Daily Dose of Dogs (Aka Cats with Your Coffee)

By Chrystal Parker

This is, first and foremost, a book about private animal rescue. The stories are true. As a result, these pages are filled with sadness and joy, loss and hope, heartbreak and compassion. Within the stories, personalities emerge, and the love affair between author and animal is apparent. During the course of one year, the author blogs the stories from her past alongside the rescues that occur in real time. Along the way, she discovers a growing support system in the blogosphere. Those connections offer not only emotional succor but also very tangible aid. The world of private animal rescue is candidly revealed in a series of short vignettes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469188553

Chrystal Parker

Chrystal Parker is a private animal rescuer in Southern Illinois. She left a career as a psychotherapist in order to homeschool her two daughters. Building and operating a small boarding kennel has helped with the big costs of the rescue work. Chrystal’s lifelong love of animals made it impossible for her to turn away from the precious homeless creatures she encountered. She has spent a large portion of her adult life taking in needy animals and trying to find wonderful homes for them.

Book preview

daily dose of dogs

(aka cats with your coffee)

Chrystal Parker

Copyright © 2012 by Chrystal Parker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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Acknowledgments

Giant thanks to my family. My two daughters have been with me in this rescue world from birth on. They are now young adults with hearts wide open for animals. They have been by my side during actual rescues, during the ups and downs of trying to keep an animal alive, and during the long hours on the road doing transports. They also encouraged me to write this book. Yes, Mom, your stories are good. You need to put them in a book. My husband has come to completely support my work. He is the builder and the fixer and the packer. I can’t begin to estimate how many 50-lb bags of dog food or containers of kitty litter he has hauled around for me. My husband has also been on some transports with me and will undoubtedly go again as the girls move into their adult lives. In terms of this book, he spent many an evening in the family room watching television by himself because I was sitting at the computer writing.

My mother is the reason this book has materialized. She not only started me down this road, but she encouraged me every step of the way (as she has always done). My father has been called on over and over to run the numbers for us when we were hoping to build shelter areas and cat houses. I would tell my dad what I wanted, and he would draw it up. He has been my husband’s co-worker in the actual building of these structures—every step of the way.

My sister and brother-in-law have adopted THREE cats from us. That’s a record. Those cats are living an amazing life with those two humans.

I am truly blessed with the family that I have.

There are several other humans who adopted from us or supported me with events that helped our work (and who are mentioned by first name only). This book is about my first year of blogging. The wonderful humans who show up in these pages have been joined by more wonderful humans since that first year. (Maybe someday I’ll write another book.) An adoption is the ultimate gift to us, but all of the other types of help we’ve received are so deeply appreciated, too.

There are people who helped with their supportive comments on the blog, or with a bid at an auction, or with an offer to help with a transport. Thank you to all of you who visited my blog and embraced me with your support. I’ve met THE most wonderful people through blogging.

To my friend and fellow rescuer, thank you. I’m so glad we can support each other.

To all humans who care about animals and who act on their behalf—thank you and please keep up the good work.

Foreward

In the Winter of 2010, I was having a conversation with my mother about how I wished I would write down the stories of the many dogs and cats I had rescued over the years. It seemed overwhelming to sit and start writing. I wanted to, but my life was already very full. The rescue work itself takes so much time. I have a family. We have quite a large group of our own pets. I own and operate a small business. The chances were pretty great that I would NOT start that writing process. And if I did start, staying with it would be quite a challenge. As soon as the busy-ness of my life pressed in, I knew I would abandon the writing. Then a few days later, my mom cut a small article out of a magazine and sent it to me. It was about blogging (which I’d never heard of). My mother said maybe I should think about starting a blog which would provide a platform for the animal stories. I got online and looked into blogging. I started thinking. Maybe if I blogged the stories, it would seem do-able because it would be in small chunks. When you blog, you write a little every day. AND . . . if I was blogging and even one person was reading, I would feel obligated to write. This would keep me from abandoning the process when I became overwhelmed with the busy-ness of the rest of my life.

