To Pumpikim
Shabbat Shalom!
(Written while leaving Tecumseh – 2008)
For two consecutive days, she wandered near me as I made breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I remember clearly the first time I saw her—it was just before lighting the candles for Shabbat. I thought: It’s almost Shabbat. And from then on, she kept coming.
In the mornings, I sensed she was waiting for me. It almost felt like she knew me, this mischievous little creature. Sometimes, I felt like she was watching me. At first, she would just stand there, staring… and then start her delicate, delicate dance.
The truth is, I grew attached to her—this strange being. Every morning, my heart would race—there she was, in the kitchen, greeting me.
One day, I got up early, had my coffee, and—there she was. But this time she was still, with her tiny legs tucked underneath, like a fragile spider. The tears came straight from my heart, rising to my eyes before I could even think. I just felt.
It was in that moment (which felt like eternity) that I realized I wasn’t okay. I had already thought of names for her—my little ballerina! And then... she left. I was alone again. But now with the painful awareness of how much I needed help.
Day by day, I pushed forward, trying to find small joys in life’s sameness. “Count your blessings, Esther,” my rabbi would say. And I had many things to be grateful for. But... I was drying up inside.
Something in me broke when I lost Freud. A part of me went with my little friend.
In the years we lived in Tecumseh’s countryside, I saw much—and came to understand the human being a little better. Not for the better, I must say...
We lived far outside the city. The nearest town was 25 minutes away. And on those back roads, I saw so much. People would abandon old dogs, pregnant mothers, starving puppies. Tossed out mercilessly into Oklahoma’s bitter winters and scorching summers.
I often stopped to pick up what had just been thrown from a car. I stopped for the weak, forgotten ones left to die on the roadside.
Eventually, I started carrying food, water, bowls, and cans in my trunk. That’s how I came to know Oklahoma’s backlands—and the hearts of its people. The more time passed, the closer I felt to animals, and the more distant from humans.
On Bethel Road, five minutes from my home, lived a woman with her husband (often drunk) and son. They had many dogs—but one stole my heart: Pumpkin.
Pumpkin was a large pit bull mix with stunning turquoise eyes. She looked fierce—angry, even. But her life? She was chained to a dead tree. No shade in summer, no shelter in winter. Her “home” was a broken plastic container, barely big enough. In summer, it was like a sauna.
There she lived—itching, hungry, thirsty, with conjunctivitis, always pregnant. An old male dog roamed free, and Pumpkin couldn’t escape her fate. She birthed her puppies, nursed them lovingly. But when they began to walk, they wandered into the road... and one by one, they were run over before her eyes.
She rarely had water. I brought bones and scraps from the butcher. I waited for the owners to leave, then visited her with treats. One day, I brought a real doghouse and a blanket.
Her joy was explosive. She ran in circles, pulled the blanket out, barked, sniffed, rubbed on it like she finally had something. It was hers.
I tried—twice—to talk to the owners. I begged them to take her to the vet, to spay her, to give her real shelter. Nothing worked. Eventually, I went to the police. They told me: if the animal isn’t starving or visibly injured, the owners can do what they want.
So I watched over her the best I could. And I remember her joy when she saw my car.
It breaks my heart to think of how much love she had—and how no one wanted it.
Humans can be so small. Animals don’t bite the hand that feeds. They have a sense of gratitude many humans never will.
— Esther Crouch & Lev
