Bruiser and Kira

Bruiser

My favorite saying in the world is this: "What goes around, comes around." This simple phrase is uttered by yours truly on a regular basis, and I firmly believe it. Why it's true, I do not know. But it is. Every once in awhile I come across a case of karma so profound, I have to sit back, look up at the sky and just marvel at the Big Plan. When I get a chance to throw a little assist into the cosmic blender, well, no one is more tickled than me.  

About a month ago, I received a call from someone here in town who had a pug to surrender to rescue. He was, of course, "very sweet". I didn't care, we take all pugs in trouble. I swung by her house that weekend. Jan and Bruiser met me in the front yard.

As it turned out, Jan was not actually Bruiser's owner. Bruiser, as the story was recited to me, had belonged to a boy who left for college and decided not to take the pug he'd had from puppyhood. His parents, who clearly were not interested in having a dog, began looking for someone to take Bruiser. Jan, a concerned neighbor and animal-lover who had all rescued dogs herself, offered to take Bruiser home with her. Whether or not she originally intended to keep the pug, I'm not sure. But she saw a few unsavory issues - particularly a tendency to dribble urine - and called rescue. 

What I saw in her driveway that Saturday, was a handsome fawn intact male pug, with a pronounced limp. As she lifted Bruiser, I reached out to examine a his paw to see if overgrown nails were causing problems. Bruiser immediately snarled and snapped at my fingers. As I pulled my hand safely out of reach, Jan commented, "Oh, she did say he doesn't like you touching his feet". Now you tell me, I thought. obviously, there was some pain involved here.

"I'll ask the vet to examine his leg while he's anesthetized", I responded. Then I asked, "Why didn't she keep him?"

"He belonged to her son," said Jan. "He left for college and couldn't take him. The mom said it was just too much for her to handle with Bruiser. She was looking for somebody to take him. I offered." Like most stories I hear, it sounded a bit fishy. I could feel simmering anger, but tried not to show it. Our Number One Rule is: Get The Dog. 

"He's intact, " I said. "He needs a dental. Has he ever seen a vet?"

Jan shrugged. Don't know. "He marked a little here. Urine dribbles a bit when he walks." She wrinkled her nose. "I can already smell it."

"Probably a UTI," I answered. "Very easy to treat."

"She did ask me if she could visit him." She looked at me expectantly.

"No," I responded. "He's being displaced at nine years old because she 'can't handle him'?  They haven't taken care of him - he's probably never seen a vet. And he'll cost considerably more than his adoption fee, if we can place him at all. Believe me, she would NOT (emphasis here) want to talk to me." 

"She's dealing with a lot," said Jan-the-compassionate-neighbor. Then she told me the woman had lost her teenage daughter in a car accident a couple of years earlier. "She is still fighting depression." I actually remembered the accident - an awful tragedy - and my temper cooled considerably. Jan pressed $40 into my hand. "It's something," she said. I wondered why Bruiser's family had not provided decent care when the houses around me cost three times as much as my own. They could clearly have afforded it. Still, losing a child is a terrible thing. 

I mulled it over and called Jan when I got home, leaving my number so the woman could make arrangements to visit Bruiser. I needn't have bothered. She never called.

Bruiser and I pushed bravely onward. A round of antibiotics took care of the UTI. Our veterinarians neutered him, cleaned his teeth, trimmed his nails, microchipped him, provided all vaccinations and heartworm tested him (thankfully negative). It was a Bruiser makeover. On examination, he was found to have a partial dislocation of the elbow and painful arthritis, so we started him on a quality puggie joint supplement. Bruiser became my little shadow, following me everywhere and sleeping right next to me, too. I knew it was time to send him to Kristen's house, where he would be one of three instead of one of twelve. He transferred gracefully and fit right in.

A week later, my friend Nadine emailed to tell me someone on craigslist was looking for a pug named Bruiser.

"Can't be the same one," I said. "This guy was an owner surrender. No one would be looking for him." Bruiser is a common-enough name. I dismissed it and went on to the next rescue.

A Familiar Face Here

A few days later, I opened this email and read it:

"Hello I'm trying to get in contact with someone about bruiser, the 9 year old pug. I'm extremely interested and would like someone to get in contact with me right away. My name is Kira and my number is *******. I believe this may be my ex boyfriends dog and would take him. If you give me a call I can explain how I am familiar with bruiser."

It ended with a signature and her number again, along with the photo on the right. 

"That could be him," I said. "I'm gonna call her."

I didn't take long to determine identity. "He has a funny-looking paw and he limps when he walks," said Kira.

"Yup," I nodded "This is definitely him."

Kira went on to tell me a somewhat different story about Bruiser's travels. She had, she said, lived with Bruiser's owner, Jeff, in a apartment in Missouri near the college they both attended. 

