He called 911 when the symptoms began. He explained that he was a diabetic and he was not feeling well. By the time we were knocking on his door along with the fire rescue crew, things had gone downhill. When there was no response, we opened the door and entered. And stopped, all of us. Three firemen, my partner, and finally myself. I recall walking directly into the back of my partner as he abruptly stopped. Peering around him, I saw that the group of firemen had all stopped as well. Peering further, I saw the source of our sudden collective halt.

His dog was very large, and very protective, and very unhappy with the group of strangers who had just entered her human’s house. Her human who would not wake up. She stood over him, and the low sound in her throat didn’t need any extra volume. It meant business. The caller, our patient, was now unresponsive. I was thanking God I did not have care on this call, and that my partner that day was a senior medic. Unhurried in speech and manner, he was just the ticket to teach the brand new medic that I was on this winter day. Eight months in to my career, I stood, dumb struck at this spectacle in front of me.

“Weeeeeelllll” my partner began, “I suppooooooose…..” his voice trailed off. I looked at him hopefully but he was standing, hands on hips, feet apart, brow furrowed. He offered nothing further in the way of wisdom. The brindle dog growled again, low and with a distinct tone of impatience. The patient was pink and skin appeared dry, no sheen of moisture noted from my location. His chest rose and fall in a rate that was normal, and chest wall excursion also appeared adequate. It wasn’t a lot, but at least we knew he was breathing. So there was that, at least.

A fireman took a step forward and the rumbling in the brindle dog’s throat revved up in volume and irritation. She lowered her head. The fireman stepped back out of my view. Out of my view because I was behind the closest fireman to me, at this point. Strategizing began between my partner and the firemen. I was a blank. I wanted to help the patient but I would rather pull off my own pinky fingernail than approach that beautiful, enormous dog who was guarding her human. Maybe some of you have read my column about Mr. Whiskers – I was thinking of how his little bite hurt, and how much this dog could remove of me with one chomp.

Finally a fireman, an older, gruff and generally quiet man, took off his turnout coat. He instructed another fireman to open the bedroom door and slam it shut when told. The second fireman agreed. The first fireman lifted the coat, approached the dog rapidly and threw the coat over her, picking her up in the same fell swoop. Two huge steps and he tossed the dog into the room onto the bed. The second fireman slammed the door. We all took a moment. The sound from inside the bedroom was spectacular. I watched the bedroom door from behind the third fireman, my hand on the doorknob of the exterior door. Just in case the scene became less safe, you know….

The door to the bedroom held. We all exhaled. My partner approached the patient. Behind me someone knocked on the door. I answered, and the neighbor asked if everything was OK. I assured her it was. Fire and my partner were getting a blood sugar, putting on the three leads and establishing an IV line.  Underlining the whole scene was the sound of a very unhappy dog in the bedroom. The neighbor regarded all of this, brow furrowed, from the front steps. Then she slowly and carefully said, “They have a newborn baby, is the baby here with him?”

All faces swivel to look at her, then at the bedroom door. On the table, a cell phone comes to life. No one moves, until I reach out and answer it, hoping it is the mother of the baby. Things go quickly from bad to worse when my “hello?” is first greeted by silence, then “who in the HECK are YOU?! And why are you answering my husband’s phone?!!”

Ten minutes later we are en route to the hospital, navigating the snow plowed streets. The sun is blinding in its brightness and the patient is beginning to answer questions, riding in the back with my partner. His blood sugar was quite low but relatively fixable with an amp of dextrose in his IV. The wife is placated and on her way to meet us at the hospital with the baby, who she had with her. The neighbor was very helpful in verifying that I was who I said I was, after I handed her the phone.

As the diesel idles in front of the garage door entrance to the hospital, my eyes squinting in adjustment to the dark interior – it occurs to me.

That turnout coat is still in the bedroom.