Been trying to catch him for over an hour,” he says, squeezing his eyes tight.
He’s not wearing a coat, and I can’t tell if the droplets on his face are rain or tears.
“He won’t come,” he says, out of breath. He bends forward, hands on his knees, and shakes his head. “I don’t know what to do.”
I know this raw vulnerability all too well, this overwhelming feeling of utter helplessness.
I don’t know this guy. I don’t know his dog. I don’t know how things will turn out. All I know is that I’ve loved my own sweet dogs — and I would have given anything for someone to help me in my moments of need.
“What’s his name again?” I ask, sucking in my breath as a driver speeds by us, unaware there’s a dog on the loose up ahead.
“Rizzo,” the guy says, “…but it’s no use.”
“We’ll get him,” I hear myself saying, words I know I’d need to hear.
We crane our necks, trying not to lose sight of his dog, but I’m fearful the guy’s actually right…that it’s no use. His dog, once again, is gone.
Food, I am certain, is our only answer, so I run a block to the drive-up window at Burger King.
“No walk ups,” the woman in the window says, then waves to the car idling in the queue.
“I need a burger,” I say, putting my hand on the metal ledge, “or anything else you can give me quickly. A loose dog is running in the street.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, smiling. “No walkups.”
“A dog is going to get hit by a car if we don’t get him out of the street,” I say. I’m trying not to sound panicked. “May I please have a burger…or fries…or something? Anything?”
The woman goes back to filling cups with soda.
“Please!” I say loudly, refusing to step away.
“What is it that you want?” another woman asks from behind her. She’s clearly the manager.
“I need a burger. A loose dog is running in the street. I think he’ll come to me if I have food.”
I’ve decided there’s no way I’m leaving until I have it.
Thankfully, the manager grabs a single cooked patty, wraps it in a napkin, and hands it to me.
“Thank you!” I say, and I take off.
“It’s not gonna work,” the guy says, as I reach him a block away. “He’s never had a burger before.”
But I ignore him.
I’m whistling, calling Rizzo! Rizzo!, waving that greasy patty in the air.
A block away, I see Rizzo’s head appear from between two parked cars. Then, his whole body appears, and he cautiously heads in our direction, with a swagger that says, I was always planning on heading this way, and it’s not because of anything you’re doing.
I decide I should stand perfectly still, waving my naked Whopper patty like I’m some nonchalant perfume rep in the Macy’s cosmetics department. I’ve got a confident smile plastered on my face and a calm tone coming from somewhere in my throat: Hi, Rizzo… would you like to try a burger?
Rizzo runs toward — then past — me, stopping on a snowy front lawn, his nose in the air and his tail wagging wildly.
“Want a bite?” I ask softly, extending my hand.
A woman — walking a fluffy, white dog — approaches, and asks us what she can do to help. But as soon as her little dog spies the burger, it begins to bark. Rizzo, once again, is outta there.
This time, though, he heads between two houses and into a yard that’s completely fenced in.
Plus, there’s a gate.
We latch it closed, leaving Rizzo no way to escape. Boom!
The woman and Rizzo’s owner and I stand just outside the gate, watching with enormous relief as Rizzo stands in the far back corner of the yard, scanning the area for a way out.
I hand the burger to Rizzo’s owner. He readies his leash and, with the other dog owner, steps into the yard. I close the metal gate behind them.
“He’s only nine months old,” the guy tells us. “Right Rizzo? Right Rizzo?”
Rizzo — chest low to the ground and tush high in the air — wags his tail with puppyish insanity.
“Sorry, you guys, but I have to go,” I say. “I left my car running at the corner of Dempster and Dodge. I’m glad everything’s okay.”
As I step back from the gate, Rizzo’s owner is feeding bits of meat to both pups, who are now clearly the best of friends.
When I get back to my car, I check the clock on the dash.
I’ve been gone for all of six minutes.
I arrive at my appointment just in time, grateful for the Burger King manager whose heart was huge — and for the look on that dog owner’s face as he watched his sweet puppy, eating happily from his hand.
P.S. I called Burger King the next day to thank the manager, and to find out when her next shift would be.
On that day, I drove up to the pickup window to thank her.
“I don’t know if you remember me,” I said. “But I asked you for a burger when that dog was running through the street. Thank you for helping us. We were able to get the dog back to his owner.”
“Oh, no problem,” she said. “Something was going to happen to him. I was afraid a car was going to...”
“I wrote an article about what happened,” I said. “Is it okay if I add your picture to it?”
“Oh. Okay,” she said, embarrassed.
“Thank you,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Zoila,” she said.
I went home and looked up the meaning of the name Zoila, and learned it’s the Spanish variation of Zoe — which means life.
Has unexpected love ever happened to you? How did it show up? What was your response?
Christine Wolf is an author, memoir coach, and founder of Writers’ Haven LLC, a cooperative workspace for women writers near Chicago. www.christinewolf.com
that's beautiful. I really love that you went back to BK, got her name and included her photo. xo