Kantian Ice Cream

ESSAY | Finding peace, one dog at a time

Illustration ©2026 T. Agnew

We may be in the Universe as dogs and cats are in our libraries, seeing the books and hearing the conversation, but having no inkling of the meaning of it all. –William James

As I paced the frenetic retail lot on a ninety-plus degree day, I knew heat inside the vehicle had become an oven. While the back windows were partially down, the dog panted excessively, and viscous saliva drooled from the corner of her mouth as she sluggishly visited each window for air.

Perhaps it was the Law of Truly Large Numbers, a statistical observation that when enough of the same moments exist, inferior coincidences are almost always bound to occur. Of the hundreds of cars in that busy parking lot, coming and going as though from a hornet’s nest, wasn’t it inevitable, mathematically, that one person would encounter an animal in distress?

Or Kantian Deontology suggests that actions become moral if performed out of a universal noble obligation to preserve life. Could I not smash the rest of the vehicle’s windows out of moral obligation to preserve life and suffering, or perhaps only one to rile the dog’s owner? After all, the Good Samaritan law says I could.

In my case, it was simply that dogs found me.

Dogs fortified my life since childhood, first with a part-lab miscreant named Rags, then with long-haired dachshunds, a golden retriever, a Jack Russel terrier, and my last, a pit bull terrier named Yogi.

I’ve always had a natural, energetic inclination towards animals—deer follow me in the canopy, red-tailed hawks perch just feet from me, other people’s dogs follow me home—yet dogs were my weakness. It was mutual, as dogs always saw me.

When my marriage of twenty-some years ended, dogs rescued me. It began with a stapled poster on a utility pole on a busy street. Thousands walked past that poster and never gave it another thought, if they saw it at all.

A Hispanic family could no longer have pets in their condominium, so they needed someone to give their rescued dog a new home. “Yogi”, a gorgeous pit terrier, smiled at me on the poster, his enormous head resting on a coffee table as though posing for the picture, something he habitually did, whether it be a lap, couch, or chair. I later would say he needed to rest his big head frequently but soon learned it was just part of his personality.

I called the number on the poster and told the family I’d be happy to help search for a home and keep him while I did.

Yogi never left.

Yogi with a patient, ©2026 T. Agnew

Like most rescue animals, Yogi’s life had a sorted past. Abandoned many times and physically and emotionally abused, I pledged to give Yogi a secure, loving life, complete with dog orgies and plenty of treats. And I promised I would never abandon him. I kept my promise, and he kept his.

For six years, Yogi remained at my side, a constant shadow no matter the storms that ravaged. When I traveled locally, Yogi went with me. I found pet-friendly stays and once almost brought him on a plane. At my sports medicine clinic, he became the mascot, and he spent the day greeting my patients and snuggling with the ones he knew needed it. His forty-five-pound frame leaped onto the therapy table to nestle close to a patient, his head resting on their chest.

During the emotional turmoil of my separation, Yogi nuzzled me with his snout or extended a paw for comfort. He recognized the mistrust I had developed—something I knew he experienced more than once in his own turbulent life—yet his comfort and incredible perception taught me forgiveness. Above all, Yogi taught me how to be alone and just exist.

Much to Yogi’s chagrin, I walked shelter dogs as a volunteer. It distracted me and provided comfort, the canine energy that spiked my oxytocin, and the combination of movement and companionship helped settle my brain. Untrained shelter animals presented challenging walks on leash. Most were physically and emotionally wrecked, with behaviors that were both dangerous and lovable. With each walk, the animals either licked me to death or nearly mauled me.

Weekly, I arrived home with bruises and deep scratches along my arms that were so graphic that when I gave blood, the nurses gasped as though I were a drug user who woke up in an alley. Worse, Yogi sensed the dogs on my clothes and pouted, then began tossing his food around the kitchen.

Mostly, the excited animals craved physical exercise after being in a crate all day, so they pounced and pulled and bit, and I realized I welcomed the bruises and bites as a bitter medicine that snapped me out of self-pity. My arms still bear the dog “tattoos” as I call them, white lines spidering across my forearms.

Each shelter dog became a character to me, and each dog brought me closer to peace. Duke, a black miniature dachshund with a healed fractured spine and scars along his chin, at first refused to come out of his crate.

Every visit, I’d bring treats and sit outside his open door, watching his sunken eyes glare at me from the corner. Soon, he circled the crate, stuck his head out, and eventually took a treat from me.

Yogi therapy, ©2026 T. Agnew

After a few visits, he met my hellos with uproarious bursts from the crate where he’d eventually settle in my lap, staring lovingly into my eyes. Duke knew what broken was, and we both understood we couldn’t break any more than we already were.

Hank, the 145 lb. Irish Wolfhound was a beast that stood thirty-two inches, which, at my seventy-two inches in height, placed him above my hips. Hank still had scars on his snout where abusers had wrapped plastic bags with chicken wire.

Released from his pen, his first inclination was to place his front paws on my shoulders, something that nearly took me to the ground on my first introduction. A gentle giant, I eventually trained Hank to sit when released from his crate, and to “hug” only when I gave him permission. And hug he did. It became our ritual before we walked, his enormous paws wrapping around my neck.

I taught Hank to walk at my hip, and his proud, mightier-than-thou strut was hilarious, as though he were at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. He’d occasionally lift his chin to me and make eye contact, something dogs do in trust.

The author and Duke, ©2026 T. Agnew

When we finished our walks, Hank often refused to enter his pen alone. Obviously affected by abandonment issues, I’d crawl into the pen with him, and we’d sit together for a time. As I sat and stroked his beard, I wondered what his full story was and how humans could abuse and abandon such a gentle animal.

His unequivocal love and trust in humans were profound, a trait that shattered my inclination for grievance and instead embedded fortitude in my nervous system. It was something that made animals god-like in their perceptions, unworldly beings that shouted this is how you love and forgive.

Yes, the parking lot.

I had entered the chaotic retail shopping center where the only available spot was next to the vacant-with-a-dog-in-the-back-seat Honda. That one spot. Available to me. Quantum mechanics offered different versions; five seconds later, someone else occupied the spot, and ten seconds earlier, the Honda had not yet arrived at all. Perhaps the owner had a flat tire and never made it to his errand at the shopping center. Better still, perhaps he experienced a prudent moment of clarity and realized it was too damn hot to leave his pet in a car.

I called local police to report the dog, then paced near the vehicle, waiting. Perhaps the owner would return to his car, and I could walk away and forget it all.

After thirty minutes, a police car circled the lot, zigzagging between the lines of cars vying for a space. I waved, and eventually the squad car found me.

“This it? Least the windows are down,” the police officer said, peering into the back seat. The dog never barked or made a sound at us, just sat poised, waiting for her owner to return. The officer saw the strain on my face. He looked at the retail shops in the mall, stacked like decks of cards. “I’ll call the owner from the tag info to get her out here.”

I found it interesting that the officer addressed the owner as a female—an accurate reminder that both sexes make poor choices, whether it’s pets left in hot cars or worse, children. My bias reflected Yogi’s previous male owner, who indeed had abused him.

Cars honked, impatient humans in an endless row as shoppers dodged cars carrying bags of food and clothes and things that might not fit into their garages and that would one day end up in rented storage units. Snow skis and skateboards and fishing poles from the outdoor store. On their phones, they scurried past the Honda with-a-dog-in-the-back-seat then a little girl eating ice cream paused behind her mother and smiled at the dog.

“Mommy? Can I give the doggy the rest of my ice cream?”

In a universe where I decided that the car and the animal inside were invisible, there was this.