by Amy Newmark
Now the snow has melted. Summer is here, and Daisy trots in the back yard. Her tail is always wagging. She searches through her pile of favorite toys and brings one to us every time she goes outside. Her spirit is contagious. Her attitude of gratitude is mesmerizing. Her journey exemplifies what hope can bring about. Patience, dedication and faith carried us through the journey as Daisy went from paralyzed to mobile. Now, when we see Daisy’s eyes dancing with happiness, her tail wagging with excitement, when we see her trotting around the house or the back yard on her own four legs, we are reminded that amazing things can occur if we simply follow our hearts and cling tightly to the belief that everything will be all right.
~Stacey Ritz
A Really Good Dog
Fun fact: Most dogs that are used in TV and movies have been rescued from an animal shelter.
While some friendships grow over time, others happen fast. The first time you meet, it’s like you’ve always been friends. That’s how it was with my friend Cathy, who I met when I volunteered for a canine rescue group.
Cathy had her own tribe — two dogs — as did I, plus two cats. She also had a long-term foster, Gus, who had some behavioral problems she was working on. I had a large yard, so she often loaded up all her dogs to come over and play with all of mine.
One day, Cathy called sounding fairly panicked and asking if I could take Gus, who had bitten a repairman. It didn’t seem to be a bad bite, but the repairman apparently didn’t like dogs and pretty much wanted him shot on the spot. The police were called, and tickets were written.
Cathy had to appear before a judge within twenty-four hours, at which time Gus had to be removed from the village or be put down. The rescue had rules about dogs that bit, so it couldn’t help. My house was pretty full of dogs already, and I had kids about, so I wasn’t eager to take him. Things weren’t looking good for Gus.
Cathy was also trying to reach another friend, Mary, who was especially fond of Gus, but she had been having some health problems lately, suddenly passing out for no reason anyone could discern, so we weren’t sure she would be up for it. Plus, she was at her limit for allowable dogs and had a neighbor that would have liked to ban dogs altogether. She was always watching Mary’s dogs and counting them. As it turned out, Mary was delighted to take Gus, feeling that since he looked so much like her own dogs, the neighbor wouldn’t know the difference!
Not long after, Cathy called to tell me that not only was Gus doing well with Mary, but he suddenly seemed to develop a sense for when Mary was going to have a “spell.” He would nudge her persistently until she sat down. Mary was able to have him designated as a service dog, and therefore he was not included in the maximum number of dogs she was permitted to have. He was also able to go to work with her as an official service animal, further relieving her angst over possibly having to quit her job because of her condition.
As an added benefit, Gus got to accompany Mary’s husband to visit the neighbor, wearing his service vest, to explain there would now be three dogs at their house.
We were delighted, thinking it couldn’t get any better, when Cathy called me again. She had received a call in the middle of the night. Seeing it was Mary’s number on the caller ID, she feared the worst. But as it turned out, it was Mary, not her husband, on the phone. Gus had woken her up, something he had never done. When he wouldn’t settle, she thought maybe he needed to go out. When she got up, he jumped in her bed. For all his problems, Gus had never gotten on the furniture.
It was then she noticed that her husband’s breathing didn’t seem right. She called the paramedics, and in the dead of that Midwestern winter night, they arrived in record time and rushed him to the hospital. Time was truly of the essence. With no previously known cardiac problems, he was in heart failure. They arrived in the emergency room with very little time to spare, saving Jim’s life.
Cathy and I have talked many times about how it seems that foster dogs seem to be on a journey. It’s as if they have a destination known only to them and will do what they have to in order to complete that journey.
In this case, I guess Gus had to be a bad dog in order to fulfill his destiny to be a really good dog.
~Beki Muchow
Making a Family
Fun fact: The Bichon Frise actually has a double coat, with a soft, thick coat underneath its cottony-looking outside coat.
“Please?” “Please?” “Please?” Three sets of eyes looked up at Dad. During dinner, Mom announced that one of her English students at the college was a dog breeder and was offering the runt of her latest litter of Bichon Frise puppies at a special price.
