A Visit With Vi

Roxie and Vi, Christmas 2014

Instead of going straight to work this morning, I went a few miles past the office. You see, I don't usually have a passenger. Today, I had a pug named Roxie riding behind me in a car seat designed to keep a canine occupant at precisely window height. We were on our way to meet someone very special to both of us.

Roxie is an excellent passenger. She rides like a small, four-legged person, looking out the window. She's also a fashion diva - it's a playful surprise  to see what she'll be wearing each time we show up. Today, she wears a pink "I Love My Mommy" sleeveless t-shirt with a matching pink leash and harness. She knows exactly where we are headed. I can see her counting the minutes.

Our host is supposed to meet us in the lobby of Manor House but, when we arrive, she's no where in sight. Most of the residents of this supportive living facility love seeing pets come to visit, and we are stopped several times as we work our way down the hallway. One lady tells me all about her beautiful German Shepherd who died some years ago at the age of 14. Another had a black lab named Sassy who had been rehomed. Pets are not allowed to reside or even spend the night at Manor House, but day visits are permitted.

"There's my Roxie!" Vi is standing in the hallway chatting with another resident. "I was just on my way down to meet you." She introduces me to the other lady, telling me she is also a dog lover. "Come in, I want to show you something," she says, turning the key to her small apartment. "You've never been in here before, have you?"

"Sure I have, Vi," I answer, "Many times." A look of confusion appears momentarily, and I instantly regret my answer. Vi is painfully aware of the gaps in her memory. The last thing I want to do is upset her. "Your place is so pretty! I just love the way you have it decorated." The uncertainly disappears and the smile returns as she shows me a collection of pug pictures and figurines she has carefully arranged on her coffee table. I admire them - one of which Roxie and I gave her for her 83rd birthday - and pretend she has not shown me the same display every time I have visited.

I think back to the first time I met Vi. It was several years ago at the aging agency where I work as a counselor. I found her sharp wit and cheerful disposition engaging, and she quickly became a favorite client. But the thing that firmly united us was our love for pugs. Whenever Vi came to see me at the agency, she brought with her stories and pictures of her pug, Roxie, whom she clearly adored. She laughed as she talked about Roxie jumping on her lap as she read the paper, and showed me a picture of Roxie looking down at the print as if she were reading the headlines. She sometimes brought Roxie along with her. Roxie "lacked for nothing", in fact, she was seriously spoiled. When Roxie developed ongoing eye problems, she saw a vet often and also underwent surgery to save her sight. Vi would have done anything within her power for her Roxie. With help from her children, Vi and Roxie were able to remain independent for the first 10 years of Roxie's life.

Then Vi started forgetting things - just a little at first, then more frequently. The forgotten items gradually became bigger and more critical, from grocery items to bills and people's names. One day she came to see me for an appointment. 

"I've been diagnosed with early-stage Alzheimer's Disease." she said characteristic aplomb. "My kids want me to sell the mobile home and go into assisted living. But I don't want to go anywhere without Roxie." At the mention of her pug, I saw the first shadow of worry flicker across her brow.

I had heard something about a recently enacted law that might prevent seniors from being forced to give up their pets. The next day, I consulted an animal welfare attorney I know. Would this law help Vi to keep her pug? "It doesn't apply to community living situations," was the response. I felt awful. Vi would be faced with giving up her beloved Roxie. It wasn't fair. I knew how desolate my life would be without my beloved dogs. It was bad enough that Vi was faced with losing the home she loved because of this awful disease. Asking her to lose Roxie as well was just too much. I had to do something. But what?

I saw no way to keep Vi and Roxie both safe and sharing the same space. But maybe there was something I could do to make the situation tolerable, if not perfect. I made Vi an offer to think about.

When Vi and her daughter came into my office one day and asked me if I would keep Roxie for her, I truthfully answered, "I wouldn't do it for anyone but you, Vi. What's one more pug at my crazy house?!"

