In the quiet suburban streets of Woonsocket, Rhode Island, on a crisp autumn afternoon in 2016, what began as a routine drive for local resident Peggy Edwards turned into a heart-stopping drama that would capture the attention of an entire community and eventually ripple across international headlines. Edwards, a 68-year-old retired schoolteacher known for her daily walks with her own aging beagle, was navigating her silver Honda Civic along a tree-lined road near the Blackstone River when a sudden, piercing yelp shattered the tranquility. A tiny Yorkshire terrier, no larger than a loaf of bread, darted frantically in front of her vehicle, its silk-like tan fur matted with panic and its miniature legs pumping in blind terror. Edwards slammed on the brakes, her heart leaping into her throat as the dog vanished into a gaping concrete drainage tunnel that fed into the swollen river below. The tunnel, a relic of the city’s industrial past, stretched nearly 80 feet underground, its interior a pitch-black labyrinth slick with algae and echoing with the rush of stormwater from recent rains. What unfolded next was not just a rescue but a testament to human instinct, interdepartmental coordination, and the unbreakable bond between people and their pets—a story that would later be echoed in similar acts of heroism from Australia to Scotland, yet rooted in the unique grit of a small American city.
The Yorkshire terrier, later identified as Cece, belonged to Michelle and Mark Russo, a young couple who had adopted her just six months earlier from a shelter in nearby Providence. Cece, a three-year-old rescue with a history of skittishness around loud noises, had slipped her collar during a backyard play session when a passing delivery truck backfired. The Russos, frantic, had been combing the neighborhood for over an hour when Edwards’ call came into the Woonsocket Police Department’s non-emergency line. “It’s a little dog,” she told the dispatcher, her voice trembling, “and it’s in the big storm drain by the old mill. I can hear it barking, but it’s fading.” What Edwards couldn’t have known was that the tunnel’s entrance was partially submerged due to a malfunctioning upstream dam, turning the rescue into a potential hazmat situation. The water inside carried runoff from a nearby construction site, laced with diesel residue and sharp debris from shattered pallets.
Officer Joe Brazil, a 12-year veteran of the force and a father of two young daughters who adored animals, was the first to respond. At 6 feet tall and built like a linebacker from his college football days at the University of Rhode Island, Brazil was no stranger to high-stakes calls, but this one hit differently. “I’ve pulled kids out of burning cars,” he later told reporters, “but something about a helpless dog just tugs at you.” Arriving at the scene barefoot—having kicked off his boots to avoid slipping on the moss-covered concrete—he assessed the tunnel’s mouth, where the water lapped at his shins. The opening was barely three feet in diameter, forcing him to crouch. Equipped with only a flashlight taped to his shoulder and a length of nylon rope tied around his waist (anchored to a fire department truck that had just pulled up), Brazil waded in. The temperature inside plummeted to near-freezing, and the stench of stagnant water and rodent droppings was overwhelming.
As Brazil inched forward, his radio crackled with updates from the surface team. Unexpectedly, the tunnel narrowed halfway through, a structural anomaly not marked on city blueprints dating back to 1942. He had to turn sideways, his utility belt scraping against the walls, dislodging chunks of crumbling mortar. Then came the first real surprise: Cece wasn’t alone. A family of raccoons, disturbed by the intrusion, hissed from a side pipe, their eyes glowing like embers in the flashlight beam. Brazil froze, remembering a training seminar on urban wildlife; a cornered raccoon could inflict serious wounds. He backed up slowly, whispering reassurances into the darkness, until the animals retreated. “I was more scared of rabies than drowning at that point,” he admitted with a chuckle during a later press conference.
Twenty-five feet in, the water deepened to his waist, and the current strengthened, pulling at his legs with surprising force. Cece’s barks grew fainter, then stopped altogether—a silence that sent a chill down Brazil’s spine. Had she been swept further downstream? Or worse, had she succumbed to hypothermia? The officer pressed on, his fingers numb, until he spotted a faint glint: Cece’s rhinestone collar, catching the flashlight’s beam. She was wedged against a rusted grate, her tiny body shivering uncontrollably, one paw caught in a tangle of fishing line discarded by teenagers who used the tunnel as a shortcut to the riverbank. Brazil’s heart sank; the line had cut into her leg, drawing blood that mixed with the murky water.
Freeing Cece required delicate precision. Brazil used his multi-tool to snip the line, but the grate was bolted shut, a forgotten maintenance access point. With no time to wait for bolt cutters, he improvised, wrapping the rope around the grate’s bars and signaling the surface team to pull. The fire department’s hydraulic winch groaned as it bent the metal just enough for him to wriggle the dog free. Cece, exhausted but alive, licked his face weakly as he cradled her against his chest. The return journey was slower, the officer navigating by memory in the dark after his flashlight shorted out in the water. Emerging after 40 minutes underground, soaked to the bone and covered in grime, Brazil handed Cece to a waiting veterinarian from the local animal hospital who had been summoned as a precaution.
The reunion with the Russos was nothing short of cinematic. Michelle Russo, tears streaming down her face, enveloped both the officer and her dog in a hug, while Mark shook Brazil’s hand vigorously, promising to name their next child after him (they settled on “Joseph” for their son born the following year). But the story didn’t end there. In the days that followed, unexpected details emerged that elevated the rescue to international lore. A GoPro camera, mounted by the fire department for training purposes, captured the entire ordeal in grainy but gripping footage. The video went viral, amassing 10 million views within a week and inspiring similar rescues worldwide.
In Sydney, Australia, just three months later, a firefighter emulated Brazil’s barefoot approach to save a kelpie trapped in a similar stormwater culvert during flash flooding. In Edinburgh, Scotland, a police constable cited the Woonsocket incident in a training manual, leading to the adoption of “tunnel kits” with waterproof lights and thermal blankets. Even in Cape Town, South Africa, where a Jack Russell terrier named Pickles fell into a sewer during a township cleanup, locals referenced “the American cop” as they organized a bucket brigade to lower a rescuer.
Back in Woonsocket, the city council honored Brazil with a rare civilian commendation, and the drainage tunnel—now dubbed “Cece’s Tunnel” by schoolchildren—was fitted with a protective grate and a plaque reading: “Courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it.” Cece, after a week of antibiotics and pampering, made a full recovery, her leg healing without a scar. The Russos started a fundraiser for the police department’s K-9 unit, raising $15,000 in memory of the officer who went above and beyond.
The incident also sparked a broader conversation about urban infrastructure. Engineers discovered that the tunnel’s narrow section was a design flaw from post-World War II cost-cutting, prompting a statewide audit of similar structures. In Woonsocket alone, 12 drains were retrofitted with wider access points and emergency lighting. Peggy Edwards, the unsung hero who first spotted Cece, received a community service award and became a regular volunteer at the local animal shelter, where she advocates for microchipping—a measure that helped locate Cece’s owners via a scanned tag embedded in her collar.
Years later, Officer Brazil still keeps a framed photo of Cece on his desk, her tongue lolling happily in a post-rescue bath. “People think police work is all sirens and chases,” he says, “but sometimes it’s just about getting wet and dirty for something that can’t save itself.” In an era of division, the story of a barefoot cop wading through filth to save a 7-pound dog reminds us that compassion transcends borders, languages, and even species. From Rhode Island to the world, Cece’s rescue remains a beacon of unexpected bravery in the most unlikely places.