"I was Bruiser's primary caretaker," she said. "We broke up, I moved out and I asked him if I could have Bruiser, and he told me no, I could not." Kira later found out that Bruiser had been given away to a stranger and was very upset. "I've been looking for him ever since."

A Happy Reunion

Anger again. Rather than place Bruiser with the one person in the whole scenario who actually cared about him, Jeff had dumped Bruiser on his mother, who dumped him on a neighbor. It reminded me of things I saw working at a domestic violence shelter - abusers like to use pets to punish their victims. I wondered if this had been the situation for Kira and Bruiser. Thank God, I thought, that the neighbor was a decent person who was familiar with rescue. No telling where Bruiser might have ended up.


Kira's story had the ring of truth. "Bruiser's yours", I told her. I explained to Kira how we had gotten Bruiser and what I had been told. I explained how we had cared for Bruiser's medical needs, and how she could continue what we'd started. "He's microchipped, too", I said. "Register the chip in your name and you'll be Bruiser's legal owner." No one would ever be able to take Bruiser away from her again.

Bruiser & Kira

The day Kira came to adopt Bruiser, Kristen took a couple of pictures for me. I had really wanted to be there, but other dogs called. The reunion was a happy one to say the least! It made me think about karma and the way the things we do travel. Good comes back our way, kindness returns. People who go the other way are so often their own punishment. Bruiser took a circuitous route only to end up in the place he was always meant to be.

The little pug had spent most of his life with shallow people who abandoned him. People with no regard at all for what he needed or deserved, especially in the twilight of his years. But somehow life (karma?) brought him  back where he belonged. 

What goes around, comes around.

It made me feel pretty good to have been a miniscule part of that. But I knew that it was not my doing...not by a longshot! Pugs have a way of reaching into the lives of the good people and leaving lasting impressions there.

It was Bruiser's own generous nature and loving heart that brought him home.

The Funny-Lookin' Pug, or How a Hound Dog Ends Up In Pug Rescue

I got the call from a fellow rescuer  who desperately needed help getting dogs out of an animal control in rural Missouri. This facility, located in a tiny town called Kennett, was having a hard time of it. All shelters in rural areas are murderously full. In my experience, most of the animal controls in these towns exist to enforce quantity limits, kill animals as cheaply as possible, and decrease the general surplus. A few make feeble attempts at adoption. Fewer still have staff who could care less one way or the other.

This particular animal control is the rare gem that is operated by a woman who truly cares about animals. Bea, a fellow rescuer who frequents the area, let us know that the AC manager there was under pressure from the town's sheriff and mayor to kill unclaimed dogs in six days. Worse yet, while the majority of shelters have switched to lethal injection, this one still used gas, a method causing slow asphyxiation and great suffering. Horrified, several of us in St Louis and southern Illinois stepped up and offered to take as many as we were able. I accepted four - two for me, and two for a neighboring rescue.


The two dogs I chose for IL-MO were described to me as a rat terrier type female about 20#, and a 10# chocolate female, both very sweet and great with other dogs. The two my neighbor rescue accepted were another rat terrier and a beagle mix of similar stature. No pugs here but this was a "special circumstance". I felt obligated to lend a hand. The dogs were all young, I reasoned, and sooner or later I'd be able to place them.

The weekend rolled around, and I met my friend, Faith, in St Louis for the pick-up. The rat terrier x I got turned out to be more of a red heeler x, much larger than I had been told. I admit, I did a bit of griping to poor Faith, who was just transporting, about how Bea did not know her breeds and I could never be sure what to expect when she was the sender. But the little chocolate girl was just as described - about 10# gorgeous with green eyes. This was an absolutely PERFECT little dog anyone would love to have. Awesome!

But  I had to look at the other two. The rat terrier was just as described - small, friendly, adoptable. But the last crate appeared be empty. Where, I wondered, was the beagle mix?

Then I heard a soft scratching noise from within. There, crammed so far back into the corner I had to lean down and peer through the cage door to see her, was the fourth dog. She was curled into a ball, her head buried against the crate wall.  No beagle in this dog - she was a hound mix, much larger than expected, and very thin. I pulled her from the kennel. She left a trail of urine. When I sat her on the asphalt she dropped to the ground and bared her teeth.This was not a threat, but a "submissive grin". No matter which way I moved, she refused to meet my eyes. She actually crawled along the ground. She did exactly the same in my front yard, crawling through the grass, head down, like a dog who'd been beaten. She was, I realized, as terrified an animal as I had ever seen in my 18 years of rescue.

With Kevin's help, all four dogs were brought into the house. The heeler bounced happily through the living room, the rattie made her self at home, the little chocolate girl hopped up on the sofa and laid down. I scanned the house and yard - the hound was missing.

