Part 2: I’m A Patrol Officer In Lubbock, Texas — Last July I Crawled Under A Parked Car In 109-Degree Heat To Pull Out A Stray Puppy Whose Paws Were Burning On The Asphalt. He Fell Asleep On My Chest In The Cruiser Before I Could Even Radio It In. Six Months Later He Sleeps On The Foot Of My Bed Every Night.

I’m going to tell this slow. The slow part is the whole story.

I got the puppy out from under the F-150 at 2:58 p.m. on July 16th, 2024. I checked my watch when I got back to my cruiser. It had taken me approximately seven minutes from kneeling on the asphalt to getting the dog out and into the vehicle.

Mateo Quintana, the 19-year-old gas station attendant, was standing by my cruiser when I got back to it. He had brought out a small bowl of cold water from inside the Allsup’s. He had also brought a clean white kitchen towel that he had run under cold water from the employee sink.

He said, “Officer. I thought you could use this.”

I want to be honest with you. I have been an officer for nine years. I have been thanked. I have been criticized. I have been ignored. I have rarely been helped by a 19-year-old kid working a summer shift at a gas station who had the foresight to bring me cold water and a cool towel without being asked.

I said, “Mateo. Thank you, brother. This is going to help.”

I sat in the open driver’s seat of my cruiser with the door open and the AC blasting at maximum. I had the puppy on my chest, still wrapped in my uniform shirt. I draped the cool wet towel over the top of the shirt. The AC was on 65 degrees. The cabin temperature dropped from about 95 to about 78 within about three minutes — the cruiser had been parked in the sun for the seven minutes I had been with the puppy.

The puppy did not move. His breathing was shallow. His tongue was still purple.

I checked his gums with my finger — they were not refilling well. His skin tent test (when you pull up a fold of skin and see how fast it returns to flat) was very slow. He was severely dehydrated, severely heat-stressed, and possibly in the early stages of organ shutdown.

I made a decision. I want to tell you about the decision, because it is the kind of decision that, in police work, you make in about three seconds and that you then have to defend later in a report.

The decision was: I was not going to wait for animal control.

Animal control was four hours backed up. The puppy did not have four hours. The puppy probably did not have one hour.

The nearest emergency veterinary hospital was Lubbock Veterinary Emergency Hospital on South Loop 289, about 14 minutes from the Allsup’s on a normal traffic day. With my lights and siren on, I could make it in maybe 9.

I radioed dispatch. I said, “Dispatch, this is Bermudez. I have a juvenile canine subject in critical heat distress. Animal control is unavailable. I am transporting to Lubbock Veterinary Emergency for emergency treatment, code 3.”

Dispatch said, “Bermudez, copy. Be advised, this is non-standard. Are you requesting authorization?”

I said, “Dispatch, the subject will not survive without immediate intervention. I am exercising officer discretion.”

Dispatch said, “Copy. Use of discretion logged. Be safe.”

I closed the cruiser door. I gently — very gently — moved the puppy from my chest to the passenger seat, where I had spread out the wet kitchen towel as an insulating layer. I kept one hand on his side while I drove. I lit up my emergency lights but I did not run the siren because I did not want to startle him.

I drove the 14-minute route in 9 minutes.

I pulled into the Lubbock Veterinary Emergency Hospital parking lot at 3:15 p.m.

Dr. Imani Beecher-Solano was the emergency veterinarian on duty that afternoon. She was 41 years old. She had been a veterinarian for 13 years. She had been an emergency vet for the last 7. She had worked at this hospital for 4 years.

I want to tell you what she looked like, because she is one of the heroes of this story.

She was about 5’10”. She had dark brown skin and short hair she kept cropped close to her head. She wore black-framed glasses. She was wearing scrubs with small cartoon dogs printed on them. She had a stethoscope around her neck.

She saw me coming through the automatic doors with a puppy wrapped in a soaking-wet uniform shirt and she did not say a single word. She just held out her arms.

I handed her the puppy.

She said, “Treatment room two. Now.”

I followed her. She moved fast. She unwrapped the puppy on the metal exam table. She gave one quick order over her shoulder to a tech named Esmeralda Kovacic-Bell who was already setting up an IV.

