My Very Good, Very Bad Dog

by Amy Newmark

  Today, though, Fritz looked listless, fragile, and feeble. “What do you need, old boy?” I stroked his head. “Please tell me. I’ll get you whatever you need.”

  Mr. Davis must have seen us on the back porch. “Hey, kiddo. Looks as if old Fritz is in some pain. Let’s take him to the vet. How does that sound?”

  I silently boarded Mr. Davis’s truck, resting Fritz comfortably in my lap. When we arrived at the vet’s office, he immediately took Fritz from me and disappeared from view. When he reappeared, the vet said, “Fritz has arthritis, and he’s also had a severe heart attack. He’s an old dog and too weak to survive.” He took my hand in his. “The strong and merciful thing to do would be to put Fritz to sleep.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe all Fritz needs is some rest.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I know you love Fritz and letting him go is a hard decision, but…” the vet’s voice trailed off.

  I gulped hard and nodded. “Okay.”

  “Would you like to see him one last time?” The vet patted my shoulder.

  “Go ahead, kiddo.” Mr. Davis squeezed my hand. “I’ll wait for you right here.”

  I entered the back room and approached the examination table. Fritz lifted his head, licked my face, and wagged his broken tail. I stroked Fritz’s belly and patted his head, choking back tears. “Fritz, you’re weak and sick, and you’re not going to get any better. I don’t want to see you suffer. So I’m… I’m… putting you to sleep.” I hugged Fritz one last time. “I’m going to miss you!”

  Fritz looked at me with those familiar doe-like, understanding eyes, and then nodded his head as if to say, “I’ll be okay. Thanks for being strong and merciful.”

  The vet handed me a box of tissues. “Putting Fritz to sleep is safe and harmless. Fritz will receive two shots. The first will render him unconscious. The second will painlessly put him to sleep, usually within about thirty seconds.”

  After Fritz received the first shot, I waited until unconsciousness washed over him like a soothing rain. Then, with the second shot, Fritz peacefully slipped away. I lingered by Fritz’s side for quite some time and remembered what Fritz taught me about tenacity, love, encouragement, and now, death.

  The next day, Mr. Davis and I buried Fritz in his favorite spot — beneath the cool shade of the pecan tree. Afterwards, I stood in silence and found myself thinking back to the day Hilda tried to kill her runt puppy. As I did, my perspective shifted, for I now better understood and even respected Hilda’s instinct to be strong and merciful.

  ~Sara Etgen-Baker

  Meant for Each Other

  Not-so-fun fact: Dogs can develop a disease similar to Alzheimer’s called Canine Cognitive Dysfunction Syndrome. Symptoms include disorientation, house soiling, or changes in sleep or interaction.

  Among the many dogs at the Animal Resource Center on that day, the old dog stood out because of his dignity and poise. He did not rush to the front of his cage, or bark madly, or leap about as if to say, “Look at me!” He simply lay quietly near the back of the cage, head raised and bulbous brown eyes fixed on us as we paused just outside his cell.

  My son had dragged me there that day. Since my husband had died three years before, my dog-loving son had tried to persuade me to get a dog for company. I was reluctant, not sure I wanted to be responsible again for another creature. I had raised my children and, now that they were all on their own, I was not eager to take on another life. But this afternoon my son and his friend had come by to take action.

  “We just came from the pound, Mom,” my son said, “and there is a dog there that is perfect for you.” Again I said, as I had many times before, “I’m not sure I want a dog, Trey.”

  “Oh,” he said, “but this one is just right for you. Come on, let’s go look.”

  Thinking this would be the only way to get him off my back, I went. We walked the aisles, looking at every dog in every cage. There were Shepherds, Border Collies, Chihuahuas, mutts, and many Pit Bulls. Some were sad, some hyper, others frightening, but all were appealing and heartwrenching in their way. As we rounded the corner to the last aisle, I saw ahead of me a little black-and-white ball of energy. He was in a topless cage, leaping straight into the air and down again, barking like a seal with each jump. I asked that he be taken out and brought into the visitors’ enclosure. I quickly realized that, although he was adorable, he was way too high-energy for me. I was looking for a dog with a laidback temperament to match my own.