Closet doors were frantically opened, linens pushed aside, the backyard paced from end to end - no hound. Sure she had jumped or climbed the fence, I headed to the front door to begin searching the neighborhood. And caught a shimmer of eyes behind a 120-gallon glass tank on a six foot stand by the front window.

There she was, squeezed into an impossibly small space. Watching my every move. I spoke to her softly. "Hi, baby. Is that girl alright there?" Thump, thump, thump. She actually made eye contact for the first time, but made no move to leave her safe spot. "Just leave her there," I said. "Let her come out when she's ready." It took hours, and when she finally did emerge, she went straight to another hiding place - my bedroom closet. I placed a bed on the floor for her, stroked her head, and spoke in a soft, reassuring tone for a long time. The tail thumped, but it was out of fear, not trust.

The rescue she was slated for was a good one, but the dogs there were kept in kennels. For most rescued dogs, that was fine. But most dogs were not this severely traumatized.

The next day, I met Lisa with the two rescues I was not keeping: The rat terrier and the perfect little chocolate girl. "They'll love her", I said.

Two weeks later, Nellie (for Nervous) has been spayed and treated for heartworms. While
she has made progress, she is afraid to make eye contact with men and will not come in the house if she can see Kevin standing in the kitchen, although he does his best to befriend her. She has had puppies. I picture the man who abused her saying he would use Nellie to "breed me some huntin' dogs". Keeping her in a pen. Hitting her. Only time will tell if the damage caused by his cruelty and ignorance can be undone.

In the interim, this hound can take baby steps at my house, where she'll be safe and get the one-on-one she needs. Not a pug. But sometimes a coonhound needs a good pug rescue, too.

Say "Hello" To Pookie

Last week was a killer...we picked up seven pugs. Four were puppymill survivors who are positively thrilled to be here, even the blind girl. The other three were all owner surrenders 10 years old and up. 

It started with a phone call from my friend, Leslie, who rescues in rural Missouri (ever tried turning back the ocean with a bucket?).

Pookie

"I have three more pugs coming in", she said. I had already agreed to take two. "Can you help with all five?" I assured her all pugs were welcome. "Four of them are breeders. This last one is killing me. She's an 11-and-a-half year-old owner surrender. She just looks so confused."

My heart sank. Rescuing puppymill survivors is so rewarding. Breeder pugs have had it so bad, they're usually deliriously happy to be at my crazy rescue house. Between the company of other pugs, the pet door, the big, fenced yard, food, treats, chewys and toys - they must think they've hit nirvana after spending 24/7 in cages. But elderly owner surrenders are not so easily fooled.
They know they've been discarded.

Going from a puppymill to my house is a step up. But going from a home to a rescue house - that's a whole 'nother story. Better than a shelter? Yes, it is. But my house is a mutant cross between a real home and a shelter. It's not a quiet place with a few humans and one or two dogs. There's practically a turnstile at the front door where new furry faces suddenly pop in, and curly pug tails mysteriously exit for good.

Saturday morning, the four mill pugs took off with the anticipated excitement at their new found freedom. The little old lady went to my nice, quiet bedroom. 

She was in pretty sad condition, which told me her owners had not paid a whole lot of attention to her to begin with. The little black pug looked scruffy for a pug with a home  - her coat was rough and actually matted at the neck, something you rarely see in pugs. She had terrible dandruff, dental disease to rival an 8y/o mill dog and breath that peeled the paint off the walls. Overweight with tiny paws, her tail pointed due south. Her whole demeanor seemed to ask, "What am I doing here? Where is my home? Where's my hoo-muns?"


I called Leslie to see if I could get Pookie some answers.

"She was dropped off with one of my fosters," she said. "It was an older lady who said she was putting her husband in a nursing home, moving to Florida and she couldn't take the dog."  I felt my eyes narrow to pointed daggers. In our world, "can't" translates to "don't want to".

After my usual silent curse involving limitless pain and a state-run nursing home, I bathed the little pug, brushed her badly neglected coat, and resolved to help her the best I could. After all, there was no way to get Pookie back her home and family. After a lifetime of unconditional love and devotion, she had become inconvenient. I knew I could do better than that for her. The question was this: Could I convince Pookie?

On my bedroom floor, Pookie staked out a little bed with a blue blanket in it for her own. If another pug got in that bed, she would occupy a different one until that pug moved. Then she'd quietly pad on over to her bed of choice. The bed she preferred was against the nightstand where she could observe everything around her with the safety of  solid wood behind her. That night I brushed all the undercoat out and gave pookie a nice massage, which she seemed to enjoy. She sat on the bed with me for awhile, then wanted back into her little viewing post on the floor. Before I turned off the light, I saw that 10y/o Burl had joined her. Perhaps a bit of a winter romance, I thought with a smile. Burl had been dumped, too. But his owners hadn't bothered with a rescue or shelter. At least Pookie's had done that much.


