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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.

Midwest's Madonna of the Mills Goes To Jail

SHEMP, a blind puppy purchased & given to IL-MO Rescue, NFP by Lisa Welborn

Many of you have seen the HBO documentary, "Madonna of the Mills". The subject, a woman named Laura, acts as an intermediary between puppymills and rescues, saving literally thousands of dogs from lives of suffering and neglect.

How many of you are aware we have our own Madonna of the Mills right here in Illinois?

I met Lisa Welborn of Granite city about a year ago during a large-scale organized puppymill rescue at a horse barn in Missouri. It was one of the more inspiring things I've seen in rescue. Professional rescuers from all over the country were there, volunteering their services. Lisa pulled up later in the afternoon in a rented van filled to the rooftop with dog carriers. Those in turn were filled with filthy, stinking, frightened, excited dogs. People poured out to unload the crates. In one of those crates was a terrified, difficult elderly pug no one really wanted - old puppymill males are among the toughest dogs to place. He came home with me. I've never forgotten that Lisa was the one who gave him that opportunity.

I knew the moment we met that Lisa and I were kindred spirits. Lisa is my age and, like me, she has a full-time day job. Rescue consumes most of her free time. She is the most self-effacing, unassuming person I know. She began calling me occasionally on Saturdays when she came back with a load of puppymill survivors. Often, she would give me a puppy, something I never got anywhere else. Shelters only call me if there is something wrong with a dog, "wrong" meaning sick, expensive or unlikely to be adopted. Puppies are a favor to small rescues - they help raise the funds we need to vet the old, the blind, the heartworm positive. It was months before I discovered she was paying for these puppies with her own money. She would not take anything from me. Even when I got her a gift card as a small "Thank You", she was so annoyed I almost felt bad I had done it. Lisa is a boon to little rescues like mine that are constantly struggling for funds. She is one of the kindest, most generous human beings I  have ever known. Smart, quick-witted with a terrific sense of humor to boot. I liked and respected her immensely.

So you can imagine my shock when I opened an email and saw her face in a mugshot.

"Lisa Welborn charged with animal hoarding" read the headline. I felt sick. Too many uneducated persons confuse rescue with hoarding. It can be disastrous - even fatal - for the rescuer and the animals in their care. It was a full day before I could reach Lisa to find out what had transpired.

Lisa had arrived home to the smell of gas. Suspecting a gas leak, she immediately left the house and called the gas company, AmerenIP.  Inside the house were about 25 puppymill survivors awaiting transfer to the organized rescue effort where they would be cleaned, vetted, vaccinated and treated for any problems, then transported to waiting rescues in the northern U.S. The Ameren workers went inside, found damaged gas lines and, saying nothing to Lisa, called the police. From that point, the situation escalated to a farcical mess: Although a licensed rescue was present and ready to accept the animals into a safe, protected environment, one Napoleonic officer from the Madison County Sheriff's Department insisted they impound the terrified dogs and prosecute Lisa as a hoarder.

"Having handcuffs put on you is a sobering experience," said Lisa. With her characteristic wit and humor, Lisa reported that "the other criminals were very pleasant" although laughter erupted on hearing her charges.

Among the dogs confiscated were Lisa's own personal dogs, and four cats. Like most of us in rescue, a few unadoptables were resigned to permanent residence. These traumatized dogs are now in Madison County Animal Control, a far cry from the nurturing environment to which they had become accustomed.

One report stated "Authorities discovered 25 dogs and 5 cats inside the home and saw the animals did not have proper vaccinations. The home was filled with pet feces and urine." Calling this a gross exaggeration is a definite understatement. A lie would be more accurate. Yes, they had hit it just right. The dogs there had been picked up a few days earlier. They were still smelly. As for vaccinations, anyone rescuing puppymill dogs will tell you they don't ever have rabies vaccinations and are not housetrained. Puppymillers vaccinate for genuine threats like Parvo and Distemper. A dog in a rabbit hutch is not likely to contract rabies. In a few more days they would have had all required vaccinations and been on their way to health and rehabilitation.

