100 Dogs Who Changed Civilization (17 page)

This costly, lengthy training regimen paid off on the morning of February 7, 2006. On that fateful day, Weaver awoke feeling woozy. His blood sugar was dangerously low, but he was too befuddled to
realize what was wrong. But Belle
did
realize, and grew very agitated. Thinking all she wanted was to go to the bathroom, Weaver escorted her outside. But when the two of them came back indoors, Weaver collapsed on the floor of his kitchen.

He might have died there, had Belle not remembered another important part of her training: In case her master was ever incapacitated, she'd been shown how to dial 911 on a phone by chomping down on the numeral 9, which was programmed to call emergency services. Belle located Weaver's cell phone, then gnawed on the appropriate key until an emergency dispatcher came on the line. The dog barked hysterically into the handset and didn't stop until an ambulance arrived. Weaver was treated in time and made a full recovery. And Belle, needless to say, became a hero. “I am convinced that if Belle wasn't with me that morning, I wouldn't be alive today,” Weaver told the Associated Press. “Belle is more than just a lifesaver; she's my best friend.”

The tragedy of 9/11 produced countless examples of courage in the face of danger, but few tales of self-sacrifice and steadfast bravery rival that of Dorado, a four-year-old Labrador retriever. Dorado served as a guide dog for blind computer technician Omar Eduardo Rivera. On the fateful morning of the terrorist attacks, he and his canine companion were working on the seventy-first floor of the World Trade Center's north tower. Dorado was asleep under Rivera's desk.

A hijacked airliner struck the skyscraper twenty-five stories above Rivera's office. Though he wasn't injured, he was soon surrounded by the sounds of panic and the smell of smoke. Fearing that, given his disability, he had no chance of escaping the fire and chaos, Rivera unleashed Dorado (which means “gold” in Spanish), gave him a final pat on the head, and bid him farewell, hoping the dog would find a way to save himself. “Not having any sight, I knew I wouldn't be able to run down the stairs and through all the obstacles like other people,” Rivera told the
Contra Costa Times
. “I was resigned to dying and decided to free Dorado and give him a chance to escape. It wasn't fair that we should both die in that hell.”

Rivera figured that Dorado would dash for the nearest escape route. But though his master seemed resigned to death, Dorado had other ideas. A couple of minutes after his release, he returned to Rivera's side and started nudging him toward an emergency staircase that was already crammed with fleeing office workers. There, with the aid of Rivera's boss, who happened to pass by at just the right moment, the steadfast dog led Rivera on an hour-long descent down seventy flights to the street. The three then walked several blocks, reaching safety only moments before the tower collapsed behind them. “It was then that I knew for certain he loved me just as much as I loved him,” Rivera said. “He was prepared to die in the hope he might save my life. I owe my life to Dorado—my companion and best friend.”

Dragica Vlaco owes her life to an act of God—or, more accurately, an act of dog.

It happened on an October evening in 2002, while Jim Simpson hosted a Halloween party at his home in Richland, Washington. Everyone was in costume, including his yellow Labrador retriever, Buoy, who wore a halo and angel's wings. At around 8:30
P.M.
, Simpson took Buoy, still in costume, out for their typical placid stroll along the Columbia River. But instead of walking quietly, the lab bolted off into the darkness, ignoring his owner's commands to return.

Simpson found Buoy at the river's edge, standing over a soaking wet, shoeless woman who was crawling along on her hands and knees, shivering violently. Simpson summoned help and carried her to his house. The woman, Dragica Vlaco, had taken strong pain medication for a recent shoulder operation, became disoriented, wandered outside, and fell into the frigid river. If it hadn't been for Buoy, she probably would have died of exposure. “He's a pretty friendly dog and pretty curious about people,” Simpson told the
Tri-State Herald
. “It's a good thing he went over there.”

The folks around the town of Bamford, England, still remember the story of Tip, the devoted companion of eighty-five-year-old Joseph Tagg. Tagg, a retired sheep farmer and sheepdog trainer, bred highly skilled border collies, but no one would understand just how great they were until Tip came along.

On December 12, 1953, the still-spry Tagg set off on a long walk through the nearby moors, but neither he nor his walking partner, Tip, returned. For weeks, rescue teams combed the surrounding countryside, until heavy snow and bitter cold forced an end to the search. Fifteen weeks passed before the body of Tagg, who had apparently expired of natural causes in the middle of his jaunt, was stumbled upon by a couple of locals. They could hardly believe their eyes when they also discovered poor Tip, emaciated and near death, still standing guard over the body.

Tip was nursed back to health, but he survived his master by just a year—long enough, however, for his story to spread worldwide. Today he lies buried on the moors that took Tagg's life, beneath a stone monument that tells his story.

During World War II, a Saint Bernard named Bamse became the largest dog to serve on an Allied vessel—and possibly the largest dog to serve on any vessel, of any sort, in any age.

The huge dog was the mascot of a tiny minesweeper with a crew of only eighteen men. The vessel, called the
Thorudd
(Whale Catcher), was crewed by Norwegian sailors serving with the Free Norwegian Forces and stationed at the port towns of Montrose and Dundee in Scotland. During his sea service, Bamse (which means “cuddly bear”) rescued a crew member from a knife-wielding assailant by shoving the attacker off a dock. When another sailor fell off the
Thorudd
at sea, the enormous Saint Bernard plunged in after him, grabbed a mouthful of his clothing, and towed him to shore.

Bamse was equally courageous in battle. He sat in the vessel's forward gun turret, decked out in a tin helmet, when the tiny ship was at battle stations. Onshore he was equipped with a sailor's hat and a bus pass, so that on weekends he could ride into nearby towns, track down inebriated crewmates, and gently escort them home.

Not surprisingly, the big dog became a local
landmark in Montrose and Dundee and a national hero in Norway. He figured prominently in the tiny country's May 17 Constitution Day, and was featured on a Christmas card dispatched to all Norwegian servicemen.

Sadly, the gentle giant didn't survive the war. On July 22, 1944, he died of unknown causes at dockside, with his crewmates at his side. The death of Bamse ignited a huge outpouring of grief. Businesses closed for his funeral, and some eight hundred children lined the route to his grave. He was buried near the sea, facing Norway.

Sixty-two years later, on the July 22, 2006, anniversary of his death, Bamse was awarded a prestigious Gold Medal from Britain's People's Dispensary for Sick Animals (PDSA) for his
wartime service. That same year, a bronze statue of the great Saint Bernard was unveiled in Montrose to serve as a living tribute to Norway's most-loved dog.

Of all the world's canines of distinction, an English pointer named Judy probably owns the most dubious honor. The poor dog, born in 1936 in Shanghai, spent the balance of World War II in a squalid Japanese prison camp. While there, she became the only canine in the entire conflict to be officially registered as a prisoner of war.