Sunday I stayed home just to work with little Miss Pookie. We chopped up a very fine senior mix of "weight maintenance" canned food, Osteo-Biflex (crumbled), metacam and sardines which seemed to suit Pookie's palette just fine. Pookie held her designated outpost most of the day while I talked baby-talk to her and scratched her bony head at every opportunity. When we closed the bedroom door for a household chore, Pookie cried loudly. Clearly, we were NOT to mistake her reticence for a Garboesque need to be alone. She wanted to know what was going on in this crazy zoo of a house! Like all pugs, she wanted company more than she feared the fracas.

Pookie In Her Foster Home

Monday morning, as I prepared puggie breakfasts, I swerved around and, to my astonishment, there at my feet was little Miss Pookie. All on her own, she had made her way out of the bedroom, down the hallway and into the kitchen to see what all the She may as well have announced to the whole world that the pity party was officially over. No mistake - Pookie had joined the pack.

My roommate called me later that day. "Pookie keeps going over and looking down the hallway," he said. "She's looking for you."  

Yup, Pookie was definitely going to make it. At that moment, I resolved to keep the resilient little old ladypug with me, unless or until a permanent retirement home came along. When I came home from work that afternoon, the first thing I did was look for her. I greeted her with a singsong salutation.

"How's my pretty Pookie!" The tail that hung straight down came up for just a few seconds in acknowledgement. Soon, I knew, Pookie would be asking to be lifted onto my bed with the other pugs.

Nothing, I thought, can keep a good pug down. 

ADDENDUM: Pookie came around more and more, and surprised us all by being a very vocal ladypug! In my experience, about a third of pugs howl. Pookie is one of those. Pookie communicates in a gurgling, sing-song "roo-roooooooooooooh". We have discovered that she disdains having her crease cleaned and can get downright ornery about it.

A couple of weeks ago, I got an application from Jessica and Josh, a young couple who had fallen in love with our Pookie. They came to my house to meet her one day and, to my astonishment, Pookie howled at them the same way she howls when I come home from work! It was a joyous sound that told me the feeling was mutual. Pookie was unabashedly smitten! Jess and Josh are in the moving process but, as soon as they get settled, there is a place in their new home for little Pookie. This young couple has also expressed a desire to assist in rehoming elderly and "special" pugs. So while Pookie can look forward to a cushy retirement, I believe we, too, can look forward to a new pug angel in the IMR heavens.

NOTE: We have several senior pugs needing sponsors and forever homes. Please take a look at our Buddy Page and consider being a buddy, or making a contribution towards their care. Thank you!

Fred At The Bridge

Fred In Later Years

I recently received an email from my friend, Jan F, with some sad news in it. Her pug, Fred, who had been adopted from IMR, passed away. When I got the news, I felt that physical twinge that you get in deep inside when something hurts your heart. To my surprise, I cried a little...I say "surprise" because I have not seen either Jan or Fred for about 14 years.

Fred was a very special pug. Of the hundreds of dogs I've known across the 17 years I've been rescuing, there are some who stand out more than others - some who have left their mark on my life in many different ways. Fred was one of those.

Fred had been auctioned from a puppymill at the age of two years. Once we got him home, it was easy to see why he was culled. Fred was so timid, he would never have made a "breeder". He backed down at the slightest hint of reprimand from any other animal and was altogether terrified of people. Poor Fred had zero confidence. He was also simply gorgeous - there's just no other word. Glistening slick black coat, finely muscled torso, big jowls that gave him that miniature mastiff look - he was so handsome - a truly beautiful pug physically, not in the smarmy AKC conformation way, but in the way of all beautiful dogs. I was in love with Fred. I wanted his friendship and trust more than anything.

Fred was a tough one, even at a young two years of age. I still think it was because he was just naturally very sensitive. Fred had a humongous heart. Just a look - not even a word - would send him cowering. But love fixes a lot. Fred began to mend and, before too long, he was ready to go to a home with someone else who was willing to carry on the healing process.

When Jan's application came through, I almost turned her down because she had a clawed cat. Fortunately, a bevy of common friends intervened, insisting that she was an adopter to die for, I'd be crazy to pass her up. They were right. Best decision I ever made in rescue was awarding her Frederick. Jan actually flew in from Delaware to pick Fred up. Kevin and I met her at Lambert Field St Louis just outside the main terminal. I remember, Fred was a bit too tall for the transport bag and we had to get him to lay down in it so he could board. He was pretty scared, but I knew he'd be fine. Jan assured me that, once seated, she would open the bag so Fred could stick his head out and look around.