But the fellows from AmerenIP apparently saw no reason to speak directly to Lisa about the situation. They simply called the cops.

Lisa has hired a good animal rights attorney. Lisa is not licensed. She is not a rescue, per se. Lisa falls into a gray area, the layover between dog Hell and dog Heaven. All the small licensed rescues who know and work with Lisa think highly of her and have offered their services in any capacity needed. I'd be more than happy to testify on her behalf. All her neighbors, with one exception, had nothing bad to say about Lisa. They all knew what she was doing, knew that wretched dogs would come in for a week or two, then leave all at once. Lisa has helped most of those neighbors at one time or another with a sick dog, or a stray they found.

The one exception? You know the type. A retired man who, lacking gainful employment, appoints himself the neighborhood snitch. When God asks him "What have you done to make the world a better place?", he'll stand there looking stupid because keeping a manicured lawn and waxing your car every week don't count.

The worst thing of all is the thousands of puppymill dogs who will never get that taste of freedom, never experience happiness, a soft bed, a squeaky toy. Love. Not many people can do what Lisa did. I used to do it, before I realized that I would get killed if I kept it up. My sister once told me, "Everything you think shows on your face". Not a good trait when you are dealing with scum. I had to quit. I deeply admire Lisa Welborn for having the strength to face those puppymillers, smile at them, and be their "friend" because she knows it literally means the whole world to one little dog.

As for AmerenIP, I called today and switched my billing to Direct Energy (1-888-307-2650 or www.directenergy.com/20SAVE). I will save on my bill and take a little something away from them. What they did in their ignorance was pretty awful.

As for law enforcement, perhaps it would be best if they left issues involving animal counts over the city ordinance to their state departments of agriculture.These are the bodies which normally regulate animal shelters and rescue. They have been educated in the differences between rescue and hoarding. The Madison County Sheriff's Department clearly has not.

The Drive Home

She sits in the driveway now.


Her paint is faded and scarred. The mirror on the driver's side is bent. The windshield is badly cracked; the passenger window doesn't roll down. She wears thirty-odd stickers, magnets and logos that have adhered to the metal and can never be removed. She will never run another mile. But her heart still beats.


I am filling cardboard boxes with chewys and treats, bowls and water bottles, blankets and baby wipes...the detritus of a decade. This old girl had a calling.


Her odometer passed 195,000 some time ago, miles earned flying directly into enemy territory, the puppymills of Missouri. This was one helluva warrior.


Countless times we traveled deep into the night - sometimes all night - to bring back a precious cargo. Frightened, sick, wafting the scent of old barns and chicken coops, they were all welcomed. The moment her door closed behind them like a powerful arm separating them from their greedy captors - this was the moment they first became safe. I looked at the two canine carseats in the second row, remembering how many pugs had sat in those seats looking out the window, watching the old world fade away with the highway.


Now, her time had ended. Her life was honorable, her rest well-deserved. She had not another mile left in her, not one. But maybe, I thought, just one more story.


I never look at those old carseats without remembering how they got there. A decade ago, when the Pugmobile was new to us and had a mere 55,000 miles on her, I got a call asking me to take two senior pugs. Their names were Butchie and Blair.


Butchie and Blair were fawn pugs, 10 and 12 years old respectively. They were atypical of the pugs we normally rescued in almost every way. They had never seen the inside of a puppymill. They had been well-loved and had had excellent care since they were puppies. They were social and housetrained, for crying out loud. Why were they here?

Their owners had a baby. And the baby was having severe allergic reactions - not little sniffles, but the kind where the trachea can actually swell up and impede breathing. Allergy testing had brought the worst news home.


"I did not want it to be them," she said. "Anything but them." Of course, it was them.,


Butchie and Blair's owners sobbed when they met me for the drop-off. They were a rare gem of a couple who, I think, would have donated one arm apiece to be able to keep their pugs. They brought a huge tub of clothing of every kind: Harnesses, leashes, t-shirts, sweaters, shampoo, vitamins, toys and Halloween costumes. 