I went with Typepad because that’s who I read about in the magazine article. I knew absolutely nothing about blogging. N-o-t-h-i-n-g. That first year would be a year of learning. I simply was NOT a computer-literate person. But I could type. And because of the blog, I finally started writing. One post at a time. One story at a time. One day at a time. I named my blog—daily dose of dogs (aka cats with your coffee)—and I launched it on March 11, 2010. Some wonderful things would happen as a result of this decision. This book is the compilation of the stories I posted in my first year of blogging. The posts are taken from my blog as I wrote them at the time (dates are included in the titles). In darker print is what I added when I started forming a book around the posts. What I wrote on any particular date in 2010 or 2011 is what you’ll find in the titled post itself. I came back and filled in some detail here and there while putting this book together. In a blog, there are always pictures. Descriptions had to be written in to replace them. Hopefully, this book will read like a diary, moving you forward from day to day during my first year of blogging. I also hope that the daily entries from that year provide not only the option of sitting down to read for a stretch, but the option of reading in short bursts, a day at a time, if you so choose. AND, I hope that you are reading with a dog or cat curled up on your lap or at your feet. It just doesn’t get any better than that.

MARCH

First Day

3/11/10

I’m here. I’ve finally done it. For so long, I have needed to begin recording the stories of all of the animals who have come into (and gone out of) my life. I’m completely unfamiliar with blogging. Up until today, I could send an email, read an email, and make purchases online (usually). I hope this is as easy as I’ve been told it is.

I will be writing about dogs and cats. I’m nearly 50 years old, and I guess I’ve been bringing homeless animals into my life for about 35 of those 50 years. When I was sixteen, I worked part-time at the drug store in town. One Spring evening, when I stepped out the front door to head to my car, there was a stray dog huddled against the building. I started talking to her and she immediately cowered down, tucked her tail tightly between her legs, and tried to roll onto her side. I went over and started petting her, talking to her all the while. She was a skeleton of a dog (as would be so many in the years to come). No collar. A scarred face. She wouldn’t come with me, though I could see she wanted to. I would call her and start walking backwards to my car. The end of her tail (still tightly between her legs) would flutter back and forth. As I inched away from her, calling her to come with me, she wiggled around and panic filled her eyes. But she would not come. I finally had to scoop her up and load her into my car. I took her home—home is my parent’s home of course (I’m 16 years old, remember). I explained to them that I couldn’t just leave her behind. I don’t remember how thrilled or not thrilled they were, but they let me put her in the backyard. We had a dog house left over from when I had my own dog growing up. We got her all set up and fed her something (I don’t remember what). And a few weeks later, she had nine puppies . . .

I have learned so much over these nearly 35 years of private rescue. There have been SO many dogs and cats. This is where I hope to begin to record those stories. I hope a few animal lovers will find the stories to be a nice distraction from the daily grind. A moment of escape. A daily dose of dogs. Or a cat (or two) with your coffee.

Second Day

3/12/10

Today I live in a two-story cedar-sided house overlooking the Ohio River. We are out in the country. There is a tiny town about three miles west—population 250. One general store, a bank, and a post office. You have to drive half an hour to get to a town that can boast a population in the thousands. There are three bigger cities an hour away in three different directions, with populations ranging from 20,000 to over 30,000. So if you really need to shop (for dog food, cat food, kitty litter), it’s an hour on the road to get there. Not terribly convenient. But being in the country is what affords me the opportunity to live with all of our wonderful animals.

I can hardly wait to begin to tell their stories. There’s Miracle, who was so skinny when I first spotted her drinking from a rain puddle in the middle of a road that I thought she was a goat. Her hips stuck out that far. And there’s Waggles, who has made it her job to protect my two daughters from everything (including their friends). There’s Milo. When we found him, he was dragging himself along beside the highway because he couldn’t use his back legs. What a character he has turned out to be. Of course, there are cats, too. Like our latest addition—Amelia—a cat my daughter watched get hit by a car on a country road after dark one evening. She went back to make sure the cat was dead, but she was still breathing. Now Amelia races through the house, completely recovered, except for a crooked little nose that doesn’t always breathe exactly right for her. So many stories . . .

