I'm Listening With a Broken Ear

by Vicky Kaseorg

  Another little miracle is unfolding before me as well. Wendy, my dog-hating sister, writes and asks how she can vote for Malta's farm on the current Favorite Animal Rescue Contest. The winning organization can win thousands of dollars, and we are allowed to vote every day for a month. I put out a plea to all of my email friends and know one or two have voted once. While a daily reminder helps me remember to vote every day, I doubt anyone else has done so. But then, unexpectedly, Wendy wants me to know that she is voting for Malta every day. Without knowing how much Wendy dislikes dogs, it is hard to imagine the improbability of this level of interest in Malta's hopeless mutts.

  Although Wendy and I vote every day, for over a month, Malta's standing never rises above seventeenth in SC. Malta doesn't win, doesn't even come close. But me and the dog- hating, cosmopolitan Wendy vote faithfully every day for a little, obscure animal rescue farm filled with dogs with no legs, no eyes, and no pedigrees. We know she hasn’t a chance, but we keep voting anyway. Something is filling me besides the dander from two dogs. It feels suspiciously like character- molding from adversity, though of course I have little experience to recognize if this is the case or not. I have heard of this happening but have always avoided adversity as best as possible. A little cockeyed- ear dying bundle of adversity seems to have had other plans for me…..

  Meanwhile, Lucky seems healed of his appliance fear but this only brings him marginally closer to normal. I don't dare tell Malta about how every time it rains, Lucky becomes highly anxious, racing around the house, nosing us for constant reassurance, and then darting outside to stand in the rain. I thought this was connected to the toaster issue, but on sunny days, he shows no anxiety with the toaster, so this craziness seems to be weather based. Since it rarely rains in NC for more than a day or two in succession, this issue is not a major one. The fear may have escalated when we had the sunroom built with its tin roof. The rain sounds like thousands of mass murderers lurking just above us, stomping and pounding to get in. I am unsure of exactly when Lucky started being nervous with rain. He didn't use to be, but since he is always crazy, added craziness sometimes slips in without notice. I find it highly amusing that the dog who has led a plush and perfect life from six weeks on is several stitches short of a sock, but the dog who for the first two years of life has probably known nothing but scraping to survive, is becoming a very healthy stable dog. I suspect that even in the canine world, hardships build character, and perhaps Lucky's life has been too easy. I know mine was, and while mourning its loss of ease…. maybe there is something greater entering in. I find myself spending less time ruing the day I stopped to give her a drink.

  Honeybun begins to figure out that humans are good for something other than food dispensing. They can scratch spots behind her ears that she can only swipe at ineffectually. She is less enthused with the value of kisses, but ceases to recoil when her nose is kissed. She never licks us, except in the brief first few seconds when we return home after a long absence. Her licks are more like nibbles. She understands eating us, but not showing affection.

  On our walks early in her rehabilitation, she never reacted to our praise of her for quietly passing other dogs, or sitting when we stopped to talk with strangers. Now she wags her tail briefly in acknowledgment of our commendations and glances at me. She does not seem to care that she is a good dog, as long as she is a well fed dog. Still, there seems to be a dawning awareness that being good earns extra biscuits and those lovely scratches on hard to reach spots.

  Her relationship with Lucky is slowly becoming the doggy friendship I had hoped for. When we play with Lucky and chase him around the house, she watches, her expression eager, her tail wagging.

  "Com’on Honeybun!” we encourage, "Play!"

  And we clap our hands in front of her. She pauses, then dips down into play position, paws at Lucky and finally joins us in chasing him. As she growls playfully, Lucky remembers how just a few months back that sound preceded vampire teeth seeking blood and he backs away. Honeybun pivots before him, wagging and in play stance, barking for him to please cavort. Increasingly, Lucky throws caution to the wind and chases her. These times are brief, but increasingly frequent.

