The Day I Learned I Was Capable of Massive Action

In the late ’90s, I lived in Charlottesville, Virginia.

I was returning home one evening after a long day of back-breaking landscaping, cruising at highway speeds down a long, flat, four-lane highway.

Ahead of me, I see a dead deer on the left side of the road, a common sight where I grew up as a child.

As I got closer, something wasn’t right; the color and size were off.

It was a dog.

My heart broke.

I thought about the family and the unanswered questions they would have.

I was about a tenth of a mile past the dog when a voice inside whispered to check my rearview mirror.

As I did, the dog lifted its head.

It wasn’t dead.

Without any thought or hesitation, I cut the wheel and raced across the grass center divider.

When I saw the dog again, I cut back across the divider and merged into oncoming traffic.

I pulled my car over and reached for my leather landscaping gloves. My father once told me an injured animal can be a dangerous animal.

I wanted to protect my hands.