Oh, the nine puppies (from yesterday’s post and thirty-something years ago) . . . . my parents (bless their hearts) found homes for all of them, including the momma dog. With a little love, she came around nicely—still a little shy, but no longer terrified. What I didn’t know then was how many more pregnant or nursing females would end up in my care. Nor did I know how many spays and neuters I would sponsor over the years. It was the beginning of a journey that I am still on. And it’s been quite a ride.

Third Day (Different Titles Coming Soon)

3/14/10

When I married my husband (22 years ago today!), we moved into my house in town. My husband had lived in a trailer on family land in the country. For the next couple of years, on a regular basis, my husband would mention how wonderful living in the country was. We knew we wanted to build a house out there eventually. But I couldn’t really see myself so far away from all signs of civilization. I mean, my little house in town was a block away from a Huck’s. A fifteen minute drive took me to a large shopping area. I had lived in town all my life. At that time, I didn’t know that country living was going to afford me a beautiful opportunity to save more animals. I didn’t even consider myself an animal rescuer. All I really knew at that time was that I loved animals. And that if I saw something suffering, it tortured me.

When my husband and I married, he moved into my house, bringing with him his two cats—Max and Nubbin. I had my one dog Coco, a medium-sized, all-black, long-haired mixed breed. He was given to me as a puppy by a boyfriend at the time. That relationship didn’t last, but my relationship with Coco was til death do us part. So here was the beginning of our family. Two people, one dog, two cats. A blended family. It took a while and a little patience for Coco, Max, and Nubbin to learn to live with each other. Coco was young and very active. Nubbin was annoyed by Coco and showed regular signs of disgust. If you have a cat, you know that they can display various degrees of disgust. Nubbin displayed mostly deep disgust, turning away from Coco and pretending he did not exist. Coco was not even remotely offended by this. He ran through the house at full speed, sliding across the hardwood floors and occasionally into a wall or piece of furniture. Nubbin stared out the window. When he wasn’t sitting in a window, Nubbin stared at the wall, pretending to look out a window.

The house was small, with only three large rooms that basically made a circle. It was an older house, built in such a way that you could walk from the living room into the kitchen right into the bedroom and back into the living room. There was a doorway on each end of each room. A giant circle built a hundred years ago with only Coco’s needs in mind. An indoor race track. So much fun. Oh, and Max. Max fell somewhere between Coco’s hyperactivity and Nubbin’s hyper-disgust. He watched Coco race round and round. And once in a while, he leapt from his perch and joined the chase. When he landed in front of Coco, this was all the better for Coco—something to chase while he raced. Not so much fun for Max, who would suddenly realize that he was being chased. He would turn frantically toward Coco, arch wildly, fur standing up all over, and hiss directly into the face of his pursuer. Sometimes, however, it happened that Max would leap into the race just behind Coco. He chased Coco at full speed until Coco would realize that he was being chased. This scared Coco to death. He would yelp and take off for the nearest shelter—the corner of the couch or under the bed. You could reach either place in a matter of seconds.

So began my married life and those first blendings.

I ended that third post with some pictures of Max and Nubbin. You cannot even imagine the excitement I experienced when I discovered how to post pictures. Remember, I was nearly 100% computer-illiterate at that point. But I published that third post on the 14th day of March (our wedding anniversary) with text and pictures. Boy, was I proud. This blogging thing just might end up being fun.

This is My Fourth Day of Blogging (still no interesting titles)

3/15/10

Yay! Daylight Savings Time. I love it. It was light until 7pm last night. No doubt, with so many animals to care for, my day starts early and goes late. It seems so much easier to keep working when it is light outside.

I’ve said I live in the country now. And that this has afforded me the opportunity to have ALOT of animals. ALL have been rescues. There are our own animals. There are the still homeless dogs and cats that we consider ours until they end up in amazing homes of their own. And there are the dogs and cats that I board in my boarding kennel, which I have owned and operated for twelve years now.