  She rarely leaves our side. I often absentmindedly jump up and step on her tail as she is always underfoot. She never growls, or even tries to move- but patiently waits for me to remove my foot. I love her tail, and always feel very bad for trodding on it. Besides the lovely interplay of thick beige, white, and golden-red fur on her tail, it is a most unusual shape. Like her ear, it has what I suspect is a deformity that makes it curve in the opposite manner of typical dog tails. Most dog tails curve down at the base and then end in varying degrees of upward curves at the tip. Honeybun's does the reverse of that. Her tail has subtle curves that make it a straight up question mark. She always holds it erect, unless sleeping, the question mark of her nether region. What questions would this dog want answered as she shoots that constant query to the world? “Where is dinner?” is certainly high on her list. Is there anything edible in the vicinity? Why won't these humans let me eat the dangerous intruders who deliver packages on my doorstep? Why do they get upset when I lie on their comfy bed yet encourage me to lie on one of the three beds on the floor? Why do they keep taking away the pencils I so love to chew? Why does the big scaredy-cat dog not want to play with me? Why does the little human keep thrusting a stick in my path that she wants me to jump over?

  Asherel has found a patient companion who will endure any new bizarre activity she concocts with dignified submission. Her latest craze is “freestyle dancing". She assures me Honeybun loves it. This is also what she claims when she puts humiliating costumes on the poor patient little dog. Since I refuse to buy dog clothes when there are starving children in Rwanda, Asherel resorts to sewing them.

  "She loves dressing up, Mom," Asherel informs me, as Honeybun sits there in her elf hat with the jingle bells and the collar with little green and red elf flaps draped all around it.

  "How can you tell?" I ask dubiously.

  "Well look at her, she's smiling."

  I look at the little elf dog. I don’t see a smile. I see vet bills collecting like dandruff. But I do see that Asherel’s sewing skills are improving in her constant quest to have the best dressed dog in Charlotte. The placid and kind little dog has come a long way from the circumstances she likely endured the Christmas before we found her. She is quite good-natured about whatever indignity Asherel wants to hoist upon her. Lucky only wears his Santa hat briefly before pulling it off. Honeybun sighs but resignedly sits there, waiting till Asherel tires of this game. Sometimes I find her curled up in her bed, elf hat and collar still on, Asherel nowhere in sight.

  I remove the costume and scritch her behind her ears, and through her glorious thick ruff. No wonder her tail is constantly asking questions. What kind of loony tune home is she a part of? She snuggles into her thick warm bed as the record November cold knocks at the door, curling her questioning tail beneath her.

  Meanwhile, on a mission, I send numerous emails to my various homeschool lists to advertise the Last Chance Rescue field trips. I am praying that there will be an outpouring of children eager to pay to come shovel dog poop and learn about the redemption of three legged dogs. Malta is skeptical. With Christmas just three weeks away, I assume there will not be much response till after the holidays are over. Everyone is too busy buying useless gifts and spending too much money. I am too, but continue sending emails hopefully.

  One of my art class children has to drop out as the family can no longer afford the classes. But I know that art is one of the few joys in this silent and depressed child’s life, and feel strongly that I need to offer the class for free. Winking at Honeybun, I remind her, “You would not be here if Malta hadn’t helped us for free,” since she is concerned that the reduced income will cut into her milkbone allotment.

  In the midst of Christmas frenzy, I begin to receive little gifts from neighbors, and am stressing with all the time and
money drain of this joyful season. I have no idea what to get my neighbors. I don’t even know what to get Anders, my oldest son, who never wants or asks for anything. Arvo finally pins him down, cornering him in a phone call to summon some degree of greed and tell us what he wants.

  “Anders wants socks for Christmas,” he calls out as he gets off the phone. Socks. I round out his gift of socks with silly things, like cow cell phone covers, and Bugs Bunny USB drives.....How does anyone ever survive this crazy season?

  In the midst of all this shopping, I receive a letter in the mail from Last Chance Rescue. Malta is desperate. The twenty dogs she is rehabilitating have four blankets between them to sleep on, and her towels for drying them after baths are all rags. 210 pounds of dog food each week are consumed by the dogs, not to mention 400 pounds of livestock food, and 2100 pounds of hay for the livestock. Each week. She receives no government funds, and much of the operating expenses come out of her pocket or from the volunteers who love LCR. Can we organize a supply drive?

