Rescued by Love
By Lisa Duffy-Korpics
On most days you could find him sitting on the wall in front of Saint Mary's Church next to the sign that read "Saint Mary's - A Church for Everyone." No doubt the pastor had meant to attract a larger membership with this billboard invitation, but I'm not sure he was prepared for Bobby. A towering six-footer, weighing in at over two hundred pounds, Bobby was, at twenty-something, a very large child. He spent most of his time waving and smiling at the people driving by, and shouting, "Hey, pal!" to those he recognized.

Bobby called me Goldilocks. He knew me because, as the police department's Animal Control Officer, I was as visible around town as he was. My regular duties were to uphold the leash law, patrol for loose dogs and issue tickets. Bobby had appointed himself my unpaid assistant, and he took his job seriously. Once he waved me down in traffic, ran over to the patrol car and banged on the hood.

"Goldilocks, there's a big dog up the street gonna get hit by a car! You gotta go get 'im now!"

Another time he found a litter of newborn kittens in a garbage can and made it his job to find a home for all of them - including the last one which, at his insistence, I ended up taking home myself!

At first I had loved being the "dog catcher," but as time went by, the job began to get me down. It wasn't the animals - it was the people. I dreaded having to deal with negligent owners. Especially those who no longer wanted their dogs.

In our town the city provided a dog-surrender service with the local SPCA. For a ten-dollar fee, I'd pick up a dog whose owner could no longer keep him, and, more importantly, I'd collect information about him (good with children, medical history, favorite toys, etc.) that would make it easier for him to be adopted.

Unbelievably, sometimes the people most capable of paying this fee chose not to, and abandoned the dog to be picked up as a stray instead. They gave up their best opportunity to increase the dog's chances of finding another home - just to save a measly ten dollars. At first I felt crushed by this kind of behavior, but as time passed I toughened up. Lately, I felt so cynical I was afraid of what was happening to me.

One October when the nights were already dropping below freezing, it occurred to me that I hadn't seen Bobby for a while. He usually spent his nights at the Salvation Army in the winter, so I stopped by and asked about him. No one had seen him. I looked at the phone call log at headquarters to see if he had been making his usual calls to report animals - or just talk. No calls were recorded.

A week later I got a call at headquarters. "Goldilocks," he rasped, "I need you to come." He had a bad cold.

"Bobby! Where are you? Everyone's been looking for you!"

"I'm okay. I'm out in back of the chair factory."

Within a few minutes, I was turning the car off the main street onto a gravel road behind the old chair factory. All at once the road stopped and I was in a large field strewn with debris. In the middle of the field, a rusting station wagon sat on cement blocks.

I approached the car, bent over and knocked lightly on the passenger window. Bobby was curled up tightly in the front seat with his windbreaker thrown over him. Lying next to him was a chocolate Labrador puppy with long gangly legs and ears that he had yet to grow into.

The dog looked up at my knock with bright eyes and a thumping tail. I peered in to get a closer look. The front of the car was filled with empty Styrofoam cups and potato-chip bags. The back of the wagon was covered in soft blankets. Neatly stacked boxes of dog biscuits and a bag of dog food were lined up next to two jugs of bottled water and two chewed rubber balls.

"Bobby, are you okay?" His eyes fluttered open.
"Goldilocks," he croaked. He struggled to sit up and get his bearings. He looked at me and I could see his nose was red and his eyes bleary. He untangled himself and climbed from the car, wincing as he stood.

"Come on with me, Bobby. Get in the patrol car and I'll bring you to the Salvation Army, or the medical center. Okay? It's warm there." I urged.

"No, I'm okay. Social Service says I'm gonna lose my check if I don't go into housing. You gotta take Brownie."

It was true. I couldn't think of a single facility that would allow him to keep his dog. He was only out here in the cold because the Salvation Army didn't allow pets. He started unloading the puppy's supplies and carrying them over to the patrol car. Brownie watched every move he made with adoring eyes. I grabbed a jug of water out of the car and started to help, feeling helpless all the same.