I’m up early (around 6 or 6:30am) most mornings. I stagger into the kitchen, get some breakfast, and put on the coffee. Amelia immediately joins me on the kitchen counter to see if she can assist me in buttering my toast. How about playing with the vitamins when I dump them onto the counter—surely I would want to play this game with her. When that doesn’t work, she walks around looking for Tory (one of our older cats) and tries hard to annoy her. Tory is annoyed with Amelia—always. But she doesn’t get annoyed enough to make it interesting. So Amelia comes and checks to see how far along I have gotten in the breakfast routine. If the butter is put away, she balances on the edge of the kitchen sink and stares down at the dishes. Sometimes the water drips into a bowl or cup; this is amazing and entertains Amelia for some time. If the faucet isn’t dripping, she watches the dishes anyway. You can never be sure. Sometimes a lady bug dive-bombs one of the dishes. Sometimes sitting on the edge long enough allows the aroma from the butter knife to waft up and lure her in. And it’s only a matter of time before I’m over there by the coffee pot, messing around pouring things from hot, hissing, scary equipment. As soon as the coffee happens, she knows she can follow me to the computer and walk on the keyboard while I try to check my email and enjoy my daily love affair with my coffee.

I have a huge bowl cup that I pour about three average sized cups of coffee into. I’m one of those people who loves coffee—really loves coffee—and must have it EVERY morning in order to live and breathe and function. I can drink coffee steaming hot (which is how it starts out), hot (which is mostly about the middle third of my bowl cup), and lukewarm (which is what the last third or so has become). (My daughters gag about the lukewarm part.) Anyway, after coffee, I realize that I am so glad to be alive, and that I love my life, and that I’m ready for another day of fur, poop, and fun.

Fifth Day of Blogging

3/16/10

This is my fifth day of blogging. Somehow, a couple of days ago, I messed up my blog by opening a second blog along with my original. So without knowing it, I had two blogs—both with the same title. When I wrote something new (like my third day post), it went to the twin blog and not the original. Being as blog-ignorant as they come, I didn’t know where my third entry went. I eventually found it, but I didn’t know what to do. I learned about sending a ticket for help to the Typepad people. In the meantime, I tried to look around in this blogging world in case I might figure something out on my own. And without any knowledge about how it happened, suddenly my third post showed up with the first two. It also showed up in the twin blog a second time. After receiving some help info from the ticket, I tried my fourth post, which proceeded to show up with the two third posts. Wow. Last night, with more info from the help people (another ticket), I believe I managed to delete the twin blog and now have only the original blog to post to. I certainly hope so.

On now to what I’m here for—writing about animals. Yesterday you met Amelia. This is her story.

Last Fall, my 19-year old daughter was driving home from her night class at the community college. She had stopped at the one intersection in an otherwise remote area to wait for two cars to pass. As the second car approached, she watched in horror as a cat jumped into its path. The car hit the cat, and the cat was thrown to the side of the road. My daughter feared the worst, knowing a cat couldn’t survive being hit by a car. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her on the edge of the road, knowing another car would eventually run over her body. So she went to drag the body into the tall grass. At least this cat was killed instantly. No suffering. She jumped out of her car and ran to where the body had landed. What she found broke her heart.

The cat was lying on the shoulder of the road, still alive but barely breathing. She knew she couldn’t leave her there. She ran back to her car and got a towel. (We all keep towels in our vehicles for this very reason.) She pulled the cat onto the towel, put her on the passenger seat, and started home. She called to tell me what was going on. My younger daughter and I met her at the door, and we put this little cat on a folded blanket in the bathroom. We knew, of course, that she wouldn’t live. She appeared unconscious. She was breathing, but it was shallow and labored. We expected the end within minutes. At least she was not lying on pavement in the dark and in the cold. My daughters sat with her, speaking softly to her. We put two lightweight blankets over her little cold body to try to keep her warm. We had seen animals in this condition a few times, and all we hoped for was to make her comfortable until she let go. She seemed to be fading away rapidly.

