{Here is my last dog story. I have attached it to the first two and published it as an original article.}

I was half awake; it was still dark out. As I became more aware, I suddenly realized I didn’t remember getting into bed and going to sleep. Looking up, I saw stars. I was outdoors. Then I noticed a large lump on my upper right thigh. As my mind cleared, I thought, “The last thing I remember is walking along the shoulder of a dark road — the lump on my thigh — is my leg broken? Was I struck by a car? Am I dying? I can’t seem to move.”

It was early November 1968.

Across the road, beyond a deep front yard, was a house. Inside, a dog, a St. Bernard, was acting unusually agitated. He was standing by the front door whining and occasionally letting out a soft bark.

“What’s wrong, boy?” the dog’s owner asked. “What’s out there?”

The owner opened the door, curious as to what would cause his normally relaxed St. Bernard to become so agitated. He followed the dog as it trotted towards the road, then crossed it, stopping at the opposite shoulder.

The man walked to the opposite edge of the road’s shoulder, and there he saw it — a body lying in the shallow ditch on the side of the road. He ran back to the house and phoned for help.

I must have drifted off again. When I opened my eyes, I looked up at a circle of faces. I tried to say something but could only manage a moan.

I was becoming more aware, and I began to tremble. Shortly, I was convulsing violently. One of the men in the circle of faces crouched down and leaned with all his weight on the bulge in my right thigh. It had been bouncing up and down, and he had to press with all his might to prevent the fractured bone from bursting through my flesh.

Then another man stuck me with a needle, and almost immediately, the convulsing subsided, and I felt peaceful.

They managed to maneuver me onto a stretcher. I was lifted and placed into a waiting ambulance. The man continued to exert pressure on my thigh, but with less intensity. I was transported to a hospital. While being treated in the emergency room, I could hear occasional snippets of conversation — “…critical condition…”, “…lucky to be alive…”, “…found in the nick of time…”.

I spent the next six weeks in a hospital bed. That can seem like forever to a seventeen-year-old high school senior.

I thank God I’m alive. I also thank Dog.