Butchie and Blair also had their own carseats. Their owners carefully strapped them into the van and showed me how to secure them using the seatbelt, and how to attach their own smaller seatbelts to their harnesses. 


I felt like a cab driver. Blair, a one-eyed grand dame, sat directly behind me and mostly slept on the way home. Butchie was another story.


In the carseat directly behind the empty passenger seat in the van, Butchie was 100% alert. He did not bark. He made no attempt to leave his seat. But his eyes were wide open and they missed nothing.


As I drove, I felt those eyes boring into my back. I would turn around and see Butchie sitting there, staring directly at the back of my head.  Another few miles, I'd look back to check. There he was, in the same position, staring unblinking at the back of my head. All the way home from St Louis, Butchie never moved, and he never let me forget he was watching me. He was not frightened, nor did he seem upset. Just puzzled...curious. Perhaps a bit judgmental, as if he wanted to be sure I was competent to chauffer the two of them. I can picture it still, as clearly as if it were a week that had passed rather than a decade.


Butchie and Blair proved to be wonderful pugs. Both were lovable and adaptable. It was, I think, a tribute to their upbringing that they held no fear of anything. They both fully expected to be loved and catered to - nothing more. In due time, a friend of a friend offered to foster them. Bobbie owned a little country shop where she sold produce and wine. Butchie and Blair went to work with her, where they proved to be capable ambassadors and quickly won a following. Bobbie said many folks commented favorably on the necklaces with St. Francis medals I had made for them, and these later became a trademark of our rescue. To no one's surprise, a kind lady fell in love with Butchie and Blair. She adopted them together, and their lives continued in grand style, uninterrupted.From rescue home, to foster home, to forever home, Butchie and Blair's special carseats went right along with them. 


I liked the carseats, and noted how the pugs seemed to enjoy sitting at window height. So I bought some for the rescued pugs, too. Many other pugs had ridden in these over the passing years, but they all owed their comfort to Butchie and Blair. So funny, I thought, the things I remembered just cleaning out a broken-down old van.

As I reached in to remove the second carseat and store it in the shed, I gasped! In the seat was a bright-eyed little pug, eying me quizzically. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?", they seemed to ask.


In a blink, he was gone. Butchie was not there in the old van. He and his sister had gone to the Rainbow Bridge years ago. There was nothing there anymore but memories.


The van was empty. It was getting dark. Time to call it a day.


I turned toward the house, away from the past and toward an uncertain future.

Something Amazing Is Happening On Facebook

Something amazing is happening on Facebook.

It all started one week ago with a simple post made to our Facebook page. The post read:

"Bad, bad news...the rescue transport van broke down on Sunday and it looks like the transmission is gone. Replacement cost for a 1999 Ford Windstar is prohibitive. This may be the straw that broke the camel's back..."

At the time, I was despondent. Things had been going so well...adoptions were picking up, we were catching up on the bills, now this. I thought, maybe it is a sign that my rescue days are over.

My friend and former adopter, Peggy, offered to try to start a fundraiser to repair or replace the van, but I said no. It's one thing to ask for funds for the dogs but something else, I felt, to ask for money for a vehicle.

I guess Peggy didn't see it that way.

That evening, the strangest thing happened: I started gets emails from pugs. The pugs were named Frankie and Moosey. I later learned that Moosey, who lives in England, was the ringleader. The emails were in the cutest language and, well, I LOVE pugs so I could not resist following their posts and answering them. It seemed something was going on behind my back. As I followed the emails, I saw postings for an online auction.

The phone rang. It was Peggy.

"Melanie have you looked at the auction site?", she asked. I had not. "You need to go there. There are over 200 people on it already." 

