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Over the course of the past 2 months, I have fielded dozens of calls and messages from associates and old friends offering me support for my election campaign. Of course, I’m not running for anything, despite the name on the ballot. I’ll repeat, I am NOT running for Brevard County Commissioner in District 4.
I did quite a double-take the first time I drove by one of “my” roadsigns. I’ve waved to him numerous times as he stands at the intersections holding “my” signs in an attempt to garner support. Sometimes I even honk enthusiastically, even though the likelihood of success in a field of seven is anyone’s guess. I just hope we don’t get embarrassed, with like 3 votes. And in the long-shot that I do win, I surely hope I’m not a crook! Heck, I can make myself look bad all by myself! I don’t need some other guy making it worse. He probably thinks the same thing as he sees the lines of people waiting to see me on Saturdays. “Crap, I sure hope that vet knows what he’s doing!”
I realize this is all quite silly, and my wife Sharon thinks I’m nuts. “Just last night, she said, “Babe, you do realize you’re not running, right?”
So what’s in a name, anyway? What if your reputation really did depend on someone else? I imagine Daddy looking down at me, with his brow furrowed much of the time, wondering just what the hell I think I’m doing. He shook his head in bewilderment, and thought we were so different when he was alive. Mostly, I hope he’s smiling because lots of my good stuff come from him, I think now he’s OK with those things we were so different on. I hope he’s happy with how I’ve carried his father’s name, with the reputation, the image our family name is remembered with.
And of course, I was Mom’s baby boy, and so I could do no wrong in her eyes. Now that she has her Beatific Vision” of Heaven, she sees right through me! I’m embarrassed at the times I look back and did the wrong things. I was so relieved that she didn’t know; I didn’t want to disappoint her! Now she’s laughing out loud – of course she knew all along. Somehow she pointed me in the right direction, guiding me to get back up and learn from my mistakes, without even letting on that she knew everything I was up to.
Good parenting requires knowing your children. An insightful father knows his children long before they know themselves.
And I’m quite sure my son Cullen also watches us. You know that feeling you get when you’re “alone,” but you just feel someone watching you? I get that all the time. Sometimes I lose my cool or get short with someone, or say something out of frustration, and I swear I can hear him laughing at me, saying, “That’s my dad!” But other times, when I find myself correcting someone’s close-mindedness or bigotry, I get really warm all over, and I smile. I realize that I’m not the same man I was, and I hope he’s proud of me, because so much of what’s better in me is because of him.
I also think of my Heavenly Father looking down on us. One of my contemplations involves the Trinity looking down at our globe, and discussing how things have turned out. Are they pleased with us? I’m unable to judge others through Their eyes, so I’m just talking about myself, and mine. If I call myself a Christian, I’m representing Him in everything I say, and do. Of course I don’t hold myself to this standard of perfection, but others may hold me accountable.
As a visible Christian, I am the only Christ some people will ever see. In that context I carry a huge responsibility. Of course I’m just a human with all human weaknesses and failings, but to many that I encounter, I represent Church, and all things Christ.
Regardless of whether or not Gandhi actually said the words, lots of people claim he said, “I don’t reject Christ. I love Christ. It’s just that so many of you Christians are so unlike Christ.”
I can only imagine Jesus looking down at us, shaking his head in frustration, at one time or another, in frustration. Just like my parents.
So again, what’s in a name, anyway? What if your reputation really did depend on someone else?
Which reminds me of a prayer led by a Jesuit mentor:
Most of all, Lord, Let nothing that I shall ever do, serve to keep any of my brothers from finding you.
(If you missed Part 1, here’s the link: Part 1)
Twenty eight year old William Patrick Cosgrove had been one of six handpicked for sniper training in the 4th brigade combat team, then qualified into the elite hundred for the entire 82nd Airborne Division. He had been twice decorated for heroism before that fateful September day in 2012. He was leading the team as they patrolled an area known to be heavily rigged with IEDs. With them was a beagle that never left his side.
“She ran into camp from over the hill, and made a bee-line directly to Will, and jumped up and down, barking and whining, as if she’d been looking for him and was so happy to find him. It was the damnedest thing,” recalled a friend of Cosgrove. “Then she’d never leave his side, and he named her ‘Angel’ – we assumed because he thought she was his guardian angel. In fact, Will placed the angel medallion from his necklace on her collar. Only later did we learn the real reason, or at least the ‘rest’ of the story.”
