The Dog Who Dialed 911

珍妮·瑪麗·拉斯卡斯/Jeanne Marie Laskas

當(dāng)莉娜·比斯利為她的新服務(wù)犬起名字的時候，她想到了《圣經(jīng)》中她最喜歡的一句話：“信念是希望的物質(zhì)載體，是未見之事的證據(jù)。”

“信念，”她抱著這只羅特韋爾小狗說道，“以后我就叫你信念吧。”

那是在2001年，莉娜已經(jīng)46歲了，她離婚后和她20歲的兒子——邁克爾住在華盛頓州普吉特灣的一處居所。她承認(rèn)，要適應(yīng)一只新的服務(wù)犬是有些困難。莉娜與輪椅為伴，并患有癲癇病。近10年她一直依賴著她的第一只服務(wù)犬布朗森，他幫她處理一些日常瑣碎的事情，嚴(yán)格說來，是在她癲癇病發(fā)作的時候給予幫助。布朗森從服務(wù)線上退休了，成了莉娜和她兒子的普通寵物狗。

從內(nèi)心來說，莉娜有些疑慮，不知她自己能否像信賴布朗森那樣再去信賴另一只狗。在她的心目中，布朗森就是她的守護天使。

“好吧，信念，”她對她的新狗說，眼中流露出那種急切的眼神，“我們還有好多工作要做，那么讓我們從現(xiàn)在開始吧。”

據(jù)科學(xué)家推測，有些狗有著極其敏銳的嗅覺，可以發(fā)覺病人病發(fā)之前體內(nèi)產(chǎn)生的極其微小的化學(xué)變化。不過，只有少數(shù)的狗知道在危險來臨的時候?qū)⑿嵊X轉(zhuǎn)換成相應(yīng)的警報。

信念最終被訓(xùn)練成功，能夠理解并回答150多種命令。但是直到2004年9月6日的那個晚上，莉娜才真正了解到信念能夠做什么。當(dāng)時，莉娜和她的兒子住在華盛頓州的里奇蘭德。那是一個很普通的夜晚，邁克爾到當(dāng)?shù)氐碾s貨店上晚班，莉娜在上床休息前，感到有些不舒服，像是感冒了。她看了看在起居室躺著的布朗森，然后回到自己的臥室。信念一直寸步不離地跟著她，并沒有在床邊的籃子里躺著，只是一直站著，看著莉娜……還說著話。聽起來就像是人們在談話，發(fā)出一種“嚕嚕嚕嚕”的聲音。

“你在說什么呢？”莉娜問道。就在這時，信念以她那85磅重的身體跳到莉娜的床上——這是她的禁地——并轉(zhuǎn)著圈兒。她不理會莉娜要她下床的要求，而這些完全不像平時那只溫順的小狗。

莉娜想起訓(xùn)狗師說過的話：“相信你的狗！”如果一只狗的行為有些異常的話，可能是因為她知道一些你不知道的事情——但是你需要知道的。

“好吧，信念，我相信你，”她說道，“我這就起床。”她坐到輪椅上，檢查著房子，并沒有發(fā)現(xiàn)與平常有什么不同，于是決定喝一杯熱巧克力。

她來到爐子旁，試著去拿那個空水壺，就在這時，世界變得漆黑一片。她從輪椅上摔了下來，頭撞到櫥柜門上，倒在地上失去了知覺。這是疾病的突發(fā)狀況，盡管不是由于她的癲癇病直接引發(fā)的。莉娜患有肝功能衰竭，事后醫(yī)生告訴她，用藥的副作用使得她幾乎喪失了肝功能。

而摔倒時的碰撞又使得莉娜的癲癇病立刻發(fā)作起來。就在這個時候，信念的英雄氣概表現(xiàn)了出來。這只狗將無繩電話銜在嘴里，用鼻子按著狗專用的911快速撥號鍵，她受過識別這個鍵的專業(yè)訓(xùn)練。當(dāng)接線員珍妮·布坎南應(yīng)答的時候，信念在電話里狂吠著。她一遍遍地叫著。大多數(shù)的911接線員沒有接受過翻譯狗叫的這種培訓(xùn)，但是在本托縣東南的交流中心，對所有的來電都必須作出反應(yīng)。布坎南發(fā)現(xiàn)狗叫的規(guī)律——聽起來好像是在她說完話之后才發(fā)出聲音，就像是那只狗在回答她的問題。肯定這個聲音不是背景音樂而是一個求救電話，布坎南派出了警察。當(dāng)電話里的聲音消失后，信念又回到莉娜的身邊，為她做著癲癇病的復(fù)健工作，將她推到“恢復(fù)姿勢”，側(cè)躺著，這樣可以使病人的喉嚨暢通。