The folks on the auction site were emailing each other, emailing other human friends, and other four-legged friends who all had Facebook accounts. They were posting items to help us get back on the road. Some I knew, many I did not. Lots of the participants were former adopters, which struck so deep a chord I just blubbered. I had never witnessed anything so awesome. Maybe, I thought, my interpretation of events had been premature.

Since then, I have spent literally days in tears. "Overwhelmed" is the word that most frequently comes to mind, but even that does not describe how I feel. 

Hundred of peoplehave donated items. Many people have made direct donations to help us. Those who could not, offered prayers and kind words of support. As Wayne and Garth would say, we are not worthy.

My friend, Sutton, who is a Native American shaman, helped me put it in perspective. "This is done out of love. You should accept it the same way."

It's not easy for rescue people to  feel deserving. To paraphrase a line from Annie Hall, "If there's one guy starving somewhere in the world, it puts a cramp on my evening".  That's how we feel about animals. No matter how much we do, we always feel we've fallen short. Our little rescue is no more deserving than a thousand other rescues out there fighting the good fight every single day.

In my 16 years of rescue, I have been to puppymills and dog auctions. Tiny rural  shelters where no one cared about the animals in them, and others whose workers seemed to perform miracles with almost nothing. I've met the absolute worst of the human race. But I can also say I've met the best. Over 500 of them are here tonight.

Now, it's the eve of the auction's start, and I want everyone to know something. 

No matter what happens, you have given me hope. I will never, NEVER forget this.

In every dog I pick up from the side of the road, every blind, 10y/o pug I take in when no one else will, every old, sick or injured animal who finds respite in this rescue from today forward, there will be a part of you. You will be there beside me. That animal's safety will not be because of one person, but because of 500-plus people. 

I'll never feel alone again. You are the finest, all of you.

Thank you.

Thank you, thank you...

 

Rosie

The Shrine of Our Lady of the Snows looked lovely. Blue skies, green grass – such a peaceful place. A heat wave was keeping most folks indoors, but that was to be expected. Not much anyone could do except keep cool and tough it out. It was a mostly uneventful Wednesday and a routine scan of the area was going well, when suddenly God spotted a problem.

“Francis!” shouted God. “Do you see what I see?”

A monkish fellow in brown robes peered over the clouds in the direction of God’s finger. “Si”, he replied, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “That no look good.“

“Do we have anyone we can send?” asked God, flipping through radio stations.

Francis’ sharp eyes quickly settled on an older beaten-up mini-van chugging dutifully along in the right direction. “Good luck is with us!,” he answered brightly. “We do!”

“Send ‘em over,” replied God. “Five more minutes and that dog’ll be toast.”

I had left work ten minutes earlier and was driving down 15 on my way to the vet’s office in St Louis. I was looking about a half-mile ahead to size up the rush hour traffic. To my surprise, I saw a young deer standing at the edge of the highway near my exit. My stomach immediately knotted. The animal was clearly considering trying to cross. As I got closer I could see it was no deer at all. It was a big dog in grave danger.

Highway 15 is a four-lane. In the center of this section is a tall median. I envisioned the dog running across the first two lanes only to hit the wall of that median and have to turn back. By that time, the traffic would be on him.

I slowed down and pulled onto the shoulder. The dog turned away and ran about twenty feet, far enough to observe, but no further. As I got out, the sweat immediately began to pour down my face, stinging my eyes. It felt like a sauna. The air was heavy, the humidity oppressive.

The dog stood in the big green sphere between the highway and the ramp circling upward to 255. There were no houses anywhere along here, only the Flying J, and I wondered how he managed to get himself into such a predicament. He was drooling and panting rapidly – not good signs. He stood there looking at me, not about to come closer. He was big. It was a bit intimidating for someone accustomed to small dogs, but when his eyes met mine and held my gaze, I saw something there. I walked toward him, speaking in a soft, calm voice, hoping he would not run. As I edged closer, his tail wagged tentatively. He gently sniffed my outstretched hand and allowed me to scratch his head. Coaxing him along, I placed one arm around his shoulders. Walking back toward the van, he stayed right beside me. When the hatch opened, he jumped in and immediately lay down, exhausted. I got in the driver’s seat and, turning the AC up full blast, we hit the highway.