  Next we went to the dog my son had picked for me — a little Chihuahua with big ears. She pranced like a circus pony and was indeed charming. Once in the enclosure, however, she showed no interest at all in any of us, and simply ran about, dashing from point to point with no apparent purpose. I shook my head at my son.

  “I need to think about it. Nothing here really grabs me.”

  We retraced our steps, looking again at each animal as we passed. One of the last cages was the one with the old Boxer, and I noted the sign that said, “A Senior Dog for a Senior.” He was very big, however, and I wanted a smaller dog for my small house. We got in the car and headed home. A short distance away, I opened my mouth.

  “I’m just thinking about the old dog,” I said.

  I surprised even myself because I had not been thinking of him — not consciously, anyway. The words had simply come without warning or forethought.

  “You want to go back?” my son asked. I agreed.

  Once there, we went directly to the cage. Crouching to look at the dog, I could see the gray hairs in his muzzle. He got up and walked slowly to the front of the cage, but did not make any overtures or appear particularly excited. My son read the card at the top of his cage. He was owner-surrendered, seven years old, and had been there five weeks.

  “Does he have a name?” I asked.

  “Yes, his name is Tater.”

  “And I’m from Idaho,” I said. “I think this is my dog.”

  We found a staff member and asked that he be brought out for us. She tied a light rope around his neck and brought him out, handing the end of the rope to me. He walked sedately beside me as we left the cage area and exited to the outside exercise pen. I sat on a bench, and the dog sat quietly beside me. After just a few minutes, he stood up, put his front legs and his big barrel chest onto my lap, and settled in. His big head was now level with my face. At regular intervals, he would turn his head, look into my eyes, and lick my face with his wet, warm tongue. Oh, yes, he was playing me. After a few minutes, we took him back inside, turned him over to the staff member, and went out to the front desk.

  “I want the big Boxer, Tater,” I said to the young woman behind the desk.

  I learned that Tater had been a companion dog, but no record existed of why he had been surrendered. I paid the fees and was told that I could pick him up on Saturday, after he had had his neutering surgery on Friday.

  Immediately after arriving at my home on Saturday, Tater explored the house. He then settled down on the living room floor to sleep. Later, alone with him, I had some anxious moments. At one point, Tater stood in front of me and made a low, growling sound, a little like an engine trying to turn over. The sound increased in volume and urgency. It was clear he was trying to tell me something, but I had no idea what. When he began barking in his deep, loud voice, the thought crossed my mind, “He could rip out my throat!” We had a few days of muddled communications, puddles on the floor, and getting-to-know-you moments, but eventually settled into a routine.

  Tater has been with me almost a year. We take walks together, and he is content to stay on the leash, ambling along slowly and sniffing at points of interest along the trail. Wherever I am, he is sleeping nearby. He will not stay in the fenced yard alone. It is clear that he likes people but has little use for other dogs. I have learned to put food away or beyond his reach — and his reach is long. He likes to ride in the car, in the back seat, with the windows cracked. He likes to sleep on the beds, and his choice of bed varies from day to day.

&n
bsp; Most people choose young dogs when they go to the shelter, just as most adults want babies when they adopt. There is little interest in an old dog whose functions are slowing and whose life is nearing its end.

  Who knows what would have happened to Tater if I had not taken him home? I feel certain that the words that came from my mouth as we drove away from the shelter that day were put there by a caring Power, and did not come from my own mind. As a result, I have a sweet companion for my last years, and Tater does not have to live out his life in a cement-floored cage.

  ~Twilla Estes

  My Social Butterfly

  Fun fact: Dogs are naturally social, but when they first meet, they need to figure out which one is “top dog” in their social ranking.

  “Do you know the names of all the dogs in the neighborhood?” my friend Becky asked me during an evening walk.

  “Yes, I guess I do since I am the mother of a four-legged social butterfly.”

