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got kicked in the stomach. I love all dogs, but the idea of a golden lying by the side of a road in pain is absolutely horrifying.
    Sam shrugs and says he has no idea what kind of dog it was; it was dark. “But I’ll know if I see his eyes; they looked right through me.”
    The vet lets us go into the back and leads us to a dog lying peacefully on a blanket in a run, which is essentially a large cage. There is another blanket lying over him, concealing his back end. There’s no doubt; it’s a golden.
    The dog is alert and staring at us, and I immediately know what Sam meant about his eyes. He doesn’t move any part of his body; I don’t know if he’s unable to or not.
    “That’s him,” Sam says. “No doubt about it.”
    “What’s wrong with him?” I ask.
    “I’m pretty confident he has a broken rear left leg,” Dr. Castle says. “Other than that he seems to be in surprisingly good shape.”
    “So you’re going to do surgery?” I ask.
    Dr. Castle hesitates for a moment and then says, “I wouldn’t think so.”
    “Why not?” asks Sam.
    “He’s not a young dog. Based on the condition of his teeth I would estimate he’s six or seven years old. There were no tags on him and no identifying chip. In this condition, at this age, he’s not likely to be adopted, so … if no one claims him I would think we would be instructed to euthanize him.”
    Sam had been leaning over and petting the dog, but when he hears this he jumps as if someone shoved a hot poker up his ass. “Are you out of your mind?” he yells.
    “It’s not my decision,” Dr. Castle says, backing up a little.
    “You’re damn right it’s not!”
    It’s a rare situation involving a dog’s welfare that I’m the calm, rational one, but that’s the role I assume here. I’m able to do that because there is no doubt that the end to this play has already been written. We are not leaving this place without this dog.
    “We’ll take the dog and pay for any charges you’ve incurred,” I say.
    Dr. Charles shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but the procedure is that we first have to wait five days for an owner to possibly claim him.”
    “So you’d let him lie there with a broken leg for five days?” Sam asks. “How would you like it if I tried that on you?”
    I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sam this upset.
    “We’re going to amend the procedure in this case,” I say. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’ll take him, and if the owners show up, you can refer them to me. I’m an attorney; I’ll leave my card with your receptionist.”
    “But—”
    I cut him off. “If that doesn’t work for you, you can report to the police that we stole him, and I’ll tie you up with so many lawsuits and depositions, you’ll want to self-euthanize. Are we clear?”
    He doesn’t respond “Crystal,” but it turns out that we’re so clear that he lends us a stretcher to take the poor dog out to my car. Goldens are remarkably stoic, If I was in the pain that he is probably in, I’d be calling for my mommy.
    We take him to my vet in Paterson, who is also board-certified in surgery. He X-rays him and tells us that it is a significant break but one that can be repaired, and he will do so this afternoon.
    On the way out we stop at the reception desk, and I tell Julie to put the charges on my account. Since this vet treats all of our foundation dogs, my account is roughly equivalent to the GDP of Bulgaria.
    “No way, Andy,” Sam says. “He’s my dog; I’m paying.”
    “Does he have a name?” Julie asks.
    Sam nods. “Crash.”

 
     
    Barry Price’s death is a big media story. Certainly not Michael Jackson big or Princess Diana big or even Steve Jobs big, but it makes the evening newscasts. He was an important businessman, the principal owner of a hedge fund with many billions in assets. That, plus the fascination that the public always seems to have with plane crashes, has deemed it worthy by the media.
    The circumstances are