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A Lifetime Rescue

Published by Nathaniel Christian IV

Copyright 2017 Nathaniel Christian IV

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Prologue: A Thing or Two about Dogs

Read Boston

Number One

Here We Go Again

Aging Gracefully

Crossing the Rainbow Bridge

Author’s Notes


Get to Know Nathaniel Christian IV

Other Books by Nathaniel Christian IV

Connect with Nathaniel Christian IV

Prologue: A thing or two about dogs

When dogs die, they go to a special place high above the clouds more divine than your greatest pastor could envision. There is no other animal more loyal, compassionate or as forgiving as dogs. If only they could talk, one could only imagine what they would speak. Dogs, unlike the human species, love you unconditionally. A dog doesn’t care about how much money you make, the kind of car you drive, what your goals in life are or whether you’re a vegan or not. A dog’s sole objective in this world is to please his owner, showering you with more love than your furry companion loves himself. Your dog would die for you.

With one leg, a dog would crawl to the top of Mount Everest if he heard you call his name. He would dart across a busy roadway filled with speeding automobiles if he spotted you on the other side. Dogs do not reconsider the consequences of loving or protecting their owners; they live for us. Add that onto your bucket list -- before you die -- I recommend owning at least one dog in your lifetime. Dogs are full of love and owning one has taught me more about love than any human being I have ever met. They are not judgmental, critical, or insensitive, tainted by the charge of being human. You will always be their highest priority.

That is a love like no other. It cannot be found in any man or woman anywhere on this earth, my friend. Your lover cannot love you the way a dog will. Gay, straight, fortunate, unfortunate, house or homeless, your dog will be there. They love you with every piece that their tiny little hearts can afford to offer. In return, all they ask is for you to love them back, feed them and give them a warm place to sleep which begs the question: Why do some people feel the need to mistreat such a loving animal?

Boston is dedicated to the memory of my thirteen-year-old Boston terrier, Roxy, who departed this world in May 2017. Since her ill-timed death, a void remains inside of my heart that I know I will never overcome. There will forever be a spiritual connection between my little friend and me. She taught me how to love. I dedicate this book to the memory of a wonderful dog who loved me despite my imperfections. To the best dog in the whole wide world…I love you Roxy!

Game day

“Let’s go for a ride!”

Bath time!


Dad passed away on a Friday morning on September 23, 2011, almost three years to the day after my brother passed. I received the troubling news that morning around 5:43a.m., just before sunrise. A phone call that time of morning is never a good thing. His death was expected considering his terminal state, but it is still never easy. Following dad’s seizure the previous year, his health started to rapidly decline. Several debilitating months later, poor circulation in dad’s leg eventually led to a blood disease. According to mom, dad went to sleep the night before and never opened his eyes.

As soon as I got the call, I vaulted out of the bed and rushed over to my mother’s house. When life happens, all you really want is to be surrounded by your loved ones. Nobody should have to grieve alone, not even the wickedest dog trolling God’s green earth. Here we go again, I thought to myself. Punching the engine of my Acura, whisking through the dead of the night, I felt the same seasickness I felt when my brother died in August of 2008. I was at work when that call came in. Tripping the lights to a couple of speeding cameras while enroute, I barely made it in time to say goodbye.

Dad and I had just talked the day before he passed. Actually, I did the talking; he listened. That Thursday before he left me, I told him at his bedside that I loved him and that despite our differences in the past I forgave him and hoped that he had forgiven me. Lastly, before I would leave his bedside, I honored his request to take care of Roxy. He lay there; breathing heavy but listening (I believe) with his eyes closed, encasing himself within his soul. Mom always said that a person has to be “released” before they transition. I believed he needed to hear that because the next day, he died.

Roxy was eight-years-old at the time. Dad adopted her after my brother passed away when my sister-in-law could no longer care for her. Roxy took to the change of address with ease. In fact, she had already been living with dad the past couple months anyway. Before my brother passed, Roxy would visit us periodically, staying a night or two. Whenever she and Dad got together, it was trouble because he would play with her all day and night! I was in undergrad studies during that time and the two of them would make so much noise that I would have to go to the library or drive to a nearby park to finish my work. During that time, I just saw Roxy as an irritating ball of energy that distracted me from my coursework.

Yet, Roxy and Dad were inseparable and everywhere Dad went, Roxy would follow him from behind. Years before Dad became ill, he used to put her in the front seat of his car and ride around town with her. She was too small to reach the armrest to stick her head outside of the car window, so Dad would roll her window down and she would smile. If not joyriding around town, they would go in the backyard and play. Then my brother would show up a couple days later to take Roxy back home and Dad would throw a fit after she was gone. “I miss that damn dog,” he would say to my brother over the phone. “When are you bringing her back?”

After Dad’s stroke and subsequent seizure in 2010, his health declined rapidly which meant fewer walks and playtime for Roxy. He was sick in his bed most of those days, so I came by to care for him and Roxy while Mom was at work. I played night nurse; I’d bring him things to eat, get his medication or offer him some company. He was often lonely since because usually he had no visitors. Confined to his bed, alone and without a friend in the world -- I felt bad for him. Roxy was his only friend. She kept him company, asleep in her bed on the floor next to the hospital bed donated by Hospice care. When I would walk through the door, Roxy would greet me and then we would go outside so she could relieve herself or get in a short walk. Dad was grateful because he could not walk her with his partially amputated foot and Mom was away at work, so Roxy did not get much time outside unless I came by. Similar to her first rodeo, she had moved to the back of the line as was expected in a state of such crisis.

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