Everything was packed up, except for Brownie. Bobby knelt down and put his hands on each side of the puppy's head. They looked at each other for a long moment and then Brownie started to lick Bobby's face. In one quick movement, the man picked him up and placed him gently in the front seat of the patrol car. He turned to me, his eyes even redder than before.

"Here," he said, handing me a ten-dollar bill. "For the dog pound." I stared open-mouthed at the money. I couldn't believe it. Bobby was paying the surrender fee, though it was probably all the money he had in the world.

I put out my hand and grabbed his arm, "Bobby, don't worry about any fee. They'll understand."

He looked at me. "No, Goldilocks. You told me ten dollars to get a good home, 'member? A home with a kid to play with would be good for Brownie."

He turned from me suddenly and started to walk back toward the rusty station wagon. I knew better than to try to convince him to come with me. He had a mind of his own and treasured his independence, often at the expense of his health and safety.

"Bobby! I'll find him a great home," I called after him, my voice catching in my throat.

He made a noise, but didn't turn around.

As I drove away, Brownie put his muzzle on my lap and fell asleep. There were times I couldn't see the road through my tears.

Brownie was taken home that evening by a police officer who fell in love with him the moment he saw me carry him into the precinct. A year later his Christmas photos showed his little boy and Brownie sitting together in front of a fireplace.

I tried to return Bobby's money, but the station wagon was always empty. Later, I heard that he had gone to a group home in another city and was doing fine. I dropped the ten-dollar bill into the Salvation Army donation box.

I missed my assistant and wished I could have told Bobby what a wonderful job he'd done. He had rescued cats and dogs - and my faith in people, too.

The Legacy of Mary
By Maree Benoit
It was November 1984. I had picked up a copy of Equinox magazine from a table in my daughter's home, and gasped - there before me, in an article entitled "Ghost Towns of Alberta," was a picture of a man named Lawrence Stewart. Lying in front of him was a pile of books that he called his "Memories of Etzikom." It had been forty-seven years since I had been taken from my home in Etzikom, Alberta, at the age of five.

I sat there in a state of shock as a little voice in my head said, This is it, Maree.

In 1938, I'd been sent to live in the Kiwanis Home for Children after my mother suffered a nervous breakdown. My father was ill equipped to raise seven children alone, during the Depression, and still look after his farm.

It wasn't long before I was adopted by a fine family who was well-off enough to give me everything I could have asked for. My other brothers and sisters were all either adopted or put into foster homes. I never saw or heard from any of them again. Over the years, when anyone would ask me if I wanted to find my family, I would say, "I will when I can never be hurt again."

I grew up, worked out a successful career for myself in early childhood education; married my husband, Leo, who loved me very much and encouraged me in everything I did; and became the mother of five wonderful children who thought a great deal of me.

If ever there was a time to find my birth family, it was now - almost fifty years later!

As I sat there in shock, staring at Lawrence Stewart's article, Leo and I began talking about my memories of my own family. I remembered the names of my brothers and sisters. There was John, Coulter, Mable, Nancy, me (Mary), May, and a little brother that had been born just before we had been taken away from our father.

"It wouldn't hurt to write this Lawrence Stewart and ask what he knows," suggested Leo. I took the magazine home, and the next day, that's what I did.

Three weeks later, I received a letter from Mr. Stewart, telling me he'd been in the area for about sixteen years and knew many of the families' histories. He thought he'd be able to help me. He remembered only one family that had been broken up back then, and their name was Robinson. The father's name was Dave, and he remembered there was a son named Coulter.

I wrote back to him enclosing a copy of the birth certificate that had been issued to me when I was adopted. My husband and I were leaving the country for six weeks, but I said I'd contact him upon our return. Everyone was excited about the fact I was finally going to find my birth family.

Upon my return, a letter from Mr. Stewart was waiting for me.

