I’d worked in rescue for the better part of six years, had held animals when they breathed their last breaths, had seen what was left of pets who had been abused for years, and yet had never in my life felt as moved as I did with this dog cuddled against me, begging me with her eyes to take her out of this awful, scary place. And somehow, I knew I needed her as much as she needed me. When I shifted my weight, preparing to rise, Abby lifted her head and proceeded to lap at my face with her long pink tongue. “All right, angel, you’ve convinced me,” I murmured, realizing the decision had already been made— whether by me, Abby or perhaps even the Lord himself, I wasn’t quite sure. I stepped out of the run with a promise of a hasty return.
Walking into the front office, I cornered the shelter director. “What can you tell me about the female black Lab in pen 41?”
Because of the frequency of my visits, Kelly and I were on a first-name basis, and she knew she didn’t have to pull any punches. She watched my face for a moment before reaching under the counter to pull out a clipboard. After flipping through what seemed like an infinite number of sheets, she stopped, pointing her finger at the top of the page. “Her name is Abby, she’s a four-year-old spayed female, been here since Wednesday of last week. Dropped off with the moving-and-can’t-take-with story. Haven’t had a single soul take a second look at her. She’s big, she’s all black and she’s shy, not a good combination for quick adoption. As of right now she’s scheduled to be put down on Friday unless a miracle happens. She’s also registered, in case any one really cares, previous owners dropped off her papers when they dropped off their responsibility. I know you work with the small dogs most of the time, Jen, but I’m sure you already know that large black dogs are the last to get chosen. If we can find her a foster, she might open up a little, but here she’s just not going to make it.”
My mind was already made up. “If you can clear her, I’ll take her right now. I’ll take her home myself . . . she’s just got to get out of here.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“Just show me where to sign, Kelly.”
Ten minutes later Abby crept slowly out of the shelter at the end of an old knotted leash Kelly had scrounged up. Surprisingly, she hopped up into the passenger seat of my beat-up, pickle-green Buick with little coaxing and settled in quickly. Curling up in the seat in her usual tight ball, her only concession to her changed circumstance was to stretch her neck across the armrest so her head could rest on my thigh. She slept for the whole drive to the vet’s office, heaving deep sighs every so often, and occasionally lifting one sleepy eyelid, as if to confirm that I was still there.
Abby’s medical checkup was less than stellar: she was covered in fleas, suffering from a nasty ear infection, and to make matters worse, she was heartworm positive. I left with medication to heal her ear, which had to be done before her heartworm treatment could be considered safe.
Her arrival home brought about the expected blow-up, but her steady form sitting quietly at my side kept me from backing down. When the shouting was over, I packed my things and left. With my family’s support, I got my own Lab-friendly apartment and my life started to take a slow turn for the better.
A round of uncomfortable weeks began for Abby with her first heartworm treatment, during which time she absolutely refused to let me out of her sight. She would wait just outside the bathroom door to make sure I didn’t accidentally get flushed away and would follow me from room to room, regardless of how exhausted it seemed to make her. Luckily, I was working for the same wonderful veterinarian who was administering her heartworm treatment, and was able to bring her to work with me each day so she could rest and still watch me as I went about my daily activities.
Once her treatment was complete, and after a few months of constant TLC, her coat took on a glorious blue-black sheen, her eyes regained a beautiful twinkle and her personality took a leap for the stars. Abby, or Lady Abigail as her papers dubbed her, proved herself to be a tender and ever-loyal companion. As she started to feel better, she revealed a friendly, inquisitive side and insisted on meeting and greeting everyone she came across. This habit eventually led to Abby’s therapy dog certification, and soon we were visiting hospitals and nursing homes in our area, my wonderful dog relishing the attention she received and offering her silent support to all she met.
Five years have come and gone. Abby and I have beaten our demons together. I have come to a whole new understanding of myself as an individual, and Abby knows that she need never worry about being abandoned again. I have recently married the love of my life, a man who respects me as an equal and treats me like the beautiful, intelligent woman that I am. He is also working hard at turning Abby into a spoiled, eighty-pound “daddy’s girl.” My husband and I recently built a home and are looking forward to starting a family soon.