At 4:30am, I was up to use the bathroom. I stepped in to wrap the body. We would bury her in our pet cemetery later that morning. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. She was still breathing. I ran to her side, and when I crouched down to speak to her, she attempted a cry which ended up being a gurgle. I felt the rush of hope and panic hit all at once.

I ran to the phone and put in a call to the vet. Of course, it was voice mail, but they would get back to me. And they did. By 8:00am, my daughters and I were on our way to the vet. We were guarded. We didn’t know what kind of internal injuries we were looking at. It was entirely likely that the vet would say she couldn’t be saved. After examination, we were told that it appeared that the injuries were only to the head. Her mouth and sinuses were damaged. It was possible that her jaw was broken but there was too much swelling to be sure. She couldn’t breathe well because of all of the facial trauma. The vet said we could give it a try. We were ecstatic. We left her, hoping for the best, but trying not to get our hopes up too high.

Two days later, we picked her up, named her Amelia, and made her part of our family. The vet said she was very young and way too thin. She needed to eat, but her mouth wouldn’t close all the way. She was also having a lot of trouble breathing. We fed her three to four times a day—a kind of porridge made of special canned food mixed with warm water. She sort of lapped it up (and then had to be cleaned up). We had to squirt a saline solution into both sides of her nose three times a day and she was on pain medication for a while and antibiotic. For days and days, she seemed shocked that we were there—talking to her, caring for her, loving her. Slowly, she began to heal.

Amelia can completely close her mouth now. Her jaw wasn’t broken after all. She did lose some teeth on one side. Her nose is crooked to this day, and she doesn’t breathe perfectly. But she is healthy and happy and constantly into something. Looking at Amelia reminds us that every now and then, you get to witness a little miracle.

The fifth day of blogging, then, was a story about our Amelia. I posted a picture of her from about two days after we brought her home from the animal hospital. She was all cleaned up in the picture and the swelling was gone from her face. Amelia is a long-haired beauty with odd calico markings. The end of her tail is a white fluff and she looks as if she is wearing white pantaloons. She is an absolutely beautiful animal.

Spring

3/16/10

About one minute after I hit publish on yesterday’s post, I realized that I missed a perfect opportunity for a title that didn’t merely report how many times I had blogged. My titles have been lacking. The first day I blogged, I called it First Day. The second day I blogged, I called it Second Day. The third day—can you guess? So yesterday, I told Amelia’s story. I love her story because it has such a wonderful outcome when so many stories like hers do not. Clearly, the title of yesterday’s post should have been Amelia.

Today’s title is Spring. This is a blog about animals. But who can resist the urge to talk about Spring. It is beginning to show up all around us. The onion grass is showing up in my yard (no real sign of any other type of grass yet). The crocuses have already come and gone (I never really depend on them as they pop up when it still seems very much like Winter). The peonies’ pointed little beginnings are showing up in the hard sticks left in place after last year’s display. But it’s the daffodils, oh the daffodils, that tell me for sure that Spring is here. They are amazing.

I have a variety of daffodils planted in a particular area of my yard. They are specialty-this and specialty-that. They are up with their green, but no blooms yet. The old fashioned daffodils, however (I hope you know the kind) are in full bloom. They keep showing up forever in areas that are left undisturbed. There are two such areas near my home.

My 17 year old daughter and I take a walk every day. We decided to do it for mental and physical health, so we dedicated ourselves to power walking. This type of walking requires dedication. It’s not a stroll. Once into it, the pace is quick and heart rates go up. Of course, in this family (with so many furry members), you don’t take a walk without taking an animal or two. Because of this, power walking has never been a problem. Gideon (a brain-damaged beagle) is never not a power walker. I will eventually tell his story.

But I digress. The point of all this is to tell you that when we take our walks, we travel a gravel road that takes us by one of the two areas of old fashioned daffodils. Years ago a house stood in the woods that line this gravel road. Someone who lived in that house planted daffodils. Over all these years, the bulbs have slowly traveled down the hillside toward the road. They sprinkle down here and there amidst the brown crunchy leaves and still bare trees. They promise Spring. Gideon could care less. But for me, it is the hope of green leaves and green grass, of flowering trees and warm evenings, of easier times for all of the animals.