  Our rescue puppy, Cornbread, a yellow Lab–Spaniel mix, loves to be around other dogs. Her temperament is very different from our beloved Catfish, a yellow Lab that passed away two years earlier. He was the exact opposite; he loved people, but he did not like other dogs. On walks with him, I constantly had to avoid other dogs.

  It is quite a different story with Cornbread. Whenever we meet another dog, we have to stop and visit. It is just the polite thing to do, according to Cornbread. She pulls on her leash and whimpers until we stop to visit and say hello. So, yes, I do know the names of all the fellow canines in our neighborhood. We must always stop and visit Maggie, Sandy, Oreo, or Sika, the cute Husky with the crystal-blue eyes.

  When we are not walking, Cornbread roams our yard within the confines of an electric fence. However, sometimes electric fences do not work. When this happens, Cornbread usually makes a run for it. I am never concerned because I can usually find her visiting one of her friends nearby.

  On one such occasion, she got out, and we received a call from our neighbors that she was over at their house visiting Sandy. I quickly went to pick up my social butterfly and take her home. Days later on our walk, we stopped at Sandy’s house to say hello. Looking down, I noticed one of Cornbread’s toys lying outside Sandy’s fence. Why, she must have brought it when she came to see Sandy the other day. Bending over, I picked it up and handed it to her. “Cornbread, you left your toy here. We need to take it home.”

  She quickly took it from my hand, dropped it on the ground, and looked up at me. I picked it up a second time and, once again, she took it from my hand and dropped it. After repeating this for the third time, I finally understood what she wanted to do with her toy: She wanted to give it to Sandy.

  In Cornbread’s mind, you show your friends that you care by taking the time to stop and visit and occasionally bring them a gift. She had brought her toy as a gift for Sandy on her previous visit.

  “Do you want to give your toy to Sandy?” Cornbread patiently sat, waiting for me to understand. Realizing her intent, I threw her toy over the fence into Sandy’s yard. It was then that she happily wagged her tail, pleased that she had been able to give her friend a gift.

  ~Tanya Shearer

  How Stella Got Her Groove Back

  Not-so-fun fact: An estimated 4–6 million dogs are euthanized in the United States every year because they aren’t adopted and animal shelters are overcrowded.

  I was making one of my all too frequent stops at the large veterinary hospital I’ve been taking my pets to for the past two decades. This time none of my pets were in tow as it was just a med pick-up run. I’m such a frequent flyer I know just about everyone who works there. Lisa, who has managed the pharmacy as long as I’ve been a client, is one of my favorite people. We always chat about our pets and this time I got to meet Stella, who was spending the day in Lisa’s office.

  Stella is an adorable Pit Bull mix with an engagingly uneven grin. Her thin tail wagged at warp speed and all I could think was, “What a happy dog!” Little did I know that Lisa was about to reveal Stella’s secret life before her adoption. I would soon learn that any luck in Stella’s early life had been bad.

  “Working in this large veterinary hospital, I’ve seen a number of throwaway animals with injuries or a disease and no one to pay for the procedures and medications that will save their lives,” Lisa began. “Often they’re euthanized for lack of a responsible owner willing to make them whole again.

  “About twice a week Animal Control brings in an injured, neglected, abused or sick animal. Many can be saved but they need a home and someone to care for them once treatment is given. Veterinary workers who see these animals often throw the needed lifeline.

  “One hot summer day, an Animal Control officer brought in a young, female Pit Bull mix. She’d been used as a bait dog for a dog-fighting ring. A neighbor’s complaint led officers to her, chained to a pole along with purebred Pit Bulls.

  “The fight dogs were taken directly to Animal Control, presumably to be euthanized. The injured mix was brought in with a suspected gunshot wound to her right shoulder. She was limping without a whimper. X-rays revealed that her wound was actually a deep, infected dog bite. She was covered with other bite marks in various stages of healing.

  “The bones of her rib cage stood out prominently, as she weighed only nineteen of the thirty pounds that are healthy for her breed and size. A collar, obviously put on her as a young pup, was embedded in the flesh around her neck. It was apparent that her previous owners had no concern about her outgrowing it; perhaps they never expected her to survive in the deplorably violent world they’d placed her in.

