Broken arm equals found pet

I [Steve] grew up in a town of about 3,000 people in Northern California. Town was a major destination for Bay-Area tourists because we had a large lake that welcomed fishermen and water skiers. My dad (now retired) was a family doctor there for about 35 years.

One summer my brother, about 16 years old at that time, had a job at a gas station. Are you old enough to remember the days when they pumped your gas for you, washed the windshield, and checked the oil? That’s what my brother did. One day a lonely dog showed up at the station. Dog had no tags and he knew of no way to find the owners unless they showed up looking for their dog. When no one showed up by day’s end, he brought the dog home.

Later that same summer, my dad was relaxing at home when the telephone rang. The phone rings a lot when your father is a small-town doctor who literally goes on house calls or to the hospital any time of the day, any day of the week. This call was from the hospital saying they had a boy with a broken arm.

As Dad was setting the arm, he talked to the boy to try to keep him as distracted as possible from the pain. During the conversation, he learned the family was from San Francisco enjoying a summer vacation.

“We brought my dog, too,” the boy said sadly. ”But he got lost and we can’t find him anywhere.”

My dad asked him to describe his dog.

Well, you can guess the end of the story: “The dog is at my house!” my dad exclaimed.

That’s a small town for you. And can you imagine that a boy breaking his arm was his good fortune?

Several years later the same thing happened to my sister when she went to college and was working at her job. She ended up bringing that dog home as well. I think our family must have some odor about us that dogs like.