LASKA, a story of survival.

LASKA - A TALE OF SURVIVAL

The volunteer in the Citizens Crime Watch vehicle tapped the licence plate numbers into his laptop computer. Every time he hit the SEND key he mentally crossed his fingers, hoping for a "hit." Tap, tap, tap . . .

BEEP!!!

It's a hit!
"Unit five to seven Delta thirty one."
"Seven delta thirty one. Go ahead".
"We've got a hit on RYW 554. Confirm."

I typed the plate number into the police computer in my car. My screen confirmed the first stolen auto recovered for the shift. I headed toward their location to do the investigation.

A single line of information jumped out at me as I glanced at my screen a second time:

"Owner’s dog in vehicle at time of theft.”

Wait a minute! I'd heard about this stolen vehicle. It had made the papers back on February 6th. This was February 23rd! The volunteers had found the vehicle that belonged to an out of town schoolteacher. "Laska," his Golden Retriever, had been locked in his travel kennel in the back of the truck when it was stolen. The guy was frantic with worry. Everyone was talking about it.

I started doing the math in my head. The number I was coming up with was too large to make me feel good about this recovery. I could only hope that whoever stole the car had had the decency to release the dog when he finished his joyride.

I approached the pickup with a nervous, queasy feeling in my stomach.

An incredible stench exploded into my face as I opened the unlocked door of the cab. This wasn't going to be nice.

I walked to the rear of the truck. With great trepidation, I aimed my flashlight beam through the canopy window, squinting my eyes to blur my vision. I didn’t want to see what I knew I was going to find.

The brilliant beam from the mag light illuminated the filth encrusted, motionless back of “Laska,” the no longer golden retriever.

She was facing away from me, completely still . . . just as I expected her to be. As I started to turn, I caught the slightest movement out of the corner of my eye. She was lifting her head . . . ever so slowly. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing! It was impossible. She was alive!

The canopy was locked tight. I couldn't get to the dog.

My “professional” persona disappeared. The starch was gone, replaced by big, fat tears that refused to stay put. I can handle pretty much anything to do with people in crisis. To be witness to the indescribable agony that once magnificent animal was suffering, was beyond my tolerance. I was mush. Yep, “mush” is what I was.

I grabbed my police radio and started yelling into the mike, "Find me a vet, and get a tow truck up here, FAST!"

Almost before I put my microphone down, one of my fellow officers screeched to a stop beside me. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, he'd ripped the canopy door open with his bare hands (my hero)!

In seconds he was inside the truck and calling for a knife to cut the kennel away from its nylon safety strapping. The Crime Watch volunteers helped the officer gently load the kennel into their pickup truck. They tore off to the twenty-four hour emergency animal clinic, apparently mindless of the almost adhesive fumes surrounding them. Their single thought was of their fragile cargo—so desperately clinging to life.

Those of us left behind stood on the sidewalk, exhausted from the sudden onset of emotion that had consumed us during those few minutes of drama.

Later that evening, we dropped by the clinic to see how she was doing. Oh what a sorry site she was. Her fetid, emaciated body had been bathed and she was lying on a table, wrapped up in a fluffy, yellow blanket. With apparent difficulty, she lifted her head to acknowledge us as we stood there making a valiant but failed attempt at the stiff-upper-lip-thing. She trembled violently as the vet attendant hugged her and tried to warm her up. She looked pathetic, and so very frail. It was truly a heart wrenching experience for all of us. One would have to be awfully hard-hearted to remain dry-eyed while looking at that tortured animal.

The vet expressed grave concern for Laska’s survival and said that the next three days would be touch and go. We drove off into the night with our fingers and toes crossed, hoping for a bit of a miracle.

Officers notifying the owner of the recovery, described his reaction to the news as “over the moon!” He had sobbed into the phone, blessing us all, and so relieved to have his nightmare over.

This was a responsible dog owner. Rather than leaving his dog loose in the back of his truck—where she could injure herself, or get into mischief—she was safe and sound in a secured crate, specifically designed for transporting a dog of that size. She was only going to be confined for a short period of time. Just long enough for a nice nap.

Next to the locked kennel was a big plastic container of dog kibble. For many long days and nights, Laska would only be able to smell it, as she slowly starved to death.

After four days of intensive care, Laska was discharged home with her grateful owner. Hard to believe it was the same dog, perched up on the front seat, wagging her tail and anxious to be on her way.

It crossed my mind—as I'm sure is has yours—that somewhere out there is a crummy little car thief who probably doesn't even know, or care about the horrific saga he created. After all, he had a good time on his little joyriding expedition. From his loser perspective, what happened to Laska was just bad luck . . . I suppose.

*The Golden Retriever portrait at the beginning of my story is not "Laska." It is a portrait of "Mel," painted by artist Debbie Stonebraker. If you would like to see more of her beautiful paintings please visit her website www.stonebrakerart.com.

Note: For four years I was Coordinator for the highly acclaimed Citizens' Crime Watch Program. My partner and I trained, managed and supervised civilian volunteers who took part in mobile patrols throughout a large Canadian city. This experience was one of the most valuable learning experiences of my 25 year career. I developed a good understanding and respect for volunteers and their motivations.