Saying goodbye to Fred was made easier because Jan and I have kept in touch as the years went by, emailing back and forth regularly. Jan is smart and witty. She became one of our most reliable supporters, and a true friend. I've always found her updates enjoyable, looking forward to her posts, and so Fred never really left my mind. It was like old friends you run into at the grocery store, chat awhile, and leave smiling until you run into one another again. Jan kept me aware of every change in Fred over the years, small or large. She told me when he did something funny, or something exceptionally brave, or about the day when they stumbled over a man with a garden hose who frightened Fred by inadvertently spraying them. She let me know when Fred started having back issues, and when he went for acupuncture. When Fred first got his wheels, Jan was so proud of the way he handled his disability. If Fred was courageous, Jan was responsible for that. He had all the love and support any dog could ever wish to have. Even as a wheelie-pug, Fred was not excluded from family functions and holidays. He was undoubtedly as secure and happy as any pug could be.

Fred's Feet

One day, about a year ago, Jan sent me a recent photo of Fred in his cart. I'll never forget how shocked I was to see that gray-muzzled old man! In my mind, Fred was still that muscled two year-old I first met all those years ago. I just could hardly believe THAT was Fred!

One day, Fred became suddenly, gravely ill. Tests indicated he had thrown a blood clot. Jan knew at that point that his impairments were too many and his suffering too great. She and his doctor sent him gently to the Rainbow Bridge. Jan never flinched in her responsibilities to Fred all throughout his life, and she did not do it when the time came to send him on his way. She is an awesome friend to animals - I'm profoundly grateful that Fred had her in his life.

Now that Fred is at the Bridge, waiting for his mom, I know he is that slick, strong young pug I still see when I think about him. He'll be there waiting for Jan when she arrives. But I hope he will stop by and say a quick "Hello" to me, too. I'd love to see that brave, beautiful boy again.

I think the best epilogue for this column is Jan's own:

"Fred would have been 16 on June 11th; he has been an incredibly important part of my family since 2000.  Fred was the steady rock, the constant; no matter who approached him, how young, how old, how enthusiastic... didn't matter.  I knew Fred was safe, bomb-proof, as it were.  Just a couple weeks ago he was sitting in the sun on the front sidewalk while I cleaned up the leaves/debris that had collected around the plants and banked up along the steps out front.  A two-year old approached him, fingers splayed heading right for his face.  While I certainly didn't want him to get hurt, but there was not a doubt in my mind that the little girl was safe and would have a positive experience meeting him.  That was Fred.  Reserved, observant, stubborn, concerned about following the rules, but unfailingly dependable, rock solid, kind, gentle, low key, no muss, no fuss, no bother.  Even while dying he ran steady and true, no bother, just quietly doing what he had to do.  I picture him much as he was the day we went to Rohobeth Beach.  It was dog days down there and for the first time, he could be off leash in a really public place.  I removed his leash, and like a shot, he was gone, running through the sand just as fast as his legs could carry him until he was just a little black spot on the beach, reveling in his utter freedom.  And then he turned around and ran back.  I can't think of another time I've witnessed such unbridled joy..." 

...and from an earlier post...

"The years has gone fast, and he has, unfailingly, been a very, very good boy.  I make sure I tell him that often because he deserves to know what joy he's given."

He knew, Jan...he knew.

Christmas Day, 2012

Today is Christmas Day.

I'll be leaving for my mom's house in a few minutes. She survived colon cancer this year, and I'm so happy to have her for one more Christmas. I'm looking forward to watching everyone open their gifts, and chatting at the kitchen table over a ham dinner. But I cannot leave before addressing my best and most important family. That is you, my Facebook family.

This year at Christmas, I am surrounded by the squealing, scurrying, bouncing and wrestling of a bevy of puppymill dogs. As I look down, I see Holly, the little pug with an awful eye injury, standing with both paws on my leg. I lower my hand to scratch her hear and she begins to play, chewing on my fingers.

One week ago, she ran from me and urinated in fear when I picked her up. That is the change we have made in her life.

Likewise, China, another pug from the auction who would not come near anyone. She lays beside me on my bed with her chin resting on my knee. No small thing, what we have done here.

Caesar and Misha, two French bulldog puppies, are learning to bond and socialize. They are young enough that we're overriding the dog aggression they leaned at the Mennonite puppymill where they lived. Their parents, who are five and six years old, must be separated from the other dogs. But I see subtle changes in them, too. They came here with no eye contact or reaction to humans. Now they look for me, meet my gaze and their tails wag when I pet them. Somewhere, there are one-dog homes waiting for them where they can love and be loved for the first time in their lives. The years spent as livestock are over because of you.