Through all these changes, Abby remains my steadfast companion. She often sits at my side, laying her head against my thigh and giving me a healthy dose of those powerful eyes as if to say, Thank you for saving me . . . I’ll always love you. I wish so much that I could explain to her that it was she who did all the saving, and that “always” just isn’t going to be long enough for me.
Jennifer Remeta
5
A FURRY RX
I have found that when you are deeply troubled there are things you get from the silent, devoted companionship of a dog that you can get from no other source.
Doris Day
Willow and Rosie:
The Ordinary Miracle of Pets
Dogs are our link to paradise. They don’t know evil or jealousy or discontent.
Milan Kundera
In the early morning hours of September 13, 2001, the Sheraton Hotel in Crystal City, Virginia, was teeming with military personnel—setting up tables, installing phone lines, laying computer cables. Chaplains, Red Cross volunteers, FEMA (Federal Emergency Management Agency), the Salvation Army, everyone had a purpose amid the controlled chaos.
The hotel was the official assistance center for Pentagon families waiting for news on the fate of loved ones. It was less than forty-eight hours since the 9/11 assault on America, and the atmosphere was one of immense sorrow, bewilderment and tension—hardly the time or place for dogs. As Sue and Lee Peetoom made their way through the busy operations with their two Labrador retrievers, Rosie andWillow, they saw the questioning looks on the faces of people they passed. Several times, the Peetooms heard, “What are dogs doing here?”
Rosie and Willow, both over ten years of age, were veteran therapy dogswith Spiritkeepers out of Fredericksburg, Virginia. Certified through Therapy Dogs International (TDI), they wore the official insignia on the red bandannas tied around their necks. The volunteer coordinator had never heard of the concept of bringing dogs to comfort people at a trauma site, but she welcomed them anyway and invited them to stay the day. Sue and Lee and their dogs were set up in the path between the hotel ballroom, now dubbed “the briefing room,” and all the services being assembled for grieving relatives.
Two big dogs in the middle of a passageway swelling with arriving families could hardly be missed, so before long, people became curious and asked about them. As Sue and Lee explained the purpose of therapy dogs, Rosie and Willow wagged their tails and snuggled in to receive lots of pats and hugs. Soon chaplains as well as military personnel were stopping by to see what it was all about.
That afternoon, hundreds of people gathered in the ballroom for the briefing. When it ended, unimaginable sorrow hung over the place. Silently they filed out—parents clung to their children, elderly couples held hands as they walked in pain. But as the first of the crowd neared the dogs, Rosie and Willow stood up ready to receive them. Kids came over to pet them. Then their families joined in. A military escort leaned down to hug Willow. There were chaplains. Then volunteers. The dogs graciously took them all in.
Across the hall, a serious-looking officer watched. When the crush of people passed, he stepped over to say hello, giving each
dog a pat before he moved on.
The officer turned out to be the man in charge, General John Van Alstyne. At his request the dogs were asked to return. And they did—every day for the month the center was active. Backed up by forty-two teams from therapy groups in Virginia and Maryland, the dogs became a symbol of strength and love for all.
According to Sue, no words could express the incredible sadness they witnessed. There was the leather-clad biker who sat on the floor, his tattoo-covered arms draped over Willow and Rosie as he sobbed into their fur. His wife had perished inside the Pentagon. And the woman who became so overwhelmed with grief, not even the chaplains could console her. Rosie was called in and, laying her head in the woman’s lap, gently licked her hands. The woman wrapped her arms around the big dog and for ten minutes they stayed like that, Rosie accepting all her sorrow until her tears subsided.
Two women waited to learn the fate of their missing husbands—one with three toddlers and a baby on the way, the second a recent arrival from Central America. Neither one spoke English. The dogs needed no words to comfort them. A child who couldn’t face a family visit to the site where his daddy was lost chose instead to find comfort with the dogs.