The first three minutes were intense. They took his temperature — 107.4 Fahrenheit. (Normal canine temperature is 101-102.5. Anything over 105 is severe hyperthermia. Anything over 107 is potentially fatal.) They started a slow IV of cold lactated Ringer’s solution. They placed cool-soaked towels on his belly and paws. They put an oxygen mask the size of a child’s small drinking cup over his face.

I stood against the wall of treatment room two and I watched.

I had never been allowed in the back of a vet hospital before. I had not asked to come. Dr. Beecher-Solano had not told me to stay out.

I stayed.

After about fifteen minutes, his temperature had dropped to 104.1.

After about thirty minutes, it was at 102.8.

Dr. Beecher-Solano took off her stethoscope and let it hang around her neck. She looked at me.

She said, “Officer. He’s going to live.”

I sat down on the floor of treatment room two with my back against the wall. I had not realized I had been holding my breath.

She said, “What’s his name?”

I said, “I don’t know. He’s not mine. I found him under a truck. I’m sorry, ma’am, I have to call dispatch and check in. I —”

She said, “Officer. Sit there a minute. Catch your breath. He’s stable. We are going to keep him for at least 24 hours. He has minor burns on three of his paw pads. He has moderate dehydration. He has heat stress. He is malnourished — I am estimating he is eight to ten weeks old and he is at maybe 65 percent of where he should be at this age. He has fleas. He likely has worms. He does not have a microchip. He has no ID. He is — by all appearances — a stray puppy who was abandoned or got lost in a heat wave.”

She paused.

She said, “Officer. What is your name?”

I said, “Bermudez. Rafael Bermudez.”

She said, “Officer Bermudez. Why don’t you give him a name.”

I sat on the floor for a long moment.

I want to tell you what I thought about in that moment, because the thinking is part of the story.

I thought about my mother. My mother’s name is Esperanza. She came to Lubbock from Reynosa, Mexico in 1985 when she was 19. She came with nothing. She worked for thirty-six years cleaning houses on the south side of Lubbock. She raised me with my father — a quiet white Texan electrician — and she raised me to be the kind of cop who pulls a four-pound puppy out from under a truck in 109-degree heat without thinking about whether it would be in my job description.

My mother is 58 years old now. She still cleans houses. She has been telling me for the last two years that I should get a dog. She has been telling me that a man without a dog is a man who has not yet figured out how to share his life.

She said it in Spanish: “Un hombre sin perro es un hombre que todavía no ha aprendido a compartir su vida.”

I thought about my daughter Luciana. Six years old. Asking me every Saturday morning at breakfast when we were going to get a dog. I thought about my wife Catalina, who had stopped asking but who had not stopped wanting.

I thought about the puppy. He was on the table now with an IV in his small front leg. His tongue was pink again. His eyes were closed but his breathing was steady.

I said, “Doc. His name is Asphalt.“

Dr. Beecher-Solano laughed. Then she stopped. She said, “Officer. Are you serious.”

I said, “Doc. I pulled him off 158-degree asphalt at 2:58 p.m. He should have died on that asphalt. He didn’t. His name is Asphalt. Or — wait. I don’t know. Maybe that’s a terrible name. Let me think.”

She said, “No. Asphalt. That’s a name. That’s his name. We’re putting it on his chart.”

She walked over to the chart and wrote ASPHALT, ESTIMATED 8-10 WEEKS, MALE, TAN AND WHITE, INTAKE OFFICER R. BERMUDEZ LPD.

She handed me a clipboard.

She said, “Officer. We have a problem.”

I said, “What problem.”

She said, “He has no owner. He has no microchip. By default, after our 72-hour mandatory hold, he becomes property of the city of Lubbock. He will go to the Lubbock Animal Services shelter on East 70th Street. That shelter is at 138 percent capacity right now because of the heat wave. They have been euthanizing about 18 dogs a week in July. Most of those are adult dogs and pit mixes. But a small puppy with paw burns who is malnourished — he might get adopted quickly, or he might not. Puppies require more intensive care than the shelter has staff for right now. I cannot promise you what would happen to him there.”

