Rescue

It’s a Thursday night. I’m chilling on the couch watching reruns of Shark Tank, and the commercial break just hit, which is great because I haven’t gone to the bathroom since I sat down after work. A sad puppy appears on the screen.

Oh no. Not now. 

I try to wrench myself from the couch, but it’s too late. The opening notes of Sarah McLachlan’s “Arms of an Angel” glue me to my seat. I can’t take my eyes off the limping dog, the weeping kitten, all these beautiful creatures trapped in tiny cages or sitting in the rain. 

And then there she is. Sarah McLachlan herself. Holding a bichon frise and asking ME to help. It’s only $18 a month. I’ll do it. I’ll do it for you, Sarah. I’ll do it for Mr. Sprinkle. Suddenly, my phone is in my hand. I’m fumbling with my credit card, tears streaming down my cheeks. The operator picks up and I manage to choke out “I’d like to make a donation to the ASPCA.” 

She must be new; she seems confused as I read out my card number. 

“Is there something wrong?” I ask, “Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll adopt them myself.”

“Mr. Pacheco, it seems that you’re already a sustaining member.”

“Yes, yes, oh god, how can this still be happening? Give me a number. I’ll max out my card.” 

“Actually, you’ve already opened 17 accounts with the ASPCA. I’m sorry, sir, but if you’d like to make a larger donation, you’ll have to follow up with our corporate offices during business hours. Have a good night.” The call disconnects.

No. No. The animals are dying. They NEED me. Sarah McLachlan still gazes at me from the screen, saying, If you call in the next half hour…

This is a time for action. I search for the nearest SPCA online. I don’t need to pee anymore, or maybe it just doesn’t matter, because tonight, I’m saving those babies. I run to my car and race out onto the highway, still a sobbing mess. It’s raining hard. Of course it is. When I pull into the strip mall, the lights are on at the ASPCA. I leap out of my car and run to the door. 

It’s locked. God, they’ve TRAPPED them in there. I can just imagine their squeals, cold noses pressing against iron bars. I’ve got to get them out. I slam the window with my hands, then search for a rock to break the glass. But they must have that tempered stuff, because to my surprise, the rock bounces back directly at my face. Everything goes black.

The next thing I remember is waking up in jail. The sheriff is talking to me, but I can’t hear what she says. All I can think of through my splitting headache is how the bars of my cell look so much like the cages of abused cats and dogs. And I can almost hear Sarah McLachlan singing in my ear.

In the arms of an angel...