At the vet’s, we picked up Logan and Ruby, a pug and a Brussels Griffon respectively. They sat in the carseat beside the dog from the highway, peering curiously at the new critter in the van. His tail thumped and they touched noses a couple of times before his big head hit the deck again. He looked terrible. I realized he must be suffering from heat exhaustion. Recalling the picture of him standing beside the highway, I wondered how long he had been there baking in the hot sun, and how much longer it would have been before thirst and sickness drove him to try to cross.

At home we discovered he was actually a she, a big Lab mix about a year old. We called her Rosie, in honor of a dear friend who’d recently had surgery and was in the midst of a painful and difficult recovery.

An attempt at a cool bath ended with me hanging onto one foreleg while Rosie clambered out of the bathtub. This dog was definitely a pacifist. If she would have bitten anyone, it would have been me as I hung on her foreleg in a futile attempt to keep her in the water.

“Ok, you win,” I said, ruffling her ears. “We'll call the groomer in the morning.”

Although the bath had been a failure, I managed to get her fairly wet. She collapsed on the floor of my bedroom and I set two fans blowing directly on her. We had to get her temperature down. Eventually the panting slowed and Rosie fell asleep there under the cool air.

The next day, the groomer and I relieved Rosie of at least 50 ticks. The groomer, being a pro, was able to finish the bath and brushing I had clumsily started. Rosie had no tags or even a collar, nor was she microchipped. She was underweight, but not starving - someone had at least been feeding her. All in all, she appeared healthy. On the way home from the grooming shop, I picked up a bucket of chicken for dinner and sat it on the stove while I showered. When I returned to the kitchen, the empty bucket lay in the center of the kitchen floor. I looked at the only dog in the room tall enough to have reached it. There would be no repercussions. What could I say? I'd have done the same thing.

Knowing we now had a counter surfer, all food went into the empty oven or into cabinets. Funny, I thought. I had not heard a sound from anyone while they were feasting on the Colonel – no barks, no growls or skirmishes. I realized Rosie must have shared and I had to smile.

Rosie was housetrained, but knew no commands. The first two she learned were “SIT” and “OFF”. She followed the pugs everywhere. If one of the small dogs growled or barked at her, she simply looked at them curiously. One day, I turned around to see her crawling through the 12” pet door. Rosie adapted.

Except for her coloring, and her eyes being a tad smaller, she looked exactly like my heart dog, Malachi, who had died in 1998. Malachi had been a big, handsome yellow Lab. I still thought about him and missed him almost daily. He and Rosie shared a rare and beautiful trait: The gentlest of hearts. My roommate, Kevin, and I watched as Rosie played on the floor with 18 month-old Logan, a vision-impaired black pug. She put his whole head in her mouth, and released him without a scratch. Logan immediately wrapped both paws around her huge muzzle, tail wagging furiously. Maybe having a big dog around again would not be such a bad thing, I thought.

“I'll be glad when we find a foster for her, “said Kevin. “She'll make someone a really good dog.”

I kept my eyes on the dogs on the floor, poker-faced, aware that Kevin was watching for my reaction.

“Then again,” he said, “she really doesn't have to go anywhere”.

Stopping for her was a good decision, I thought silently. I tried to remember that moment. Had I made a conscious decision at all, had I? I didn't think so. Nope, just pulled right over the minute I got close to her, just like Rosie was a magnet and the van her direct target.

Rosie stood up, walked over and nudged my hand for a head scratch. Yep, I thought. Funny how things fall into place.

God looked down and smiled.

“Nice job, Francis. That worked out perfectly.”

The monkish man nodded, his hand stroking the head of a large yellow dog.

“I thought it might,” he answered.

