My grandparents had a small terrier mix called "Blacky*"
One day when she was about 10, my aunt was doing some ironing on the porch. Her parent's home in Puerto Rico had several porches. Intricate ironworks provided protection, but the porch was open to the elements and a small puddle of water were on the floor.
Unknown to my aunt, the iron's power cord had become worn and exposed the hot electical wire. When it came in contact with the water in which her bare feet were standing, she started to get electrocuted. Unable to move, she could feel herself starting to fail.
Blacky knew something was wrong. So, he walked on the dry tiles and pulled the power cord from the electrical outlet. Doing so, Blacky saved my aunt who now is a retired California school teacher, the parent of two and the grandmother to four kids.
Were it not for the family dog, she would not be here. I'm starting to tear up.
* No bigotry intended -- the dog was black and little, so that's what they named him. FTR: My grandfather -- born of a Puerto Rican mother and a father from Wisconsin -- was a lifetime member of the NAACP and did not tolerate racists, crooks or others of low character.
My aunt came to visit me in Detroit when the new Charles H. Wright Museum of African American History opened in 1997. She asked a friend from college who lives in a nearby suburb if she wanted to attend, but the friend said she didn't want to go "down there." My aunt said "to hell with her and that attitude," so she and I went.
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