Hundreds of people with eyes full of pain still stopped with a smile, no matter how small, to say hello and hug Rosie and Willow. General Van Alstyne came by several times a day to give the dogs cookies and take a break from the grief, always expressing his gratitude for the important work of the therapy team. A chaplain confessed to pretending to be a “therapy dog” by barking and acting silly for the children who gathered in the hallway each morning to await their arrival.
Sue has vivid memories of the other gentle “comfort dogs” as they became known—from Yorkies to Newfies, pit bulls to greyhounds and mixed breeds of every size— all putting in fourteen-hour days to ease the pain of those who lost so much and refresh others who gave so much of themselves. A hundred times a day people stopped to thank them.
At the one-monthmemorial servicewith President Bush, the therapy teams were honored. In preparation for closing the center, a four-foot-tall plush dog was positioned in a place of honor. Throughout the course of that final day, it became covered with mementos from all the people involved:meal tickets, Red Cross tissues,military insignias, caps, business cards, even a Bible. A dog tag inscribed, “Therapy Dog” was hung round its neck. Willow’s official scarf was added, and the “dog” was presented to the general as a symbol of the center’s achievements.
Since the tragic events of 9/11, both Willow and Rosie have passed on. One can’t help but believe those two gentle angels were greeted with hugs in heaven by the people who perished that day.
Audrey Thomasson
At Face Value
About five years ago I had a recurring dream. The message was clear and precise, directing me to go to a specific shelter and adopt a particular dog. It was obvious from the dream that I would know the dog by something unusual about its face. But when I woke up, I could never recall what the unique facial feature was. I could only remember it was important for identifying the right dog.
I was very curious and felt compelled to follow the instructions in the dream. So early one Saturday morning, I went to the specified shelter to check the available canine adoptees. After looking carefully at all the dogs, I was disappointed that not one dog had anything unusual about its face. There were lots of cute puppies and just as many appealing older dogs, but I didn’t feel a connection to any of them.
On my way out of the shelter, I noticed a box of puppies just outside of view from the main area. My attention was drawn to one puppy in particular, and I decided to take a closer look. The one puppy appeared to have no fur on his face, while the rest of the litter were all black with spots of white. I was worried about the strange-looking pup, and hoped he hadn’t been injured. The puppies were a mix of black Lab and Chesapeake Bay retriever, called Chesapeake Labs. Each pup was named after a type of pasta. The one who had captured my interest was Fettuccine. On closer inspection, I realized he did have fur on his face, but it was a very odd shade of gray that made it look like skin. Satisfied that he was okay, I turned to leave the shelter.
And then it hit me: The face—it’s the dog with the unusual face! Immediately, I returned to the puppy and picked him up. As I lifted him from the box, his large and clumsy paws reached over my shoulders to cling tightly to my back. We bonded instantly, and I knew we belonged together. I could not leave without him, so I headed for the adoption desk. In that short amount of time, the gray-faced pup had wrapped his paws around my heart.
Meeting with the adoption counselor, I was informed that a family had already selected him. There was, however, still a slight chance since the family had not made their final decision. Theywere choosing between Fettuccine, the gray-faced pup, and his littermate, a female named Penne. I decided to wait for their decision. I hung around outside, watching the door. After an anxiety-filled hour, I saw the family leaving the shelter carrying Fettuccine. I began to cry inside. Then I realized a member of the family, the mother, was walking straight toward me. They knew I was awaiting their decision, and I was prepared for the worst. My heart pounded and I stood frozen in place as she approached. For a moment she didn’t say a word or give any indication of her decision, then, with a broad grin, she said, “Here’s your dog.”
I was speechless as grateful tears gushed from my eyes. I hugged the puppy to me and again felt those big front paws securely hugging my back. Although I was thankful to have him then, I didn’t know how thankful I would be later.
I took the gray-faced pup home and named him Dominic, keeping Fettuccine as his middle name. From the start, he was not at all a typical, rambunctious puppy. He was very calm, serious and didn’t play much. However, he was obedient, intelligent and very attentive. We lived happily together, and as Dom grew into a healthy, robust dog, he became my valued companion.