She paused.

She said, “Or — Officer. Or you could sign this. This is a voluntary intake form. If a citizen volunteers to take responsibility for a found animal at intake, the animal does not enter the city shelter system. The animal becomes a private rescue. You would be responsible for the vet bill — which I am going to estimate at around $800 for tonight, his fluids, his medications, and his follow-up care. You would be responsible for him going forward.”

She paused.

She said, “Officer. I am not telling you what to do. But I am telling you that if you sign this form, this dog gets a one-hundred-percent chance of survival. If you don’t sign it, his chances drop to maybe sixty percent.”

She handed me the clipboard and the pen.

She walked out of treatment room two and closed the door behind her.

I sat on the floor of an emergency vet hospital in Lubbock, Texas, with a clipboard on my lap and a small tan-and-white puppy named Asphalt on the metal exam table six feet away, and I had to decide in the next ten minutes whether to keep a dog.

I called my wife Catalina from the parking lot at 4:32 p.m.

She was at home. She had picked up Luciana from summer day camp. She was making dinner. She had her phone on speaker on the kitchen counter.

I said, “Cat. I need to tell you something.”

She said, “Rafi. Are you okay?”

I said, “I’m okay. I’m fine. I’m at the vet hospital.”

She said, “What.”

I said, “I pulled a puppy out from under a truck at the gas station two hours ago. He was dying. I brought him here. He’s alive. The vet just told me she can save him but they’re going to send him to the city shelter on a 72-hour hold and the shelter might euthanize him because they’re 138 percent over capacity. Or I can sign a form right now and he comes home with us.”

She was silent for a moment.

She said, “Rafi. Are you asking me?”

I said, “I’m asking you.”

She said, “Bring him home.“

I started crying in the parking lot of the Lubbock Veterinary Emergency Hospital.

Cat said, “Rafi. Bring him home. We’ve been talking about this for two years. You found him. He found you. Bring him home. I’m making rice and chicken. There will be enough for him.“

I said, “Cat. The vet bill tonight is going to be eight hundred dollars.”

She said, “Rafi. We have eight hundred dollars. Bring him home.“

I said, “Luciana — let me talk to Luciana for a second.”

I heard Cat call Luciana into the kitchen. I heard small footsteps running.

I heard Luciana pick up the phone. She is six years old. She has the small high voice of a six-year-old girl who is the brightest light in her father’s life.

I said, “Lucy. Lucy, baby. I have to ask you something.”

She said, “Yes Papi.”

I said, “Lucy. I found a puppy today. He was hurt. The doctor at the puppy hospital is fixing him. He needs a home. Lucy — would you like a puppy?”

She did not answer for a moment.

Then she said, very seriously, in the voice of a six-year-old girl who has been waiting for this exact question her entire conscious life: “Papi. I have been waiting. Yes.”

I started crying harder.

I said, “Lucy. I’m going to bring him home tomorrow. His name is Asphalt.”

She said, “Asphalt? Papi, that’s a weird name.”

I said, “I know, Lucy. I know. We can think about it. We can rename him if you want.”

She thought for a moment.

She said, “Papi. Asphalt is a tough name. Asphalt is a name for a dog who survived. He should keep it.“

I went back inside the vet hospital. I signed the form. The vet techs cheered when Dr. Beecher-Solano told them. Esmeralda Kovacic-Bell hugged me. Dr. Beecher-Solano shook my hand. She knocked $200 off the bill — she told me she could not charge me full price for a dog I had rescued on duty.

I paid $640 on my Visa card.

I drove home at 5:15 p.m. I did not take Asphalt with me. He had to stay overnight at the hospital for fluids and monitoring. I would come back at 9 a.m. the next morning to bring him home.

I drove home with my uniform shirt still in the passenger seat. It was still damp. It smelled like puppy. I left it in the cruiser as evidence in my report and I drove home in my undershirt and Kevlar vest.

I pulled into my driveway at 5:47 p.m.

Cat and Luciana were on the front porch waiting for me.

Luciana ran at me before I had closed the car door.

She hugged my legs.

She said, “Papi. Did Asphalt fall asleep on you in the car?”