  Now? At Christmas? When I have to go buy socks and find something my son will love that will make him want to come home more often? I remember the dogs I met at LCR- the crippled Chihuahua that can’t walk, the three legged retriever, the dog with the gunshot wound healing….

  So Asherel crafts an appeal letter and we make fifty copies. We trudge through the icy cold day and put them in the mailboxes of all our neighbors. We print 50 more and put those out the next day. We plan our collection time for 2 weeks hence, right before Christmas.

  In the midst of all the holiday falderal, Asherel and I take a break to visit my sister Amy in Texas. I request all the Texas experiences.... rodeos, cattle drives, horse cutting.....

  Amy and her remarkable husband Jim organize three days of Texas experiences. We see all my requests and then some, including armadillo races. The rodeo is certainly exciting, but I cannot help feeling very sorry for the bulls and the bucking broncos. They are bucking wildly not only because they are not riding animals and want the intruder off their back, but also because a tight strap is cinched around their belly uncomfortably. Amy thinks it is cinched around their testicles. If this is true, then the cowboys should have a turn next with the belt cinched around their family jewels. True or not, it is unsettling to see these creatures prodded till they are crazed with anger, after which the rodeo clowns and their mounts risk their lives to divert the bull’s attention and horns from the fallen cowboys. The announcer insists the animals are not being hurt, that this is what they would do in the wild......

  I personally have never seen bulls in the wild trying to kick off a naturally occurring cinch around their belly or private parts. Maybe things are different in Texas. And the calf roping is even more disturbing. The poor baby cow is spooked into running top speed, roped by the brave cowboy, thrown off its feet as it slams to the end of the noose around its neck, and then hogtied while it lies there helplessly struggling. If this is so much fun, why aren't the rodeo cowboys doing this to their own babies?

  One night, Amy sends me to bed with a book by Cleveland Amory about Black Beauty Ranch in Texas, a huge animal rescue ranch. Amy is a cat lover who until a recent spate of old cats dying had four cats. She rescues many strays. One of her favorite authors is Cleveland Amory, and she was delighted to find out that his ranch was near enough for her to visit. The book she gives me to read, Ranch of Dreams, is about a haven for animals that have been hurt, exploited, or nearly annihilated, as in the case of the Grand Canyon Burros. It is a heartbreaking book, but the hopeful message is clear. Helping the little you can is better than doing nothing; indeed at Black Beauty Ranch, it is everything for the few animals lucky enough to end up there. I now feel officially like scum of the earth for attending the rodeo. And of course, there were my past sins of indulging in entertainment with a blind eye to the plight of the animals. I had learned enough about the treatment of circus animals to know I should not, in good conscience, ever attend a circus..... but what about all the events we have attended.... steeplechases, show jumping, dressage, killer whale and dolphin shows..... I am appalled by how much animals are used for human pleasure, with little thought to the best interests of the animal. Even the armadillo races were probably less fun for the armadillo than their natural activity of dashing across the desert roads dodging cars. I have a sudden urge to go free lobsters from restaurant fish tanks.

  Upon returning home, I research rodeo cruelty, and am even more horrified. How have I missed the incredible suffering of these poor creatures for fifty years of my life? Honestly, I am ashamed that I paid money to support this animal exploitation- ashamed of my fellow human beings and myself. What are we thinking?

  It is raining the day before our LCR collection drive. The rain matches my mood. And to top it off, the happy dog truce is growing stale. Asherel prepares to take Honeybun outside for her agility training. She has a handful of highly motivating ham. As she is gathering her shoes, both Lucky and Honey follow her, saliva dripping in tandem. And then Honeybun pivots and lunges at Lucky, snarling, and chases him from the room. I am walking by as the dogs streak by, nearly toppling me. With a shriek, I catch hold of Honeybun, and throw her to the ground in the “dreaded roll”. To her credit, she instantly lies still, subdued. I have not had to do the dreaded roll in months. Reminded of how awful those early days had been as I let her up, I am very discouraged. So much need, so much work involved, and so much struggle..... and it is all a drop in the bucket. I am hanging by a thread trying to save this dog. Malta is hanging by a thread trying to save her twenty dogs. Rodeos are happily raking in profits all over the west, while animals all over the world are discarded to the slaughter when they lose entertainment value.

