The Real Coby White

It was a gorgeous summer day in Boise. Typical weather, about 80 degrees, no humidity, not a cloud in the sky. I played hooky, or more than likely scheduled a “doctor appointment,” to go play tennis. (Not to fear, I worked plenty hard at the Boise-based TV startup so a little break was well-earned.)

I played tennis at Owyhee Park and took my little angel – Coby – with me. The best dog in the world, that is. He sat patiently outside the fence, in the shade, as I played. He was so well-behaved, I could have left him off-leash. But I tied him up just the same, as he sat proudly, like a king, earning oohs and ahhs from all the girls.

“You have the best dog,” they would say every time I took him to a match. He always knew when it was a match point. He would perk up, and his tail would start wagging.

After the match that day, I took him for a walk around the adjacent field. After all, he earned his mid-day exercise. He was off leash, because he walked to my left, right by my side, in step. Like he always did.

Coby was a little over two at the time.

I remember picking him up from the breeder—if you could call him that—when he was a baby. He was from the tri-cities of Washington and had one litter of pups. He drove down to Caldwell to meet me and brought two of his puppies with him. I couldn’t choose—they were both so adorable. Luke picked Coby. He just knew.

I couldn’t decide what to name him. He sat quietly and patiently in the car (and trust me, after Shelby and Walden, it was a very welcome change of pace).

I FaceTimed my friends Frances and Anne, my UNC basketball besties, and showed them what Coby looked like (while driving, a very safe gesture). He had the goofiest hair. It was hard to explain, but his hair shot up from his body in all directions.

They immediately shouted, “Coby!”

Coby White was a point guard for the Heels that year, a beloved player with whacky hair. The name immediately stuck.

And that dog? House-trained in two days. Went to bed in his crate without me asking. Never ate a shoe or piece of furniture. Never barked to go outside. Or scratched a door to come back in. So smart.

He used to hide under the chair since my other dog at the time, Walden, could be aggressive. It didn’t take long, however, for Walden to fall in love with him, too.

The perfect dog.

I was about mid-way onto the field when I noticed a man walking two dogs at the periphery. They were wearing leashes, but the owner had let the leashes go. So in essence, they were walking free as well. I sensed danger. Not sure why.

And before I could blink my eyes, the pit bulls were on top of Coby, who was laying on his back, fighting for his life. Literally.

I screamed at the owner to get his dogs off Coby, and he didn’t so much as pick up the pace in getting over to the dogs. I reached down and grabbed one of the pits’ leashes, trying to pull one of them off Coby. But as hard as I pulled, I didn’t have the strength to get the dog off of him. I’m surprised I didn’t get bitten, too.

At the top of my lungs, I was screaming, “This is the best dog in the world. Nothing can happen to this dog.”

I am typically composed under duress. Not this time. I was crying uncontrollably. Coby was crying. And finally, the owner lazily came over and grabbed the two leashes and walked away. No apologies, no nothing.

I sat in the field and picked up my precious dog, blood all over both of us, and cried.

A neighbor watching from a distance asked me if Coby was okay. She’d heard him cry. The woman told me her husband ran after the dogs’ owners to get his name for me.

I carried Coby back to the car, and went straight to Vista Animal Hospital, begging them to take me as an emergency case. They couldn’t help me. We had to go to the emergency vet.

There, they told me his ligaments had been severely damaged. They sewed him up and put in drainage tubes, but there was nothing else they could do until the swelling and damage improved. “More than likely, in a few weeks, we’ll do a $5K surgery on his shoulder, but he’ll suffer for the rest of his life.”

Why do bad things have to happen to the best dogs (or people)?

A few days after the accident, I drove over to that neighbor’s house to get the man’s name. Though she provided a name and number, she was pretty sure he’d provided a false identity. She apologized and said she couldn’t get Coby’s shrill out of her mind.

I was never able to find the man, even though I drove over there numerous times, hoping I’d see him walking his dogs.

During Coby’s recovery, we weaned him off meds. Fluids drained. And my little baby did not put an ounce of weight on his hurt shoulder. I was so happy he was alive, but also so upset about someone’s lack of responsibility, wondering if I could have done something differently.

My mom drove over from Sun Valley to visit Coby and cheer him up. (He was half-human, after all). Rob came to visit. Friends brought him toys. Everyone knew what an amazing dog he was.

Two weeks later, I went back to the emergency vet, and they said, “This is a miracle dog. His injury has healed and he doesn’t need surgery.”

I cried. Again. This time in gratitude.

Coby turned seven yesterday. He is very shy around other dogs, and still doesn’t like for someone to pet his head. (And I still freeze every time I see a pit bull).

But he’s still the best dog in the world. And a miracle, too.

(With his beloved nephew, Cam).