Biscuit and Cookie, two Shiffon puppies bought at the auction, arrived like little lumps without expression. Now both have such personality! Cookie actually barked for the first time yesterday! Biscuit plays with the other pups and with toys. They are so young, they will not even remember their lives before rescue. Clementine, the English Bulldog, has had her physical problems repaired and is in a wonderful foster home. January 19th she goes home with Audra, and RN who cried telling me about her Bulldog, Luke, who had passed away. Audra is spending Christmas visiting her family so she'll never have to leave Clementine alone again.

So many wonderful people. This is the family I love and need most of all. This is the family who, instead of saying, "Can't you get rid of some of those dogs?", says "We love dogs. We understand. We want to help." Only a certain kind of people know what I mean. I'm privileged to know so many of them, and so fortunate that God gave me a purpose.

This Christmas, I received the greatest Christmas gift I have ever gotten in my 54 years. I walked into an auction barn and left with 20 dogs, every dog I had physical space for and a need to rescue. Many beautiful pugs, and a few other dogs with physical issues I knew would go unattended should they enter the world of puppymills. Four more followed on Monday. My auction buddy left with six more still. The grand total was 30 dogs snatched from lives of misery. We did this together. Every one of you who sent money, who spread the word, who offered to accept the dogs into your rescues afterward, who lent your support in so many ways has made a difference for these animals this Christmas.

We still have a ways to go, but we will get there. Every dog here will be made well.Every dog here have a loving home. So I want to thank you. Thank you for the opportunity, thank you for this incredible gift, thank you for all you do to ease suffering and lift up the least among us, the most powerless. Thank you for enriching my life and being my ROCK!

If these dogs could talk, they'd thank you, too. For them, you have closed the door on a world of misery and opened up a whole new world of love, comfort and freedom from pain. Words cannot begin to convey this miracle for them.

With heart full of gratitude, I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, as good and hopeful as the one you've bestowed on every rescued dog.

Merry Christmas, and may 2013 be just the beginning for you, too.

Threads

Sadie & Sharon

When my sister died in 1995, I lost the person I loved most in the world. She was beautiful, smart and funny, but the gift that made her really remarkable was her ability to accept people as they are - it's a gift bestowed upon almost all animals, but few human beings. When Sharon died, she left behind two young-adult sons, a Golden Retriever and a 15 year-old cat named Lucy. Everyone had a place to go but the cat. I had two dogs of my own, but i took Lucy home with me and gave her a doughnut bed on my sofa where no one was allowed to harass her. To her credit, she made the adjustment and lived two more years before passing on at the age of 17 from renal failure. When she died, we buried her in my mom's back yard. I remember digging the hole in the rain one awful, chilly day, tears running down my face, sobbing the whole time. Losing Lucy was like losing my sister all over again.

Six weeks ago, I got a call from a shelter volunteer in central Illinois that caused me to revisit this sad chapter of my life. The volunteer had been contacted by a woman who, coincidentally, was also named Sharon, about a mama terrier mix with five puppies. Sharon had neither the room nor the means to keep them all and had asked if the shelter would accept them. Wanting better for a nursing mother and her pups, the volunteer contacted me. Which is how I came to be sitting in a Target parking lot in Shiloh, Illinois on a day that took the pugmobile's air conditioner to task.

Sharon pulled up in an older, faded blue Chevy Impala with a mashed front fender. She was, I estimated, in her sixties, a plain, country woman who immediately hugged me. I asked her where the mama and pups had come from.

"My cousin died all of a sudden. He had three dogs. We found homes for the others, but nobody wanted this one because she was pregnant." I looked inside to see a small black mutt with one eye covered in mucus and five puppies gnawing at her. "She's a real good dog. Everyone told me to give the pups away, but i just can't do that. And I don' want this to happen again." She began to cry. "I miss my cousin so much. I'd really like to keep her. I just love her! She's a real good dog. Housetrained. Follows me everywhere."

"What's her name?" I asked.

"Sadie," she answered. "Thank you so much for takin' her." 

Over my years of rescue, I have seen a lot of family members who, on the death of a pet-owning relative, can't beat a path to the local pound quickly enough. I was pretty impressed by Sharon. Most of the time, when I meet people from rural areas, they're dumping dogs or selling them, or simply allowing them to breed freely. Here was a countrified lady with no money and no fancy education. Yet she was truly trying to do the right thing for these animals. She cared. 

"Do you think I could get her back after the pups are weaned?" she asked. "She's a real good dog." I looked at Sadie, who in turn eyed me with suspicion, and I looked at Sharon wiping away tears. I could see how hard this was for her.