“We’ll take care of him,” I promised.
“Please, Daddy, please!” my sister begged.
“I always grew up with dogs,” Mom added.
For years, Dad had avoided getting a dog. Whenever the topic came up, Dad put on his grumpiest face and uttered stock phrases: “Dogs are a pain. They’re a big responsibility. I don’t want to be bothered.” But he never refused outright. He’d hidden “Nos” behind “Somedays” and “Maybes.”
This was our “Someday.”
Dad barely made it through dinner before he caved. A few weeks later, Mom brought home a little ball of fluff named Chip. Dad watched from afar, muttering, “Don’t think for one second I’m going to feed, walk, or brush him.”
We were almost too in love to hear.
For me, at age thirteen, Chip offered a solid foundation, a way out of all the trouble I could get into as a teenager. While many of my friends were flirting in online chat rooms, sniffing permanent markers, sneaking their parents’ alcohol, or meeting for trysts in the woods, I was outside playing with our new puppy.
Instead of being a self-absorbed teenager, I had someone else to look out for: Chip. Before long, I had him waiting at crosswalks until it was safe, and responding to “shake,” “sit,” and “stand up.” I kept him out of the trash, filled his water bowl, groomed his coat and brushed his teeth. I had promised my parents that if we got a dog I’d be responsible, and I was. Chip taught me about actions and consequences. I learned that when we take care of what is important to us, we reap the benefits. For me, this meant a loyal companion, someone to greet me at the door when I returned from babysitting, someone to keep my lap warm on cold winter nights, and someone to kiss my face when I was sad. And this lesson stayed with me as I grew.
Chip brought out my responsible side and he helped my younger sister with her self-confidence. We’d had a dog once before — years earlier, and only for a few weeks. My mom had been allergic to his dense fur, and my sister, then only a small child, had been terrified of the Samoyed. She approached Chip with caution. As if Chip could sense her feelings, he remained extra gentle with her. He would crawl gently onto her lap and curl up with a contented sigh. She grew confident with him and was eventually able to walk him on her own. She even taught him his most unusual trick — “Look” — a command that caused him to run to the nearest sewer drain, push a pebble into it with his nose, and watch it plummet into the water below. This new confidence stayed with her as she grew, and she took on leadership roles in sports and at school.
But Chip’s magic didn’t stop with us kids. Mom had always been happiest when she had someone to just sit and listen — and our busy family didn’t sit still for that. Bichons are particularly adept at listening and discerning the nuances of language, so Chip would sit with mom, his head cocking from side to side as he tried to make out the meaning of her words. Before long, she had him discerning the difference between all his toys: “Christmas-bear,” “cat-bear,” “flat bone,” “squeaky toy,” and more.
Perhaps the most amazing transformation was Dad’s. From the start, Dad was adamant: “He’s your dog, not mine. No table scraps. No sitting on the furniture.” It was hardly a month before Chip’s adorable personality won him over. Dad was the first to feed Chip table scraps, and the first to allow him to sit on the couch. Chip even allowed Dad’s under-utilized (but amaz
ing) creative side to blossom. Before long, Dad was making chew toys and obstacles for Chip to play with. In the deep winter snow, it was Dad who shoveled a path in the back yard from the patio door to Chip’s favorite tree. Chip had won over the heart of the sternest member of our family and softened him.
Chip brought us together as a family. It was a time when my friends were becoming more isolated from their parents and a time when teenagers thought it wasn’t “cool” to associate with younger siblings. After dinner, children would escape to their bedrooms, parents fled to their newspapers, and no one interacted. But Chip united us. After dinner, we all followed Chip into the family room. We’d teach him new tricks or reinforce his old ones. We’d recount stories of the cute things he’d done that day. We’d help Dad create a new chew toy with ropes from the garage or collaborate on an obstacle course of buckets, blankets, and toys. The important thing is that we’d do this together as a family.