When Dominic was two years old, I was diagnosed with a seizure disorder. I was having full-blown grand mal seizures as well as milder petit mal types. These seizures caused me to collapse into unconsciousness. Upon awakening, I would always find Domon top ofme. At first I was not at all happy to have a ninety-pound dog lying on top of me, until I came to realize he was preventing me from hurting myself by restricting my thrashing movements.
During mild seizures, Dom stood rock solid, so I could hold onto his front legs until the seizure passed. He was also helpful after a seizure. As I began to regain consciousness, I was aware of his “voice.” Focusing on his barking became a means to bring me back to full consciousness. I soon came to rely on Dom to warn me before a seizure would take hold, and we’d work through it together, each of us knowing what we had to do till the crisis passed. Dom was my four-legged medical assistant.
During my worst period, I had five grand mal seizures a day. They came without warning, but the force of the seizures and the physical injuries I received were minimized when the vigilant Dom sprang into action. Dominic, the puppy I was led to in a dream, turned out to be a natural-born seizure-assistance dog—a one-in-a-million pup with astounding instincts.
For about a year I had seizures every day, then they gradually started to subside. I am now well, and seizure-free. Dom has returned to his previous daily doggy activities, though still watchful of me and ready to be of assistance. He finds ways to help out around the house—and I indulge his sense of duty, since that is what he lives for.
Some heroes wear a uniform or a badge; my hero wears fur.
Linda Saraco
Abacus
The soul is the same in all living creatures, although the body of each is different.
Hippocrates
A lot has beenwritten aboutwhat dogs can do for people. Dogs lead the blind, aid the deaf, sniff out illegal substances, give us therapeutic hope and joy,make us laughwith their idiosyncrasies, and give us companionship—to name just a few of their many talents. But what about our duty to dogs—what about their needs, wants
, hopes and joys? And what about the ones most people do not want to adopt—the ones who aren’t completely healthy or cute? This is a story of just such a dog.
I first learned about Abacus while doing some Internet research on special-needs dogs. I had become interested in special-needs dogs after losing my brother Damon, who was left paraplegic after an accident in 1992 and committed suicide three years later. Damon loved exploring the outdoors and preferred the freedom of driving a truck to working behind a desk all day. Losing those options was difficult enough for him, but the thought that nobody would want him was more than he could deal with. His death made me more aware of the challenges that people—and animals—with disabilities must face.
I knew my husband and I couldn’t get a dog because of the no-pets policy at our rental, but I couldn’t keep myself from researching them. On www.petfinder.com, there was a listing for a very handsome fellow named Abacus who was staying at Animal Lifeline, a no-kill animal shelter located near Des Moines, Iowa. Abacus had originally been rescued as a stray puppy two years earlier by the kind staff at a veterinary hospital in Nebraska after being hit by a car and subsequently paralyzed. Normally, a stray dog with partial paralysis would have been euthanized because few people want to adopt a dog in that condition. But the veterinarian and his staff saw something special and endearing in Abacus. They took him under their wing and eventually entrusted the shelter in Iowa with his care.
The picture of Abacus on the shelter’sWeb site showed a largish black dog with a rubber ducky in a hydrotherapy tub, enjoying a workout to help improve the muscle tone in his paralyzed hind legs. Through his photograph alone, Abacus cast his spell on me and I was never the same.
I couldn’t get the image of Abacus out of my mind and felt compelled to visit him—even though I knew I couldn’t adopt him. My husband, John, supportive and understanding as always, drove with me on the nearly two-hour drive to the special-needs animal shelter. When I first saw Abacus in his quarters at the shelter, my breath stopped for a few seconds. It was a little disconcerting to see his atrophied hind legs, the result of his paralysis, but his exuberance and happy-go-lucky attitude quickly masked his physical challenges. I was struck by the sheer joy he radiated. His wide, loving eyes stayed in my mind and heart long after we drove away from the shelter.