  “What are we going to give to the LCR collection?” asks Asherel, emerging from her room with a sunny smile.

  It is easy to be discouraged. It is harder to keep at it and to try to make a difference in the face of so much ignorance, hopelessness, and despair.

  “I have an old blanket and I have at least six old towels, and I can buy a bag of dogfood for Malta,” I answer.

  “Do you think she would want an elf hat?” asks Asherel.

  When on the ground rolling Honeybun, I notice she smells nasty. Some awful smelling stuff seems to be emanating from her cockeyed ear. I open the flap and the smell knocks me over. There are crusted gobs of blood inside too. Lovely. This matches my mood perfectly. I clean the ear as best I can with a damp paper towel, and judging from the amount of disgusting goo, feel a professional (again!) needs to look at this. Oh goody. For Christmas, we will be giving each other vet bills.

  We greet our beloved vet receptionist as Honeybun trots daintily up to the counter,

  "Hello!" I say with a weak smile, "We are here for our weekly visit."

  "What are we in for this time?" she asks.

  "Something is going on with her ear," I answer, “Something that smells really bad."

  First they weigh her. Forty-four pounds!!! That is three pounds above her ideal weight of forty-one last visit just two weeks ago. Our starving dog is getting fat. At this pace, she will weigh more than me by Christmas. I understand her obsession with food, but the good times clearly need to stop rolling.

  The vet assistant is the same young man that had endured my tears when he told me the sty would cost $500. He pokes around in Honeybun's ear, and she is not happy about it, but suffers quietly. She lowers her tail to half mast, and looks miserable. The verdict after a microscopic analysis- a nasty bacterial and yeast infection producing lots of foul smelling gunk which they remove in the back room. I hear them exclaiming over the large volume of nasty smelling gunk.

  As he enters the numbers of what this latest malady is going to set us back, he turns the computer screen towards me, and then runs from the room. He is taking no chances that I will dissolve into an inconvenient crying mess in front of him again. It is a mere $100, though. Not enough to collapse over, just enough for a brief intake of extra oxygen.

  "
Usually dogs with upright ears don't get these," he mentions.

  "Yeh, but that ear is damaged," I commiserate, "And it doesn't stay upright."

  (The other one is pointing to God, I want to add, and I sure hope He intends to pay for it....)

  He sends me home with a cleanser that should prevent these from recurring if squirted in her ear once a week. I add that to my burgeoning check list. Meanwhile, Asherel and Lucky went shopping in the store while we were with the vet. Asherel periodically returns with some cute outfit or bone that Lucky "has picked out", one of which is a little doggy raincoat, yellow with a print of little yellow ducks on it.

  "Wouldn't Honeybun look great in this? And you know how much it rains in North Carolina," she pitches.

  "Asherel, she is a dog, not a toy," I sigh.

  She smiles hopefully at me.

  "How much is it?" I ask. (It actually is pretty cute.)

  “$20," she discovers.

  "Forget it."

  She returns a short time later with a pink reversible to plaid mid weight coat.

  "This is on sale for $6.99!" she exclaims, “And it is reflective and reversible."

  There is much to be said for reversible things. If time were reversible, how far back would I need to go to not want to go back any further? At this point, I am thinking longingly of my days in the womb.

  After telling Malta about Honeybun's ear; she offers to drop off her medicines so I don’t need to buy any.

  “ No, we can afford it”, I tell her. “You save your meds for your houseful of dogs.”

  She has given up drinking coffee to save money for the dogs, but she is offering me her medicines. My complaining spirit recognizes the need to stuff a cork in my soul.