So I became Roxie's "other mother". Roxie loves going to see Vi - she runs to her with kisses and a wagging tail. We always go on weekdays so we can get there early. On weekends, I like to sleep in. If we arrive too late, Vi has forgotten about us and is off somewhere else. I've learned to call the night before, and call again in the morning to announce that we're en route.

After work, I'm back at Manor House to retrieve our shared pug. I'm aware that persons with Alzheimer's forget things, but they always remember how they feel. Whenever I visit, I am careful to leave Vi feeling as happy as I possibly can. I pull the van into the circle drive, open the side door and greet both Vi and Roxie with a big smile.

"Did you two have a good day today?" I ask.

St Patrick's Day, 2015

"Oh, we had a wonderful day!" Vi answers excitedly. She tells me all about Wii bowling and Roxie eating cheerios and how everyone loved her shirt...I half-listen, laughing, because I so love her enthusiasm! Vi is such a special lady and has become so dear to me -  I feel lucky to be able to do this small thing for her.

Vi is a little teary as she tells Roxie goodbye. Once again, I wish Roxie could stay with the mom who loves her. Pets are allowed in many assisted living facilities, but those are the expensive ones at $2000 a month or more. Supportive living facilities like Manor House, that admit people without a lot of money,  never allow them to bring their pets. I remind myself that this is the next best thing. "Give me a kiss", she implores, and Roxie offers an exhausted lick in her general direction.Vi gives her a generous smooch in return. 

"I love you both!" she exclaims as we hug.

"We love you, too, Vi," I answer."Don't forget to call me. We'll set up a day for our next visit." I'll call her, of course. I give Vi my cell number every week, and every week she asks for it again.

As we pull away, I look in the rear view mirror. I see Vi happily chatting with a young woman at the entrance doors. Behind me, Roxie dozes in her car seat, sleepy from all the attention. 

As for me, I am already planning what outfit Roxie will wear for her next visit.

Death of a Rescuer

Sandie Konopelski & Friend

On Friday, April 25th, while I was working my regular job as a Resource Specialist at Age Smart Community Resources in Shiloh, Illinois, Sandie Konopelski was climbing across train tracks wearing a pair of "bite gloves" in pursuit of an opossum who had ventured out onto the tracks.

I did not know Sandie, had never met her. She was a different kind of rescuer. Sandie had devoted the last 20 years of her life to wildlife rescue and rehab, while I had devoted about the same portion of my life to rescuing and rehoming dogs. Sandie was two years older than me, and lived there in Shiloh, where I was working that morning.

Later that day, I heard the news that a woman had been struck and killed by a westbound Metrolink train. It had happened between 8:00am and 8:20am. Details are sketchy. Metro has not released any information on who placed the call for assistance to the Bi-State Wildlife Hotline of Missouri and Illinois, but it's reasonable to think it was a Metro employee, since they regularly called the hotline for assistance with wildlife on the train tracks. Sandie responded, as she had numerous times before. How she ended up in the path of an oncoming train that day, no one seems to know.

I put the incident aside, thinking no more about it. That is, until Jenny came into the agency for her appointment.

Jenny was a neat little gray-headed senior with a cafe au lait complexion and a friendly manner. She laughed a lot. I liked her immediately. She sat in the chair beside my desk and looked up at a picture I keep on the wall. It is a Winter depiction of a young woman with her arms wrapped around a red pit bull. The dogs eyes are closed. You can feel the love between them.

"What a beautiful painting", she said. "Is it someone you know?"

I explained that the young woman in the picture was a rehab staffer from Best Friends Animal Sanctuary.The dog was one of Michael Vick's pit bulls.

"Did you hear about the woman killed on the Metrolink tracks in Swansea?" she asked. "I don't know for sure, but I'm afraid that was my Sandie." He voice faded and her countenance was sad."I don't know for sure. But I've called her cell phone several times. She hasn't answered."