When Chip passed away at seventeen, Dad suffered the most. “I never thought a pet could mean so much to me,” he admitted. He told us this together — grown-up kids coming home again from college and jobs as Chip brought us together one final time. And it was Dad who called from the road not too long afterward — letting us know he’d found a puppy on a pet-finder website and was on his way home with it.
People who are not dog lovers sometimes complain about those who treat their pets too much like humans. What they don’t understand is that it isn’t that dog lovers are abandoning humanity for their pets; rather, their pets are what elicit in them the best aspects of their humanity. In my family’s case, Chip strengthened our responsibility, confidence, companionship, love, creativity, and togetherness. It isn’t that we aspired to make Chip human; it’s that he succeeded in doing that for us.
~Val Muller
The Birthday Miracle
Fun fact: A study by the ASPCA found that pet owners become just as attached to pets they’ve received as gifts as to pets they’ve chosen themselves.
His pleading blue eyes always got to me, and Devon knew it. I sat in my favorite tattered armchair watching TV, a blanket tucked around me against February’s winter chill. Devon stood next to the chair in his stocking feet.
Devon had played the man of the house since his father left the year before, but tonight I was not looking into the eyes of a man. Tonight, he was a twelve-year-old boy who wanted a puppy for his birthday, and his birthday was tomorrow.
“They say every boy should have a dog of his own, don’t you agree?” His brow wrinkled into such a serious expression that I wanted to giggle. He had obviously put a lot of thought into how to talk me into getting him a puppy for his birthday.
The old chair groaned in protest as I leaned forward to match his gaze. “I kind of figured you were going to say that.”
“So? What do you think?” He bounced up and down in anticipation.
I sighed, knowing what my answer would have to be. It seemed to be the answer to every wish since his father left us. “I would love to get you a puppy, but puppies are expensive. They need food and shots and a license. We just can’t afford all that right now, honey.” I lowered my head so he wouldn’t see my tears.
He stood there for a moment. Then he knelt down and placed his small hand on my knee. “That’s okay, Mom. I understand,” he whispered. “But some day, when things get better, can we get a puppy?”
“Absolutely, Dev. I promise.” I forced myself to smile. I hated disappointing my sweet son on his birthday.
“Well then,” he announced with a brave grin, “when we get a puppy, I am going to name him Rusty.”
“Rusty? That’s a fine name.” I breathed a sigh of relief as he crawled onto my lap for a hug.
The next morning, I awoke to the grim reality that I could not afford a birthday gift for Devon, let alone a party. The house was quiet as I slipped into my shoes and gathered our recyclable bottles and cans. In Oregon, they were worth five cents each. I thought of the video-game system Devon would be receiving from his father and the look on his face when he saw nothing from me.
Standing at the foot of Devon’s bed, I cried “Happy Birthday!” as soon as he opened his eyes. “Come on, we have some recycling to turn in. Let’s get you a birthday donut.”
We drove to the nearby convenience store, and I crossed my fingers while the cashier counted our bottles and cans. There was just enough. Devon and I took our time choosing the two most scrumptious-looking donuts, one covered in sprinkles and one dripping with chocolate.
Devon grabbed the bag and fished out his treat. He took a huge bite before pushing his way through the glass front door. On the front sidewalk, he froze in his tracks so fast that I almost ran into him.
A puppy caught his eye. A young woman was parked just outside the door. The morning air was barely above freezing, but she sat with her car window down and bundled in a big jacket. Her face was wet with tears. A fluffy puppy was curled up in her lap with his nose resting on the driver’s door. He had a copper coat and warm brown eyes.
Devon rushed over to the car and stood stroking the puppy’s fur and laughing as the puppy licked his face. Then I turned to the woman: “What’s wrong?”
The woman sniffled and wiped her face before answering. “I got this puppy from a lady giving them away in front of Ray’s Market a couple weeks ago. My husband is a truck driver, and he is gone from home a lot. I thought maybe the puppy would be fun company for the kids and me, and my husband would get a kick out of him.”