"Well," I answered, "she'll have to be spayed and microchipped.  That's the law in Illinois.You will have to reimburse us for those, but we can probably get her vetted and charge you our cost." I gave it some thought...about a heartbeat's worth. "Yeah, I think that'll work."

"How long will it be?," she said brightly. "Do you think I could come and see her?" She sounded almost childlike."I'm really gonna miss her, she's such good company."

"It might be best to wait - we don't want her upset. But here's my number. You can call about her anytime you like."

Sharon wasted no time - she called that night, wanting to know how Sadie was settling in. She reminded us that Sadie loved her chewy bones in the evening, and we gave her one that Sharon had sent with her.

Watching Sadie with her bone, and the five little rat puppies snuggling beside her in the cuddler bed beneath my computer desk, I thought about the tenuous threads connecting us to the people we love. Sharon missed her cousin, who had clearly been a force in her life. Taking in his pets, despite her limited resources could not have been an easy thing to do. But it was the right thing to do. I admired her, and understood why she had done it. Every well-loved pet, I thought, carries a little piece of the person who loved them. Shared grief, too, is a powerful bond.

I thought back to when my sister, Sharon, was alive and the relationship she'd had with her cat, Lucy. When Sharon arrived home each day after work, the first thing she did on opening the door was sing out, "Where's my Loooooooooo-ceeeeeeeeeeeee?" I can still hear it. Lucy, the fat black-and-white feline diva, would come bounding toward her meowing excitedly, wrapping herself in and around my sister's ankles, all the while gazing up at her adoringly with big yellow eyes. Lucy always made my sister laugh. I remembered Sharon's delight at the mischievous way Lucy would lay in wait around a corner for her silly puppy to walk by, then POUNCE and send the pup scurrying for cover!

Lucy, who slept on Sharon's bed every night - she who rolled rapturously in sprinkles of catnip, something which always evoked joyous gales of laughter from my sister.

So many wonderful memories. Good happy memories that crept up in after the pain.

The other Sharon called several times over Sadie's hiatus with me. I think she would have called more had she not been afraid she might annoy me. Most evenings, Sadie would sit on the floor next to my bed and stare at me for awhile. There was always a question in those eyes - I know I'm going home, but when?

Finally the day arrived when mama's pups were weaned. Sadie was able to be spayed. I kept her one more night after the surgery, just to be certain she was recovering properly, then called Sharon. She met me that same afternoon back in the same Target parking lot as soon just as quickly as I was able to get there. Sadie marched around the van to Sharon and sat squarely in front of her, eyes locked, tail thumping madly. She was going home. She knew it.

I asked them to pose for a final photograph. Then I went over instructions for Sadie's suture removal and microchip registration. I gave them four bottles of artificial tears and some antibiotic ointment for her dry right eye, along with Sadie's records in an envelope. Because Sharon had been willing to pay for Sadie's veterinary care despite the financial hardship, I charged her nothing. Being able to ensure that doing the right thing pays off for the doer is a gift all it's own.

After I delivered Sadie, I thought a lot about my sister and her Lucy. I thought about the threads connecting two people long after one of them has left this life. Those threads might be a place, an object or a well-loved pet. The way we treat those treasures says a lot about who we are.

Of course, pets have souls. Somewhere my sister, who now looks just like her high school senior photo, is sprinkling catnip for a happy black-and white cat with huge yellow eyes. Sometimes my eyes well up with tears of joy just thinking about the moment when I get to see them both again. It's coming.

One day, I'll get all my dogs back, too. I'm counting on it.

The Bucket

There are many aspects of rescue. Not every person can make turn their home into a dog shelter. Some are more able and willing to transport. Others donate much-needed funds to keep rescues afloat. Still others are able to foster one or two dogs. Each of these things is important. But no dog can be rescued without a place to go. So the small rescues who truck the filthy, smelly, frightened puppymill survivors back and forth to the vet, clean up their messes, live with them 24/7 until they are deemed adoptable, if ever - we are the line. We are the people who cannot look into those eyes filled with pain and say, "Sorry, you'll have to be euthanized because I have no room and no one else will take a blind, heartworm positive pug that has never lived in a home". Instead, we say "Yes, I'll make room for you." Why do we do that? We do it because:

1. Some human somewhere is responsible for the mess you're in. It's not your fault.
2. We've weighed your death against the inconvenience having you in our home would cause us. You won.
3. If we refused you, we would have to face ourselves tomorrow knowing we were selfish and you paid the price for it.

So, once again, we take someone elses mess into our home.