"You are indeed Mary Robinson," he wrote, "and I have located the rest of your brothers and sisters!" He told me that someone would contact me in the near future, as the family had been trying to find me for many years.

The first to call was Myrtle Keene, the daughter of the family who had raised my little brother, Seymour. I asked her to please let my family members know my where-abouts because I wanted to meet them.

A couple of nights later the phone rang and a voice that sounded like an echo of my own voice said, "Are you sitting down? Because if you're not, you'd better do it now. I am your sister May!" A tingle came over my whole body - it was so wonderful to hear her voice after so many years. Her name was now Gail Turner. She told me how she had been reunited with the family some years before and had even lived close to our father in Vancouver before he died. I began to learn more about my family, and we arranged to visit as soon as possible. I was walking on air, and could only think of all the questions I wanted to ask.

A few minutes later the phone rang again, and it was my sister Nancy. I was in tears by now - her voice sounded just as I remembered. Nancy was two years older than me, and was able to tell me details that I was too young to remember. She had lived in the Kiwanis home in Edmonton until she was about ten years old, and had then gone to live with a family by the name of Jones. We made plans to meet as well.

As if by magic, the phone rang once more. After forty-seven years, I heard the voice of my little brother Seymour. He told me he had been trying to find me for many years. Seymour had grown up in Etzikom with the Keenes, who had named him Derwood. He told me how, over the years, he had seen our father from a distance, but had been too afraid to approach him. He had also known our mother for a short time, while she lived in The Michener Centre in Red Deer. Seymour has a wonderful sense of humour, and I felt as if I had known him all my life. It turned out that he is the one that my own son, Steven, looks like - and even acts like. We arranged to meet in July so I could hear his whole story.

About a week later, Myrtle phoned from Regina. This was the sister I'd known as Mable. When she learned I'd been found she was so happy she cried for a week! Because she was the oldest, she had somehow thought she should have kept us all together. For all these years she had searched through faces on the street, trying to find a resemblance, but no one looked like Mary. Now that she had talked to me, she wanted to see me right away.

About a month later she came out by bus, and I met her in Cache Creek. I had told her I had glasses and grey hair, but wouldn't you know - there were three other women at the bus station who answered that description! The bus pulled in and there were many faces looking out the bus window when I heard a voice cry out, "That's her, that's my sister!"

Myrtle stepped off the bus, gathered me in her arms and began to sob. She had told everyone on the bus the story of our family and about her long search for her sister Mary. Now, as the happy crowd watched our joyous reunion, we stood there holding each other and crying for a very long time.

After forty-seven years, our long search was over - our family was united once more.

A street trader will learn on Tuesday whether he has won his battle to continue selling unofficial Arsenal merchandise.
The Premiership champions are asking European judges to stop Matthew Reed selling goods using the club name, its shield and its cannon emblem.
If the decision goes against the club there could be far-reaching implications for the entire football memorabilia market, which is worth millions of pounds a year.
The High Court originally threw out the case because Arsenal produced no evidence to show that customers were led to believe the souvenirs were club approved.
Show support
Lawyers for the club, which makes £5m a year from souvenirs, argue that it has exclusive rights to the names 'Arsenal' and 'Arsenal Gunners' and the team's shield-and-cannon designs.
It registered its name and logos in 1989, by which time Mr Reed had been in business outside the club's Highbury stadium for nearly 20 years.
Mr Reed says he simply uses the name and logos to give fans the chance to show their support.
He says a sign on his stall makes it clear the hats and scarves are unofficial.
'Commercial use'
Earlier this year European Court of Justice's Advocate-General suggested that the club did have a case.
Damaso Ruiz-Jarabo said Mr Reed was not entitled to use Arsenal's trademarked logos for commercial purposes.
"Use of a trademark by anyone other than the proprietor with the purpose of supplying goods in the market... constitutes commercial use."
His opinion was not a verdict, however, and does not bind the court when it makes its decision.

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