She stopped to blow her nose and then continued. “Instead, he was furious! He demanded that I load him into the car right now and take him to the animal shelter.” She paused as tears started to form again. “But I just can’t.”
Devon giggled as he fed the rest of his donut to the puppy and was thanked with a wet puppy lick across the face. The woman ran her fingers through the puppy’s thick fur.
“He sure likes you,” she told Devon. “Any chance you guys could take him?”
“Really?” Devon gasped and turned to me. I stepped back from the car. Could we?
“Listen,” she begged. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but he already has his license and shots. He is even potty-trained. He eats cheap, generic dog food, and he loves kids.” I reached forward and touched the soft fur.
“He sure is cute,” I mumbled.
“Please take him,” she begged. “He is such a friendly and well-behaved dog. He stays outside during the day and is content while I am at work. The kids named him, but you can change it if you like. They call him Rusty.”
“Rusty?” Devon whispered.
Moments later, Devon buried his face in the soft fur while the puppy dozed on his shoulder during the short ride home. Devon’s birthday wish was granted, as well as my prayer to give him the perfect gift. His name was Rusty. How could I say no to that?
~Tea R. Peronto
Blind Faith
Not-so-fun fact: Progressive retinal atrophy (PRA), an inherited disorder, causes degeneration of the retina and eventual blindness. It’s found in more than eighty-six dog breeds.
We are the proud owners of a snowy-white, twenty-three-pound Poodle mix named Curley. He’s an adorable rescue dog. He’s affectionate, playful, loyal, gentle, and happy. He loves absolutely everyone and is always by our sides. Did I say always? Yes, always. Turns out, Curley doesn’t like to be left alone — ever — probably as a result of being abandoned.
We discovered this early on when we would leave for a little bit. In our absence, he’d chew through doors, windows, window blinds, curtains, doorknobs, anything. Sometimes, he’d get out, dig a hole through the fence, and trot down the sidewalk searching for us. I considered adopting a companion for him, but he does not like other dogs, only people. We tried doggy kindergarten to get him socialized, but he flunked out twice.
It took me several months to piece together the puzzle that is Curley, so buoyantly happy in the presence of others, but hysterical and distraught on his own. It was my mission
to help him heal. In retrospect, I should have known we were adopting a high-maintenance case. The shelter volunteer had whispered to me as we were putting Curley in the car, “Oh, yeah, I’m supposed to tell you that he’s been returned — twice. He might be a little bit, like, destructive.”
I read The Dog Whisperer and consulted blogs. I tried all sorts of security devices like toys, treats, blankets, and stuffed animals. Nothing worked. If we were going out to dinner, we had to first “Curley-proof” the house. Lock and block the windows and doors! Leave the TV on for some background noise. We’d hope for the best, but it was anyone’s guess what we’d come home to, and the thought of him being so worried broke our hearts. I can’t begin to list the doors, screens, windows, curtains, blinds and fences we ordered and reordered, but there was never any part of us that didn’t want Curley in our lives. His smile, his soulful eyes, and his willingness to be by our sides are all the qualities that melt our hearts.
Over time, Curley improved — not because of any toy, or treat, or doggy kindergarten, but because everything consistently stayed the same. He could finally trust that he was home and loved forever. His outbursts subsided, and sometimes we’d walk in the door and find him resting peacefully on the couch. It was a beautiful sight. Then came our next challenge.
One evening, as it was getting dark, my daughter and I were walking back from the park with Curley, and he sat down on the sidewalk, refusing to go any farther. This was highly unusual since he loved his walks. He wouldn’t budge. We finally had to carry him home. Once we were back in the house, he acted fine, but he refused to go outside that night before bedtime. We started seeing his behavior change whenever he was in dim light or darkness. He was tentative and would creep slowly along the ground. I took him to our vet, who referred us to an animal ophthalmologist.