Hawkeye Goes Home

Hawkeye was born at my house. In fact, I literally pulled him from his mother, Beverly, tore open the sac and cut the umbilical cord. I’m not much for puppies as a rule, but he was the exception. 

Born March 25^th to a mother who had lost all three of her other pups, it was touch and go with this one for the first few days. I said an earnest prayer (“Please, can’t I just have this ONE?”). God was good. Hawkeye lived.

Initially, he was referred to only as “the puppy”. I refused him any other moniker thinking he might fade and die at any moment just like his siblings had. When I felt sure I could trust him to stick around, I chose a favorite character from “The Last of the Mohicans” for his namesake. Every step of his development was scrutinized. His eyes opened at 10 days. A week or so later, we realized he was actually starting to see us. Before we knew it he was walking – stumbling, really. The one day, he began to run, a feat he accomplished with great enthusiasm and zero grace. It was a sight that made us roar with laughter! Our houseful of old puppymill girls doted on the sole youngster in their midst. Hawkeye was constantly being washed or diapered, or dozing dreamily between the paws of any of a dozen adult pugs in the rescue house. Our old man, Angus, quickly became a favorite playmate and role model. Having a puppy around seemed to put some extra bounce in Angus’ steps; he was endlessly patient, like a doting grandfather.

I can’t imagine any puppy ever having a happier life. Little Hawkeye was swimming in love and acceptance everywhere he turned.

I began to think about keeping him forever.

I have always had a rule about puppies: No keeping them. Everybody wants puppies, there’s no reason to keep them. The fees they generate help provide medical care for the sad old mill survivors with their bad skin, tumors and rotten teeth. Puppies deserve to be the center of attention and part of a real family, rather than tossed into the continual flux of a rescue house. Yet, the bond I felt with little Hawkeye was so strong…

We rarely see puppies in rescue, and I knew that was part of the problem. Getting a puppy in rescue is like finding a gold coin in the dirt – it just never happens and, when it does, it generates a lot of excitement. We cannot keep every dog or puppy who comes into rescue, of course. Most of us who operate rescues end up keeping the unadoptables…the unhousetrainables, the blind, the elderly…pugs more like Vincent.

Vincent – aka Vinnie Bamboose – still howls at night on occasion. Vinnie has one ear – the other has a tiny opening that must be cleaned regularly. His paws are stubby little clumps, deformed by years on wire cage floors and recurring infections. Vinnie is pigeon-toed – he has a comical walk that I find endearing. He has three teeth. He looks at me with big, liquid eyes and I see trust there. That trust was not the casual trust of a puppy who has never known cruelty. Vinnie’s trust was hard-won, the bond between us all the more precious because of it…my regard for him higher because I’ll never understand where he found the courage to give it.

The day soon came when I had to make a decision. With a mixture of hope and loss, and the certainty that I was doing a proper job of rescue even if it hurt, I sent Hawkeye home with the most wonderful young family he ever could've hoped to have. I have to admit, I miss him a lot. But his new mom is my Facebook friend, so I get to see pictures of him as he grows. He has a pug brother, and is obviously very loved and very happy.

Every night when I go to bed, Vinnie Bamboose comes into my room to be lifted and sat beside me. If I'm lucky, I get one small kiss, am allowed to scratch his bony head and clean the deformed whisper of an ear. He never stays. Vincent has a post on the raised dog bed next to the TV in the living room, where he guards us against intruders. Vinnie takes this job very seriously. But we still share our special time together each evening and I know that when I wake in the morning and look over the side of my bed, Vinnie will be standing there. His tail will wag a bit. Sometimes he even plays. And if I’m not up by 6:15am, I’ll soon hear him howling. Vincent has achieved a level of safety and comfort here that he might never recover were he to start from scratch somewhere else. “Who needs a puppy?” I ask. I wrap my arms around him, give him a gentle hug and kiss his nose, which makes him squirm. He knows the answer to the question hovering between us, and now so do I.

Vinnie stays.