Messes like this  - the blind, heartworm positive pug we'll call Jimmy - one do not get adopted quickly. And while he is here, another mess comes in. And another. Then two more. Soon you have 12 messes in your home. There is no line at your door waiting to adopt any of them. Few people are willing to foster puppymill survivors - they crap everywhere and walk through it. They stiffen up like boards when you pick them up - IF you can catch them. So they stay right there with the compassionate person who could not turn them away. A year later, Jimmy and the others are still there - posted for adoption, yes, but there has been no one willing to commit to them.

This brings me to a tale of two rescue people we'll call Linda and Ellen. Both are basically good, caring people with good intentions. Linda has been doing hardcore rescue for many years. She is one of those caring people who takes in the rejects no one else will touch. She has, like most of us, dumped tons of her own money into rescue dogs. She has been to dog auctions with me where I've seen her cry openly over the awful state of the animals there. I've seen her scrape the bottom of her wallet to buy beagles with embedded collars because they did not sell there and she could not leave them.

Ellen has been on the outskirts of rescue, doing some transport, a little fostering. She has started her own brand new rescue, and I wish her the best in this endeavor. When I did a petfinder search, they had no animals for adoption yet. But she is taking a huge step toward serious commitment to rescue.

Ellen and Linda have been friends for years. But a problem arose when Ellen picked up a pug named Frank from Linda to foster in her home. The pug's nails were too long. He had ear mites, and had not had a heartworm test. Frank was also still very frightened of people. He had been in rescue for a year - why was he still so afraid?

Ellen was angry over what she viewed as "neglect". She decided that Linda had too many dogs to properly care for them. Ellen gave the dog to her veterinarian for placement and refused to share any information with Linda about where Frank was or what had happened to him. Frank was gone, and no longer Linda's concern.

Linda did not see this incident in the same light. She posted stolen dog posters everywhere with Ellen's name on them. She contacted an attorney and threatened to sue Ellen. The two friends were friends no more.

My involvement came about when Ellen applied to adopt a pug puppy from me.  Ellen's references were excellent. Even Linda said that, despite the alleged theft of Frank, Ellen took very good care of her pugs. So I placed a puppy with Ellen, and waived the fee on another pug who had an ongoing health concern (I did inform her of this). The placement seems to be going well and I have no regrets so far. My pugs were fully vetted. Might she find some flaw with them? She might. I process a lot of dogs. Doing rescue in the midwest is like trying to turn back the ocean with a bucket. Yes, the pup had been wormed twice. Does this mean she has no parasites? Not hardly. Some parasites are rather stubborn. Even vets don't catch everything.

Which brings me back to Frank the pug - he of the long nails, ear mites and no heartworm test.

Long nails are a nuisance. Unless they had grown into the pad, they don't represent a health threat, at least nothing that five minutes and a set of nail clippers cannot remedy.  Likewise, ear mites are everywhere and, unless they have a severe case with noticeable discharge, they're easy to overlook when you are running a rescue alone. A squirt of ivomec in each ear - Ouila! No more ear mites.

The absent heartworm test - now that is a real concern. Heartworms can and eventually will kill a dog if not diagnosed and treated. Every dog over six months of age should have a heartworm test prior to placement.

But now comes the real question: Do we throw out the baby with the murky water?

Linda is a rescuer who has saved hundreds of pugs. Ellen seems to think that that absent heartworm test gave her the right to abscond with Frank the pug, and that Linda should not be doing rescue at all.  But is Ellen ready to step up and open her home to the 54 puppymill survivors Linda would have taken this year? Has she thought ahead to the point of wondering where those pugs will go if Linda is not around to take them?

I do not always agree with every other rescue person's way of doing things. But before I disagree in a major way, I ask myself this question:

Would the dogs be better off without her?

I can think of only three instances in 17 years where the answer was "yes".  In Linda's case, there is no doubt in my mind that every one of those dogs who has ever crossed her path is the better for it. It' a pity they cannot speak. I'm quite sure they would agree.

As for me, I once fostered a pug for Linda in an emergency. On reviewing his paperwork, I could find no documentation of a heartworm test. I knew my friend was, like me, the family caregiver. Her father was in the hospital, her grandmother was ill, I knew she had a plate chock-full of responsibility. I know she has the "rescue heart".

I took the pug to my vet, got him tested (negative), placed him, and sent Linda the check and contract. I never mentioned the missing heartworm test because it was an anomaly and I considered it incidental to the enormity of the task at hand. Besides, she would have done exactly the same for me.

You see, I do NOT want to lose a terrific rescuer because she missed a drop with her little bucket. The fact that she is out there bailing matters far more.

And for those out there who have yet to lift a bucket, please view those of us standing against the tide with a kind heart and a generous spirit. We all make mistakes. I have made a great many, done many things I wish I could take back. It's a long difficult process we call "learning".

But we're trying.

In a world where so many care nothing at all, please give us some credit for that.