I said, “Lucy. Yes. He did. He slept on my chest. He was very tired.”

She said, “Papi. Tomorrow. I will be ready.”

I want to tell you about the next six months, because the six months are the story.

We brought Asphalt home on Wednesday, July 17th, 2024. He weighed 4.2 pounds.

He slept on a heated dog bed in our living room the first night. He cried at 2 a.m. He was lonely. I went out to the living room. I picked him up and brought him to our bed. I laid him on my chest. He fell asleep immediately. He has slept on the foot of our bed every single night since.

He was a puppy. He chewed on shoes. He had three accidents on the carpet in the first two weeks. He learned sit in about three days. He learned come in a week. He learned off in about two weeks because I had to teach him not to jump on Luciana, who was about three feet taller than him at that point but was going to lose that advantage quickly.

We took him to a regular vet — Dr. Cesar Mendoza at Mendoza Animal Hospital on 50th Street — for his shots and his check-ups. Dr. Mendoza told us, at the second visit, that Asphalt was probably a Heeler-mix of some kind, possibly with some Catahoula. He estimated Asphalt’s adult weight at around 35-45 pounds. He estimated Asphalt’s adult height at around 18-20 inches at the shoulder.

By October of 2024, three months in, Asphalt weighed 28 pounds. He was about 14 inches at the shoulder. His tan-and-white coat had filled out. His paw pads had healed completely with no scarring. He had no visible signs of his rough start in life except for one small thing that Catalina noticed first.

He hated hot pavement.

In Lubbock in October the pavement is still warm in the afternoon. Asphalt — six months old by that point — would walk on grass whenever grass was available. He would refuse to walk on hot pavement in the middle of the day. He would sit down and look at us and refuse to move until we picked him up or moved him onto grass.

He had not forgotten.

We started walking him in the early morning and the late evening. We bought him dog boots for the few times we had to take him across hot pavement. He learned to wear the boots without complaint. He understood, in whatever way dogs understand things, that the boots were the deal.

I want to tell you about the day at work, because that day matters.

On September 4th, 2024, about seven weeks after the rescue, I was called into the office of my supervisor — Sergeant Yolanda Hutchins, 47 years old, a 22-year veteran of LPD. She is a tough woman. She is also one of the kindest people I have ever met. She has been my direct supervisor for four years.

She had a folder on her desk.

She said, “Bermudez. Sit down.”

I sat down.

She said, “Bermudez. I have your incident report from July 16th on my desk. The puppy rescue. I have reviewed it. I have also reviewed the body cam footage from your dashcam and your chest cam. I have also reviewed the dispatch audio.”

I said, “Sarge. Did I do something wrong? I —”

She said, “Bermudez. Shut up. Listen to me.”

I shut up.

She said, “Bermudez. You crawled under a truck on 158-degree asphalt. You burned your forearms. You burned your knees. You used your uniform shirt as an insulating wrap. You exercised officer discretion to transport a non-human emergency case to a private veterinary hospital using lights, while staying within speed limits and traffic safety standards. You logged the discretion with dispatch. You followed up with a written report. You took financial responsibility for the animal so it would not enter an overcapacity shelter system during a public health heat emergency. Bermudez. Look at me.”

I looked at her.

She said, “Bermudez. I have nominated you for the Lubbock Police Department Citizen Service Award. The award ceremony is October 15th. Your family will be invited. The Chief will pin the medal. The local paper has already asked for the story. Are you willing to give it?”

I was not expecting any of this. I sat in her office for a long moment.

I said, “Sarge. I just pulled a puppy out from under a truck.”

She said, “Bermudez. Half of the officers on this force would have called animal control and waited four hours. You didn’t. That is the difference between a good cop and a great cop. I am nominating you. The Chief has already signed off. You’re getting the award. Are you giving the story to the Plain Dealer or not?”

I said, “Sarge. Yes.”

She said, “Good. Now get out of my office. You’re late for shift.”

The award ceremony was on Tuesday, October 15th, 2024, at the Lubbock Police Department headquarters on 9th Street. About 80 people were in the room. My family was there in the front row.

Cat was crying before I even walked up.

