“What’s the dog’s name?” the woman asks.  She looks sleepy.  I wonder to myself: Is she strung out?  It’s 7am on a Saturday.  She’s probably just sleepy. 

I know the dog’s name now, and so I tell her.  I’m pretty sure the dog is a german shepherd/pit bull mix, and when she asks, I tell her that too.  She disappears into the clinic.  I hold Noodle’s leash (not the dog’s real name) and wait for Jerome (not the owner’s real name) to finish taking his medicine.  Noodle finds a spot of grass at the edge of the parking lot, and relieves herself.  I’m thankful that she could wait until she was out of my car. 

At this point, I’m 99% sure that the “medicine” in question is methadone.  The night before, when I was going through Jerome’s wallet for ID, I had found his methadone program card.  Nonetheless, some innocent—and simultaneously paranoid—part of me speculates that this little building on the corner of 31^st and Telegraph in Oakland, with its darkened, barred windows and its lack of identifying signage, might be a crack house, and not a methadone clinic after all.  I look for reassuring evidence.  Near the door there’s a little sign with an “in case of emergency” phone number.  And a crack house wouldn’t have handicapped parking spaces, now would it?

The night before, I had found Jerome and Noodle on Hearst Street, near the basketball court.  Jerome was sitting in his wheelchair in the middle of the street.  Noodle was scarcely 10 feet away, her leash lying limp on the asphalt, held by no one. 

I walked out to Noodle.  “Sir, is this your dog?” 

Jerome’s response was mumbling and incoherent, but hostile in tone.   I decided to keep my distance.

After offering Noodle my hand to sniff, I grabbed her leash and tried to lead her off the road.  Maybe the babbling, fifty-something, black guy in the wheelchair would follow his dog to the edge of the road.  No such luck; Noodle was too stubborn to let me lead her anywhere.  She braced herself against my tugs on the leash.   Jerome started to wander away from me, still babbling, and Noodle followed. 

As luck would have it, I had left my cellphone at home, but it wasn’t too long before a young couple came walking down Hearst.  Berkeley students?  Grad students seemed more likely.  The woman had a phone, and we called the police.  

The three of us followed Jerome down the street, speculating as to whether his babbling was drunkenness or his natural psychological state.  Several cars came by, and there were a few near misses.  The boyfriend of the woman with the cellphone had better luck getting the dog off the street, and Jerome eventually parked himself on the side of the road, leaning sideways out of his chair to rest against a telephone pole.

The police were taking a long time to arrive.  We called several times more.  Jerome eventually passed out and fell face-first to the side of the road.  We called again; now we needed paramedics.   That was when I saw Jerome’s wallet, and had the idea to look for ID.    The wallet was affixed to his belt loop with a chain.  It featured a prominent hemp-leaf design on its front.  There was no driver’s license, nothing with an address.  Just his methadone program ID.  That’s how I learned Jerome’s name. 

We called the emergency number on the card.  It directed us back to 911.  We called information to see if we could get Jerome’s home phone number.  No such luck.  We checked a couple times to make sure he was still breathing, but otherwise left him alone. 

Finally, two fire trucks and a police car arrived on the scene.  The firemen woke him up, sitting him up on the ground.  They asked him his name and a number of other questions, all geared towards assessing his mental state.  They measured blood pressure, and took samples of blood from a cut he sustained in his fall.  One of them got close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath.  When prompted, I summarized the events so far, roughly estimating his time unconscious at ten or twenty minutes. 

It quickly became clear that Jerome was not going to go to the hospital willingly.  He only wanted to get his dog back and wander off.   After some attempts at persuasion, firemen told Jerome on no uncertain terms that this wasn’t an option.  They pried Noodle’s leash from his hands, put him on a stretcher and carted him off. 

A cop on the scene had asked me if I would be willing to take the dog while its owner was in the hospital.  From the firemen’s discussion, I gleaned that the dog’s other option was the pound.  So I gave the cop my name and home phone number, and took Noodle home. 

My lease doesn’t allow pets, but I figured I could keep the dog in my fenced-in driveway for a few days.  I took Noodle behind the gate and tied her leash to a post (the fence was hardly escape-proof).  I was hoping I could lengthen her leash with some rope, but I didn’t have any.  (What kind of pathetic Boy Scout have I become?).   I headed over to the 7/11 where I picked up four cans of Alpo and a sandwich for myself. (I had been walking to dinner when this whole thing started.)  The 7/11 didn’t have any rope either, and I didn’t know where else to try at 10pm on a Friday night.  When I asked the guy behind the counter, all he could come up with was some thick twine. 

I returned to the driveway with two Tupperware bowls, Alpo in one and water in the other.  I ended up using a shoulder strap from a duffle bag as additional length for her leash.  Now all I had left to do was ponder the unknowns: How long would I have this dog?   How would I explain it to my landlord?   What if the dog broke the straps and bolted?  What if Jerome didn’t last the night?   I stayed up until the wee hours (not unusual for me) doing some work and watching some TV, occasionally checking up on Noodle out the window. 

Jerome called me at 6am.  I was in bed, so I let the machine pick it up.  His voice was familiar, but no longer mumbling and hostile.  He pleaded with me to pick up the phone; he was out of money and couldn’t keep calling back.  A few minutes later he called again, and this time I answered.  After talking with him, I got the impression that the first words out of his mouth when he woke up were, “Where’s my dog?”   From our discussion it became clear that he was stranded at the hospital door, in a wheelchair, with no dog and no ride.  So I coaxed the dog into the car and drove over to the hospital.  It was not until I arrived and met the sober Jerome that I finally learned Noodle’s name. 

It turns out that Jerome needed to get to the clinic by 8:30am, and so here I am, standing in the clinic parking lot with Noodle, waiting for Jerome to finish taking his medicine.  

In a few minutes he emerges, “There were two people ahead of me,” he says. 

I give him Noodle’s leash, and he climbs into the passenger seat with a one-legged hop.  I fold up the wheelchair and stuff it in the trunk next to my copy of El Grande.   We head over to MLK, and back into Berkeley, making smalltalk along the way.  I mention that the firemen were talking about putting Noodle in the pound, and he’s grateful that I took her instead.

“I would have had to do something pretty desperate to get the money to get her out of there,” he says.

A block left, a block right, and we arrive at a white van parked on the side of the street.  The white van where Jerome and Noodle live.  I unpack the wheelchair; Jerome can hop into it by himself.  I give him the other three cans of Alpo, and send Jerome and Noodle on their way. 

In parting he says, “God’s going to bless you for this, Marc.” 

“Well, Jerome, you still have my phone number, if you need it.”

Take care of yourself Jerome, and God’s going to bless you too.