  “She was anemic from the fleas and ticks that covered her body and swarmed in her ears, under her legs and in her groin. To make her more comfortable, the fleas and ticks were treated immediately. With antibiotics and two to three weeks of crate rest, her shoulder would recover. Her chance for a better life was contingent upon someone adopting her.”

  I’d remained speechless throughout Lisa’s vivid description of Stella’s arrival at the clinic. Throughout it, I glanced down at Stella and noticed her unwavering focus on her human mom. I saw adoration in those soulful eyes. I waited to learn how Stella evolved from being a friendless victim to a cherished family member. Lisa didn’t disappoint me.

  “Most of our animals have come from this veterinary clinic. My husband Kevin has always been a pretty good sport when I’ve wanted to bring another sad luck case home from the hospital. We had two cats and a dog already when I told him about the sweet bait dog. He said we had enough animals and he was reluctant to add another, especially one with all the issues this one had.

  “I knew he’d change his mind when he saw her, because, despite the abuse she had suffered, she was friendly and offered a toothy grin and gentle tail wag whenever any hospital workers approached her. As predicted, Kevin took one look at the half starved, much scarred dog and was impressed by her desire to befriend everyone she met. He looked from her to me and said, ‘I guess we’ve got a new dog, Lisa.’ ”

  I was transfixed and would have stood there all morning petting Stella’s head as she leaned against my leg. Only the growing line of clients waiting to receive their pet medications could interrupt this fascinating tale.

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” Lisa sighed.

  I didn’t want it to end like this. I had to hear the details about Stella’s recovery. “Sure, but can we meet sometime soon to finish Stella’s story? Maybe Kevin can join us.”

  Several days later Kevin and Lisa met me at a diner. Between bites of their roast beef sandwich, I learned about the highs and lows of Stella’s baby steps toward health and happiness.

  Kevin covered her transition to indoor living. “It was obvious she’d never been under a roof and was spooked by the confinement. Since she had to be crated to rest her leg and shoulder, we kept her in our bedroom. She soon adapted to her kennel and sought it as a safe spot.

  “The ceiling fan frightened her. If it was on, she’d stare at i
t and quiver. She wouldn’t pass through doorways or walk down the hallway. We had to carry her outside to go to the bathroom. Loud sounds made her shake with fear.”

  “Her adjustments were so subtle and came in such tiny baby steps that we sometimes wondered if she’d ever adapt to her new life,” Lisa added. “We had to repeatedly show her how to do everything and her progress was so very slow. Our vet, Dr. Porte, counseled me to have patience and assured me that everything would work out.

  “Just when I thought she’d never leave our bedroom, she observed Puck, our nine-year-old Rottweiler, playing with his ball. She just walked out our door to retrieve it. After that Puck befriended Stella, showing her she needn’t fear him as she had the other dogs in her life.”

  Both Lisa and Kevin marveled that the attacks Stella endured never made her aggressive. “She loves to socialize with our neighbors’ kids, my niece and anyone willing to pet her,” Lisa said.

  Kevin’s mom, who considers Stella her grandchild, lives 141 miles away but manages to spoil Stella anyway by mailing her squeaky toys and dog cookies. “We take Stella with us every Thanksgiving. She stays with Grandma while we stay at a “no pets” hotel. Grandma makes her scrambled eggs and rack of lamb, her favorites. When we travel, Stella also stays with Grandma. Her Doberman, Toby, taught Stella how to use stairs, a feat she seemed too terrified to attempt at home. The first time she saw Toby trotting down the stairs, she just followed suit.”

  Though Stella managed to conquer her fear of things inside the house, she was still timid around the swimming pool. Kevin helped her overcome her fear of water. “I used to bring her into the pool and helped her paddle near the steps. Now she swims in the shallow end and uses the steps to climb out. If we take a walk near the river, she wades in on her own.”

  A quiet dog, Stella rarely barks or whines. “Our new neighbor didn’t even realize we had her because he’d never heard her. She just stands near the door or in the kitchen when she wants something. We’re so well trained that we respond quickly and correctly every time,” Lisa giggled, “and Stella is pleased with our progress.”