Luciana was wearing a small white dress and black patent leather shoes. She had insisted on dressing up.

Asphalt was there. We had brought him with us. The chief had personally authorized his presence. He was wearing a small navy-blue bow tie that Luciana had picked out at PetSmart.

He sat at Luciana’s feet the entire ceremony.

When my name was called, I walked up to the podium. Sergeant Hutchins introduced me. The Chief — Chief Marcellus Trent, who has been LPD chief for 11 years — pinned a small bronze medal on my uniform.

He said into the microphone, “Officer Bermudez has demonstrated exactly the kind of officer we want serving the city of Lubbock. He went above and beyond. He used his own judgment. He used his own money. He took an animal home that had nowhere else to go. He is the kind of officer we hire for and train for and pray for in this department. I am proud of him.”

The room applauded.

I was supposed to say a few words.

I walked up to the podium.

I want to tell you what I said, because I had not prepared it and it came out exactly how I felt.

I said, “Thank you, Chief. Thank you, Sarge. Thank you, fellow officers.”

I paused.

I said, “I want to say something. I almost did not bring that puppy home. I almost called my wife and told her I had found a puppy and that it would be in the city shelter and that maybe one of her friends might want to adopt it. I almost did the responsible adult thing of saying we cannot take on another responsibility right now.“

I paused.

I said, “I am glad I did not.”

I looked at Cat. She was crying.

I said, “My mother — Esperanza Bermudez — has been telling me for two years that a man without a dog is a man who has not yet figured out how to share his life. I am 34 years old. I have been a husband for 9 years. I have been a father for 7. I am a police officer. I thought I knew how to share my life.”

I paused.

I said, “A four-pound puppy taught me how much more there was to share. He sleeps on my chest every night. He greets my daughter at the door of her elementary school every afternoon when I pick her up. He weighs 30 pounds now and he is going to weigh 45 pounds, and every single one of those pounds is mine.”

I looked at Asphalt in Luciana’s arms.

I said, “This medal is not for me. This medal is for everyone who has stopped on the side of the road for a stray animal. This medal is for the gas station attendant Mateo Quintana, who is in the audience today, who called us because he could not stop himself from caring. This medal is for Dr. Imani Beecher-Solano, who knocked $200 off her bill because that is who she is. This medal is for my wife Catalina who said bring him home without hesitating for a second. This medal is for my daughter Luciana who has been waiting for a dog her entire life. And this medal is for the dog itself, who weighed four pounds and was minutes from dying and who has changed every day of my life since.”

I paused.

I said, “Thank you.”

The room stood and applauded.

Cat was sobbing. Luciana was holding Asphalt up like a trophy. Asphalt had fallen asleep in her arms.

I want to write down a few things before I finish.

The first thing. Asphalt is now 8 months old (he is 14 months in real time as I write this but he was 8 months during the events I am describing). He weighs 35 pounds. He has the tall lanky build of a young Heeler-mix. He has filled out his coat. He has lost his puppy teeth. He has one small white scar on his right front paw pad from the burns of July 16th. The other burns healed without scarring. The vet says he will probably grow to about 42-45 pounds and stop. He has perfect health.

The second thing. Luciana — my daughter, now 7 years old — sleeps with Asphalt in her bed most nights. Cat and I have surrendered the foot-of-the-bed position. Asphalt rotates. Some nights he is on our bed. Some nights he is on Luciana’s. He picks. We have stopped trying to influence the decision.

The third thing. Mateo Quintana, the 19-year-old gas station attendant who made the call, is now my friend. He is 20 now. He is in his second year of community college studying to become a paramedic. He texts me twice a month to ask how Asphalt is doing. He came to our house for dinner in November of 2024. Cat made carne asada. Mateo brought Asphalt a small bag of treats and a stuffed duck. Asphalt still has the stuffed duck. It is one of his three favorite toys.

The fourth thing. Dr. Imani Beecher-Solano, the emergency vet, has become a friend. She invited Cat and me to her wedding in October of 2025 to her partner of seven years, a high-school chemistry teacher named Mrs. Brigitte Solano-Marchetti. We went. We bought them a set of cast-iron skillets. Asphalt — who had a small pet-friendly section at the wedding — was there in a tiny tuxedo collar that Catalina sewed by hand.

