Editor's note: An update on the story is at the bottom of this article

I killed a dog Tuesday night.

Somehow or another - I'm still not sure how - Eddie and Darling escaped from their owners' car and started running.

It was a little bit before 9 when the two Brittany spaniels darted across Glendale Avenue, just east of Central Avenue, in Phoenix.

Darling made it across the street, but Eddie didn't. He was yelping when my neighbor and I carried him to the sidewalk.

I began to rub his back while his owner, Aviva, patted his head. She saw everything.

I thought he was going to make it. Aviva knew better. It was awful.

I hit Eddie on my way home from the airport where I had picked up my neighbor, Tom, and his wife and son. They were coming back from Columbus, Ohio, after burying Tom's father.

Aviva and her husband had just visited their rabbi to ask him to pray for their son, who has cancer.

Nobody wanted to be on the road that night. But, as Eddie died, something beautiful happened.

In a city that can sometimes seem uncaring at best and cruel at worst, a group of strangers came together for a brief moment in time and were remarkably decent and kind.

A bus driver stopped to ask if we needed help.

Then, a young man parked his car and asked what he could do. He went to look for the other dog and Aviva's husband. It turned out they were already together and fine.

A second young man stopped and just stood there saying nothing.

A middle-age couple pulled over because they thought Aviva, who is quite elderly and was lying on the sidewalk next to her dog, was hurt. When I said that it was the dog and that he was dead, the woman gasped and the man shook his head and said he was so sorry.

A truck from Station 20 came with five firefighters in their blue T-shirts. They stayed because Aviva was so upset. A policeman came and stood next to Eddie.

I moved Eddie from the sidewalk on the busy street around the corner on a small cul-de-sac.

I laid him on the winter grass still wet from the sprinkler. The grass looked impossibly green next to his fur.

Tom took my car to bring his family home. Their day, travel after a funeral, had been long enough.

The police officer covered Eddie with a blue blanket from his trunk. Aviva cried louder.

Two other men stopped. They patted Aviva's shoulder and said they were sorry it happened.

They asked who hit the dog, and I told them it was me. Aviva told them there was nothing I could do.

Another man stopped; he was desperate to help in any way, but there was nothing for him.

For a while, we all stood there awkwardly. There were nearly 20 of us now. Aviva cried some more and told us about Eddie.

He was a very good dog. On the rare times she needed to yell at him, he would walk up to her and put his head in her lap seemingly sorry he had caused her any grief.

The police officer's radio announced that nobody would be able to pick up Eddie for hours.

We began to shift on our feet.

Our community of complete strangers, formed in an instant with a nearly uncomfortable level of intimacy and empathy, was breaking apart.

Aviva and her husband decided to take Eddie to a 24-hour veterinarian's office up the road.

We loaded Eddie into the back of their minivan, and they were about to leave. They seemed so old and sad.

Finally, the last man to join us had something he could do. He would take Eddie for them.

Aviva said thank you and rolled up her window and looked ahead. We all watched them as they drove away.

By then, Tom had returned to take me home.

We drove in silence.

A postscript: Aviva is doing better now. She is also already on her way to adopting a new dog. She contacted the Arizona chapter of the American Brittany Rescue, and the process for obtaining a new dog has already begun.

Aviva wanted to thank all of the friends and strangers who have been very kind during this difficult period.

Reach the reporter at john.faherty@arizonarepublic.com or 602-444-4803.