Angel had clearly been trained in explosives detection. She’d warned them countless times of traps, and would literally go berserk at the hint of acetone peroxide. She was drawn to him and they bonded immediately, likely saving him and many team-members, dozens of times.
But that day there was no acetone peroxide , and no one suspected the cart full of sticks had so much dynamite underneath. But they recognized the words shouted as the teenager pulling the cart waved to the approaching soldiers.
Specialist Cosgrove’s wife Katie had just returned from T-ball practice with her sons Billy and Brian, and she scrambled to get the big dinner fixed before people started arriving. Her daughter Lindsey turned 6 today and the in-laws would join them after they picked her up from gymnastics. It had been such a hectic week.
Katie had grown so close to Will’s parents who had been such a big help, with him off on his second tour. They ran errands, helped cook, watched the kids, and had even taken their dog to the vet last year for a check-up and shots.
That had been such a horrible day for everyone. Since William Sr. had also been military, his base privileges included vet services, so he had taken Angel over to Ft. Bragg. Katie was so well trained, she was almost never on leash. After the exam, William Sr. opened the door, and as he fumbled with his cane, she bolted out as if she had seen a ghost. The dog took off running and never even looked back. They all assumed she had seen a uniform in the distance and ran off towards who she thought was Will.
Katie knew William would be devastated to find his dog gone, but after 6 months, they’d just about given up hope. Angel looked like every other pitbull and although nobody said it, everyone knew she’d been euthanized in some shelter between Goldston and Ft. Bragg. As bad as they all felt, William Sr. was simply devastated.
God, how she missed that dog – Katie used to talk to her as if she was Will. Something about her was Will, the way she looked up at her, the way she was always there when Katie or one of the kids needed a hug, she just seemed to sense their emotions.
As Katie looked down at the empty corner where she always lay, she smiled and said wistfully, “You’re the worst dog ever!” But then she felt guilty, even though he used to always say that. Because she wasn’t, she was the best dog ever. Maternal misgivings about having a pit-bull around the kids were quickly forgotten, and everyone in the family considered her their best friend. William was going to be be so upset. As she turned the frying chicken, Katie drifted off to the day they adopted her.
Their oldest child had just turned 9 when William decided a dog would fit into their family. He had always had dogs as a child and so wanted the kids to grow up with them. Katie hated the thought – jumping up and scratching everyone’s legs, shedding on the floor, and demanding to be walked, and so she resisted as long as she could. The family had planned a wonderful weekend at the beach, and drove the two hours from Goldston to the Outer Banks the Friday before his first tour to Afghanistan. William had the whole thing planned, they were staying at a condo his high school friend offered, and he knew exactly where the Humane Society was, just outside Raleigh. She rolled her eyes as he pulled into the parking lot, with really no objection. She had been expecting it for such a long time.
But Katie had been expecting a Beagle puppy, not an adult Pit Bull. As the gate to the kennel run opened, the dog actually jumped into Lindsey’s tiny lap, whining and crying as if they were long-lost friends. The boys agreed, the decision had been made. No-one was surprised when William announced her name, ‘Angel.’ ” He pulled out his necklace and kissed the two medallions, a crucifix and an angel. I’ll be gone a while, its just perfect; She’ll be your ‘guardian,’ your protector.”
The knock at the door startled her. Katie assumed it was the in-laws and Lindsey. Suddenly she realized that she hadn’t wrapped Lindsey’s present.
“Come on in!” she shouted from the kitchen, stashing the unwrapped gift under the counter, but not wanting to leave the frying pan on the stove. At the second knock, she dashed towards the door, but froze at the sight through the living room window. Katie fell to her knees at the sight of the two dress uniforms standing on her front porch.
“No! No!” she screamed on the floor of the foyer.
As the chaplain heard this, he considered opening the door, and then saw Groves parents pull into the driveway. Tears trekked down the face of William Senior realizing immediately the news these men must bear. The woman in the passenger seat wept uncontrollably as the confused child in the back seat kept asking her what was wrong.
I suppose we’ll never know how or why Angel made the 700 mile, 2 year journey from Ft. Bragg. Or the pain surrounding her filed off canine teeth. Or how or why His divine Providence directs so much of our lives. But I’m quite certain that He does. The bittersweet joy at their reunion would be surreal. But these “gifts left behind” give us great comfort. When I say, “Thank God” for something, I really mean it.