The fifth thing. My mother — Esperanza Bermudez — finally retired from cleaning houses in November of 2024 at age 58. She had been planning to work two more years. She told me, over Thanksgiving dinner, that watching me bring Asphalt home had made her realize she had been waiting too long to start her own life. She enrolled in an English-language program at the community college in January of 2025. She is taking ceramics classes in the evening. She has been to my house twice a week to play with Asphalt. She brings him homemade tortillas. He waits for her at the front window every Tuesday and Thursday at 3 p.m.

The sixth thing. The Lubbock Police Department, after the October 15th ceremony, implemented a new internal procedure called the Bermudez Protocol. The protocol authorizes patrol officers to take protective action on behalf of animals in life-threatening emergency conditions — particularly during extreme heat events, extreme cold events, and natural disasters — without first requiring animal control authorization, provided the action is logged with dispatch and documented in a written report. The protocol has been used 23 times in the 14 months since I am writing this. Three of those uses have involved patrol officers transporting heat-distressed animals to private vet hospitals. Two of those animals were adopted by the responding officers. The third animal — a 9-year-old chihuahua found in a hot car at the Walmart on 50th Street in August of 2024 — was adopted by the dispatcher who took the call.

I want to end with one more thing.

On the afternoon of July 16th, 2025 — exactly one year after the rescue — Cat and I drove Asphalt to the Allsup’s at 34th and Avenue Q. We parked in the same spot where I had pulled in on the day of the rescue. We brought a small bouquet of flowers.

Mateo Quintana met us there. He had asked for the day off from his summer paramedic internship to come.

We walked across the parking lot to the spot where the F-150 had been parked.

It was 109 degrees that afternoon, almost exactly. The asphalt was hot enough that Asphalt was wearing his dog boots.

Mateo had brought a small bronze plaque. He had had it made himself. He had paid for it himself. It was about the size of a paperback book. It said:

On July 16, 2024, on this spot, in 109-degree heat, an 8-week-old puppy named Asphalt was rescued from under a parked truck by Officer Rafael Bermudez of the Lubbock Police Department. The puppy survived. He is a beloved family dog now. This plaque is for anyone who passes by who needs to remember that stopping for a small life is one of the most important things a person can do on a hot day in Texas.

The owner of the Allsup’s — a 71-year-old man named Mr. Calvin Whitehead who has owned the store for 31 years — had agreed to mount the plaque on a small concrete column at the corner of the parking lot. He helped Mateo install it that afternoon. He paid for the bolts and the labor himself.

I stood next to the plaque with my wife and daughter and my dog and my friend Mateo. Asphalt was wearing his bow tie. Luciana was holding the leash.

I took a small photograph with my phone.

It is framed in our living room now.

I want to tell you what I tell Luciana when she asks me to retell the story, because she asks me to retell it about once a month.

I tell her: “Lucy. I want you to remember something. The day I found Asphalt, I was just doing my job. I was a cop on a hot day taking a call about a small dog. There was nothing special about me. I was tired. I was sweaty. I had been writing tickets all day. I almost did not stop. I almost called animal control and moved on.”

I tell her: “Lucy. The reason I stopped — the reason I crawled under that truck — was because a 19-year-old kid named Mateo cared enough to call. The reason Asphalt lived was because a vet named Dr. Beecher-Solano cared enough to drop $200 off her bill. The reason he came home with us was because your mother said bring him home without thinking twice. The reason he is your dog is because you said Asphalt is a tough name. He should keep it. Lucy — every single one of those people made him real. I just happened to be the cop who picked up the call.”

I tell her: “Lucy. When you grow up. When you are a grown-up. When you have a job and a life and a phone full of reasons to keep moving — please stop. Please call. Please crawl under the truck. Please say bring him home. Please name the dog. Please do the kind thing even if it is not in your job description. Especially then.”

She is seven years old.

She listens every time.

She tells me, every time, “Papi. I will.”

If this story moved you, follow the page — there are more like Rafael and Asphalt and Mateo and Dr. Beecher-Solano I haven’t told yet.