She went on to explain that her house backed up to a wooded area."I call her all the time," Jenny continued. "She always comes out. Once, I found a sick raccoon in my back yard. She couldn't save that one. It had distemper. I've found rabbits and opossums...even a coyote pup!"

I interjected that I also did rescue, but with dogs. "I have loved animals ever since I was a child," she smiled. "Once when I called, Miss Sandie told me she was at church, but she'd be out right after. And she always called me back to let me know what happened to the animals she came and got. She always came whenever I called her." Her warm brown eyes misted over. "Who will I call now?"

I had no easy answer for her. I was beginning to realize what a huge hole "Miss Sandie" had left in her wake. I gave Jenny my cell number and told her to call me. "I'm not a wildlife rescuer," I said, "but I'll find someone who is. I'll help you in a pinch." 

When Jenny left, I understood much more than I had before about the woman who had been struck and killed while struggling to save an animal. Jenny was just the tip of the iceberg. How many more were wondering what to do, who to call now? I felt personally robbed of this amazing rescuer who had lived and rescued in my own backyard, yet I never knew it.

I felt a pang of sadness for the loss of a compassionate, wise and skilled rescuer. There are so few...


I did not know Sandie Konopelski. But damn, I sure wish I had.

Wrinkles, Now & Then

Wrinkles, 2015

As so often happens, it was a friend and former adopter who alerted me to a senior pug needing rescue. He was, through no fault of his own, in a risky situation. Jen B picked him up and met I met her in St Louis to retrieve him. His story, as I understood it, is all second-hand:

I was told Wrinkles had been saved by a good Samaritan, and that his original family had planned to euthanize him. I never heard why they decided they couldn't be bothered with him after nearly 12 years. The person who took Wrinkles already had a full house and could not keep him, so she started looking for an appropriate home for him.

Wrinkles is a pound overweight, needs his shots updated and a dental, but is otherwise healthy. Like most owner-surrenders whose families abandon them, he was not thrilled at the conditions at my rescue house. Clearly, he had never seen so many dogs in one place. Wrinkles ran out my back door and as far away from all of us as he could get, which is to say, he was in a corner against the far fence. He made himself as inconspicuous as he could. Wrinkles stood there, visibly shaking. He would not eat. He would not drink. He would not come near me or any of the rescue dogs. His eyes darted about nervously as if to say, "Where are my parents? What is this place and why am I here?", followed by an emphatic "HOME...TAKE ME HOME!"

Though my heart ached for him, I knew the best course of action was to leave him alone and let him calm down. It was a beautiful day and Wrinkles was safe, so I went back inside and began trying to piece together what I could of his history..

Wrinkles came with a folder containing his medical history, The first thing I saw on opening

Wrinkles, 2004

it was a grainy xeroxed photo of a pug puppy with adorable airplane ears. Wrinkles' vet had taken it on his first visit and never changed it. Seeing that photo - realizing his family had bought Wrinkles as a very young pup - was a shock. For me, that would be tantamount to giving away a child. In December of this year, Wrinkles will be 12y/o. What kind of people get rid of a dog they raised from a puppy in his last few years of life? I could only imagine the emotional trauma. No wonder Wrinkles wanted nothing to do with us.

I left him alone that first night, although we did make him come inside to sleep. The next morning, back out the door went Wrinkles, and as far away from us as possible. He would not be tempted by even the most delectable morsels - chicken, braunschweiger...my tried-and-true arsenal. Nor would he allow himself to be caught, or even approached by me. As darkness encroached, I enlisted the aid of my brother, Mark, to catch Wrinkles. Mark came from one side, I from the other. As I came close enough to touch him, I commanded "Sit!" several times with the accompanying hand gesture. Wrinkles sat, but he still looked at me as if I were coming to kill and eat him. Instead, I gently lifted him and sat him on my bed.