斯科特·莫雷爾警官到達現(xiàn)場，打開了走廊上的移動探測燈。信念和布朗森透過窗戶往外看，他們都受過識別警察、消防員以及醫(yī)護人員制服的專業(yè)訓(xùn)練，可以辨認(rèn)出他們不是闖入者，而是朋友。信念用鼻子將她的小狗專用門把手頂開，讓莫雷爾進來，叫著向廚房跑去，讓莫雷爾跟著她。

莉娜在醫(yī)院住了三個星期，信念有時候會陪著她。但是莉娜對于自己是怎么獲救的一直不是很清楚。直到她回到家里，聯(lián)系上莫雷爾警官和布坎南之后，她才將信念救了自己這個不可思議的壯舉拼湊了起來。

“這一定是愛與奉獻，”莉娜說道，“從那晚起，我們的關(guān)系就發(fā)生了變化。我想信念一定是找到了自己的生活目標(biāo)，同時我也發(fā)現(xiàn)她是一個真正的天使。”

When Leana Beasley wondered about a name for her new service dog， she thought about one of her favorite Bible quotes："Faith is the substance of things hoped for， the evidence of things not seen."

"Faith，" she said， cradling the rottweiler puppy. "I'll name you Faith."

That was in 2001， and Leana， now 46， who is divorced and lives with her 20-year-old son， Michael， in a house in Puget Sound， Washington， admits she found the transition to the new dog difficult. Leana is wheelchair-bound and suffers from epilepsy； for nearly a decade she had come to depend on Bronson， her first service dog， to help her with chores and errands and， most critically， to assist her in the event of epileptic seizures. Bronson was retiring from service and evolving into a regular pet for Leana and her son.

Deep down， Leana doubted she'd ever trust another dog as deeply as she did Bronson， the creature she had come to regard as her guardian angel.

"Okay， Faith，" she said to her new dog， a brindled bundle of energy with eager eyes. "We have a lot of work to do， so let's get started."

Scientists speculate that some dogs， with their supremely sensitive noses， might be able to detect subtle changes in human body chemistry that occur just before a seizure. But only a select few know how to interpret that olfactory information as worthy of alarm.

Faith was eventually trained to understand and answer more than 150 commands， but it wasn't until the evening of September 6， 2004， that Leana would learn what， exactly， Faith was made of. Leana and her son were then living in Richland， Washington. It was a typical evening： Michael had left for his night shift at the local grocery store， and Leana headed to bed， feeling a little sick， as if she were getting the flu. She checked on Bronson， asleep in the living room， and went into her bedroom. Faith wouldn't leave her side. She wouldn't lay down in her basket next to the bed， but instead stood there looking at Leana and… talking. That's how it sounded， like a kind of chatter "Roo roo rooo rooo".

"What is it？" Leana said. Soon enough Faith， all 85 pounds of her， jumped on Leona's bed—a forbidden territory—and ran in circles. She would not answer Leanne's command to get down， which was completely out of character for the obedient dog.

In her mind Leana heard the voice of the trainer："Trust your dog？" A dog behaving strangely probably knows something you don't know—and need to.

"Okay， Faith， I'm trusting you，" she said. "I'm getting out of bed." She got in her wheelchair and investigated the house and， finding nothing unusual， decided to make herself hot chocolate.

She reached across the stove for the empty water kettle， and that's when the world went black. She fell out of her wheelchair， hitting her head on the kitchen cabinet door， and lay unconscious on the floor. This was a medical emergency， though not directly caused by her epilepsy. Leana was experiencing liver failure； doctors later said that an adverse reaction to her medication made her liver nearly shut down.

The contusion suffered during the fall caused Leana to immediately go into a grand mal seizure， and at that point Faith's heroism kicked into overdrive. The dog retrieved the cordless phone with her mouth， and with her nose pushed the dog-friendly 911 speed-dial button she had been trained to identify. When the dispatcher， Jenny Buchanan， answered， Faith barked into the phone. She barked and barked. Most 911 operators are not trained to translate the woofing of dogs， but at the Benton County's Southeast Communications Center， all calls must be acted on. Buchanan detected a pattern to the barks—they seemed to come after she spoke， as if the dog were somehow answering her. Deciding that this was not just background noise but a plea for help， Buchanan dispatched police. When the voice stopped coming out of the phone， Faith went back to Leana and did her seizure-response work， pushing her into the "recovery position" on her side， which cleared throat.

When the police officer， Corporal Scott Morrell， arrived， tripping the motion-detector light on the porch. Faith and Bronson watched from the window. Both had been trained to recognize the uniforms of police， firefighters and medical personnel not as intruders but as friends. With her nose， faith unlatched the special doggie lock on the door and let Morrell inside， barking as she ran to the kitchen， urging him to follow.

Leana was in the hospital for three weeks， accompanied by Faith for part of the time. But Leana never had a clear idea of her rescue. It wasn't until she returned home and contacted Morrell and Buchanan that she was able to piece together the story of Faith's amazing feat.

"It must be love and devotion，" Leana says. "After that night our relationship changed. I think Faith discovered her purpose. And I found out who she was： a true angel."