And some things we do know. But we all know why William Patrick Cosgrove Sr. was in his car and drove all night to Orlando. When my clients met us here early that morning with Angel, we unraveled the whole story together. When Will’s father shared the part about the medallion, two faces drained of color as the boy reached from his pocket. “This was around her neck when we picked her up off the street,” he said as he opened his hand.
ed. note: The names in this story have been changed to protect their privacy. Also, when Angel and William Sr. arrived back in NC, although Katie was stunned by the co-incidences and symbolism, she said the medallion Angel wears (still) is not the same one her husband wore around his neck.
Perhaps they looked different, but I’m not convinced.
The poor dog should have weighed about 55 or 60 pounds, but was just shy of 40 and looked pitifully up at me with a hesitant tail-tap against the exam table. I could see her ribs, her backbone, and the large mass on her breast. The only thing missing was Sara MacLaughlin singing in the background.
My client and her son had been driving through a “rough” part of Orlando, just off OBT where the “social workers” regularly walk in the evenings. They had just cleaned an office-building and were on the way home when they saw her dodging the early morning traffic.
“Be careful!” she shouted to her son as he darted out the car door to see if she wanted a ride, or if she would run away, or even try to bite when he approached. Apparently he didn’t even need to catch her – when she saw his door open, she swaggered over to him and just paused, too weak to even jump into the car. She sat in his lap as they drove off, incessantly whining and licking his face.
I typically don’t charge for these office calls, I do a cursory exam and relieve suffering, whatever I can do that doesn’t cost me too much. So the exam and check for worms was pro bono – if they could be such Good Samaritans, it was the least I could do. They paid for the heartworm test (negative result was shocking), and the deworming, when I determined she was full of roundworms and hookworms (not shocking).
The son was explaining to his mom that based on the condition and number of scars on this poor dog, she had undoubtedly been used as a “baiting” dog. In the lovely parts of our culture where dogfights are popular, dogs such as this are used as “bait” dogs. She was very sweet, and as such, certainly wouldn’t be a fighter. Dogs like this would be thrown into the practice ring to be destroyed by the others, developing their bloodlust. I was horrified when I parted her gums to discover that, indeed, her canine teeth had been filed off flat, to render her unable to defend herself or injure one of the valued champion fighters. He was probably right – she had indeed been a bait dog, and somehow escaped to the streets.
We always run the microchip scanner on new adult and found pets, and (this is a surprise) – She HAS a microchip!
You can imagine my mixed emotions when the the reader displayed an identification number. This pet was brought in by someone willing to step up and take care of this poor, abused, suffering creature, but historically, I’ve always done my best to contact the registered owner.
But sometimes there is no registered owner, or current address. When someone has me chip their pet, I am EMPHATIC that they immediately call the chip registry and do this. A chip is just a number, and is completely worthless if it doesn’t point back to the owner.
And such was the case. We called the chip registry who could only inform us that this numbers was one of a lot provided to the Veterinary Clinic at Ft. Bragg, in North Carolina. This dog had belonged to one of our soldiers!
As our nation’s birthday celebration neared, this story was beginning to take on an air that nobody could have imagined. My finger trembled a bit as I called the army base clinic number I had found on the internet. The rollercoaster paused as the staff-sergeant explained that this soldier had only come in once, in 2010, and they didn’t even know if he was active duty anymore. They only showed vaccinations, a microchip ID, and that her name was, “Angel.”
There were so many possibilities. Had the dog been lost or stolen, and used in fighting, while he was stationed somewhere else? Is he in Afghanistan or Iraq? Had he been injured or killed?
Or was she lost and roaming the streets at all? Could she have just been on the street next to the house she thinks is home? All soldiers aren’t heroes. Did he even lose this dog? Worse yet, is he involved in dog fighting? How could we even know? Michael Vick seemed respectable enough before that evidence came out.
I do tend to give people the benefit of the doubt. Besides, her name was “Angel,” and it would make a beautiful reunion if he had lost her. As horrified and nauseous as I was at the alternative possibility, I pursued some connections. I had filled in for a year as a civilian Air Force Veterinarian at Patrick AFB and knew a few people, so I called to see if someone there could locate him and reach out.
Angel and her foster family left me that day so anxious and curious, I was a bit disappointed that we wouldn’t be working on the 4th, and so had to wait.
On the fifth of July, my friends on the base called back with the news. I could never have anticipated what I would discover over the next few weeks.
Please continue with PART TWO