Wrinkles had pain-filled eyes that made only the briefest contact. Not physical pain, but the despair of abandonment - of having your whole world evaporate in an instant. He was deeply sad, and I was sad for him. Every muscle in his little body seemed coiled and ready to spring. Slowly, I began to massage his head and neck. I brushed the loose fur away. I concentrated hard on sending gentle, calming energy through my fingertips. I tried to explain.

"What they did to you", I whispered, "was horrible. You did nothing to deserve this. You're a good pug." Some of the tension faded. "I know you have feelings. I care about your feelings. I promise, no one here will hurt you. I won't let anyone hurt you again." I kept speaking in a soft, low voice. He did not understand the words, but he did understand. After a long while, Wrinkles laid his head down and went to sleep. He slept on a corner of my bed that night, a privilege, I'd been told, he was not allowed by his original family.

The next morning, Wrinkles went outside and came right to me when I called - no more cowering in the corner. He ate some canned food for me.When my brother worked outside that day, Wrinkles followed him. His tail was raised and curled. When I came home from work, he stood with the other pugs. He was a full-fledged pack member. I was so proud of him. Even after nearly 20 years of rescue, it amazes me that a senior dog can be so resilient. Despite the most grievous insult from the family he had loved, somehow he found the courage to begin to trust again. 

Wrinkles has been with us almost four days now. He's doing better and better. Every day a little bit better. I think we have reached a state of understanding.

But the family who bought that precious little pug puppy, raised him for nearly 12 years then dumped him like a piece of old furniture?

Some things I will never understand.

Three Dogs Who Are Not Dead

Scarlet

Scarlet is not dead today, and I am the reason.

Scarlet is six years old and blind. Her owner surrendered her to a "kill shelter" -  I've no idea why. Scarlet is apparently perfect, other than her vision. She runs up to strangers and places both paws on their legs to be petted. Scarlet fit right into the pack at my house. She's unfailingly cheerful, playful - a joy to be around.

She came very, very close to dying.I have a houseful of old, blind, unadoptable pugs. I did not want to take in another. But I did it anyway, because God or conscience would not allow anything else. I'm getting old, I work a full-time job, I live with chronic pain. But we all have our burdens and obligations. Mine do not excuse me from doing the work I was destined to do, no matter how difficult.

Luke

Scarlet's brother, Luke, was dropped at the shelter with Scarlet. Luke, a sweet, slightly cautious nine-year old with bad knees, is Scarlet's guide dog. He has a slight case of dry eye, in addition to the mild patellar luxation in his rear legs, and was also deemed "unadoptable". When Scarlet sits next to me on the bed, I see Luke watching, like a concerned big brother trying to decide if she is safe with me.

Luke is alive, too. In fact, he's lying in a cuddler bed on a raised platform in my bedroom as I write this, twitching in REM sleep, dreaming, perhaps, of a frighteningly crowded shelter filled with the lost and discarded...the one  where he and his sister nearly died.

When Scarlet and Luke came home with me, they didn't have a lot of options. In fact, they had none at all. I put out requests for help on their behalf. The only answer came from my "sister", Lisa, from Midwest Pug Rescue who, I might add, has been a great help in posting my hard-to-place pugs. Lisa tried to find foster homes for Luke and Scarlet. She and I share a special affection and empathy for the old, blind ones. Good thing, huh? I mean, since that is what we generally get in rescue. When I do have puppies for adoption, they're not pugs. They're whatever I could purchase cheaply enough to help pay for the Lukes and the Scarlets. 

There is a third dog alive today. She's not a pug, but a pug-chi mix. She is a fear-biter who will not come out of her crate when anyone is nearby. Instead, she creeps out at night to eat and drink. In the morning, she is back in the crate. We have her safely isolated in our laundry room. The picture at left is her, curled up in the back of a crate. She has no name. We stop, bend down and whisper softly to her several times daily. I have no idea what happened to her to make her so viscerally terrified of human beings.Only time will tell what the future holds for this dog. 

All I can tell you is that she's not dead.

Three dogs are not dead today, only because I could not allow their stories to end otherwise. Their futures may be uncertain at this stage.

But, at least for the time being, I can say they have futures.

Old Pugs

Isabelle

 

Last Wednesday, we dropped a six-year old pug off at our vet's office for a dental. Her name is Isabelle and she only came to us because her owner died of cancer. Isabelle is a fantastic pug: Confidant, outgoing, friendly to everyone, Isabelle was clearly loved by someone. She showed evidence of having had previous dental care, and needed only a cleaning - something we rarely see. She had been spayed and was heartworm-free, unlike many of the dogs we get from that southeastern Missouri.

But somehow Isabelle had still ended up in a "kill" shelter.
Luckily, this particular shelter worked with rescue. Six is up there for an adoption prospect in any shelter. Puppies fly out the doors, but a six year-old - even a purebred - is another story. Had the shelter not called us, Isabelle's chances of survival would've been iffy.

LuLu

Isabelle spent the day at Noah's Ark, had a cleaning, then rode back to our house in the pugmobile with a new friend named Lulu. Lulu's owners have a three year-old child with allergies, so they decided 12 year-old Lulu had to relocate. After trying briefly to talk them out of it, we simply had them leave Lulu at the same vet's office where Isabelle was having her dental done. The kind staff there trimmed her nails, which had grown into her pads, and cleaned her ears, which they described as "filthy". The owners had left a donation that might cover her dental, but not the tumor I found under her chin when I bathed her. Clearly, Lulu had received little attention or care for a very long time...I'm guessing about three years.

Before that came Piggy and Howdy, whose owner also died of cancer. I was in touch with the owner's daughter while she was still in hospice. Piggy and Howdy's owner had her daughter promise to care for them. The daughter, who was a lovely person, was not in a position to do that. But she promised anyway. What choice did she have? She endured considerable guilt over relinquishing them to rescue - unnecessarily, I assured her. Calling rescue was the best thing she could have done for them. What I meant to say was, calling rescue is better than leaving them in a shelter, where the foreign environment, smells and noises would certainly confuse and frighten any animal who had lived in a normal home up until that point.

Change is no picnic for the best of us. I promise you, this only worsens as we age. I work at an aging agency during the day counseling seniors who will dig in their heels at the mere mention of relocation, regardless of how obviously practical that might seem to everyone else. Then I go home to a houseful of elderly, displaced pugs.

In rescue,we try to make the displaced pets as comfortable and happy as we can, but it's sad and difficult. They don't want to be in a rescue house. They want their homes. They want the children who cuddled them, the owner who sat with them on the sofa in the evening...everything they've always known is what they crave. At work, we call it "aging in place". It means not being uprooted just because you've grown old. It's what most of us want. If dogs could speak, it's what they would ask for, too.

Gertie, Bebe & Angus

I have made provisions for my dogs, should anything happen to me. I don't want Bebe, Angus and Gertie to ever find themselves in a shelter pen somewhere. The tiny puppymill pens they once knew must seem another lifetime to them now, as they sit on the bed beside me while I write. Their well-being is paramount. They know that I love them. They know they are safe now. I've made certain to the very best of my ability they will stay safe,even if I cannot care for them personally.

Isabelle has a wonderful home waiting for her. Next weekend, she'll be leaving with a couple of "repeat offenders" I've known for years, a perfect match, a happy ending after all. I have a brand new bunch of fearful breeder release pugs who will require far more emotional rehabilitation than physical.

As I grow older, I find myself identifying more and more with these senior dogs. I have the same arthritis, dental woes, declining vision and diminished hearing, and need for familiarity and repetition. Lost, displaced, abandoned. All I can do is marvel at their resilience, help the ones I can, and ensure that I do better for my own than their families did for them.
 

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.