This was my first properly titled post. I called it Spring, and I spoke of the daffodils that thrill me each and every year when they appear. The gravel road I mentioned in that post rolls uphill at one point on our walk. The right side of the road is bordered by an incline that goes farther and farther up. The daffodil bulbs have been washed down that incline over the years and have replanted themselves from hilltop to road. In one place, rainwater has cut a groove in the incline making for a small creek or stream. It zigs and zags towards the road, daffodils strategically placed all along its jaggedness. It is Art at its best.

I said in that sixth post that there were two areas where the old fashioned daffodils continued to show up year after year, but I didn’t describe the second spot. About a half mile farther along, on a bluff above the river, is a patch of daffodils so special that it earned its very own name. When my daughters were very young, we were exploring that bluff at just the right time in Spring. The spot actually took my breath when I came upon it. There was a huge flat area completely covered in blooming daffodils. The yellow glowed. But that wasn’t all. As we carefully stepped through the flowers, we followed them to the other side of an old barb wire fence. They stretched on down a little hill and off the side of the bluff. There were old trees here, but their shade over the years had not deterred the daffodils. One tree’s roots were giant and curvy and some of the earth had caved away towards the bluff. My little girls asked if fairies lived here. Of course, it was the absolute perfect spot for fairies. The spot was immediately christened Fairyland, and we do not fail to visit each and every Spring.

Sunshine

3/17/10

It is going to be an absolutely beautiful day today. Sunshine all day, with temperatures in the 60’s. The upcoming weekend weather looks a little rough, so today must be enjoyed to the maximum degree. This is the kind of day that the dogs love. No bitter cold to shiver against. No smothering heat to endure. I can predict the behavior of most of the dogs on this property today. There will be alot of lying in the sun. Dogs seem to know that this is what is needed after the long Winter. Just get in the sun and lie there. Movement is optional. Certainly, moving from one spot to another is permitted. But clearly the primary goal is to BE in the sun, soaking its warmth all the way down into your bones. Sounds good to me.

I am going to tell a dog story today. But first, just a quick side note. Tory is curled up on top of the computer screen. Amelia has joined me on the keyboard. Amelia has been completely interested in typing and hasn’t noticed that she could be stalking Tory. Tory is asleep, oblivious to the young monster that lurks just inches below her. Amelia has already added several letters and numbers to this writing that have absolutely nothing to do with the beautiful day. As a result, I’ve had to start two paragraphs over a couple of times. But never fear—Amelia tires of everything she engages in within minutes. Soon, she will see a bird fly by outside, or one of the other cats or dogs will walk through, and Amelia will be off to the next adventure.

Scroungy is currently our oldest member of the family. He is right under my feet. He spends his life trying to be wherever I am. This one is definitely MY dog. Rather, I am definitely HIS person. His story begins in 1995.

Wait. It’s happening right now. The sun is streaming in through the window, which is highlighting dust particles suspended in the air. (I always have an ample supply of dust particles.) Amelia has spotted them. She has stopped typing and is now mesmerized by the movement. I’m hoping she will go and investigate, leaving the keyboard to me. But she can’t figure them out. They are not behaving like the ladybugs she loves to chase. Ah, but they have won her over. She has gone to the sunny spot on the carpet just beneath them. Now, what to do. What to do. They are too high to reach. (If she only knew how many were swirling all around her that she just can’t see.) She is in attack position. Crouching. Watching. When is a good time? Waiting. And now it is over. Tory has stretched atop the computer screen and Amelia has forgotten that dust particles even exist. How could Tory have been right there all the time? There is a look in Amelia’s eyes. I must annoy Tory. It is my job.

So I was going to begin Scroungy’s story today. But I guess I will do that tomorrow. Amelia has commandeered this post. First by trying to type it herself. Then by entertaining herself which entertains me. Today’s post was to be entitled Scroungy. Then I thought of calling it Amelia. I changed the name before posting to reflect the main character—Sunshine—which seems to capture this day all around.

Scroungy (Part I)

3/19/10

My intent was to write about Scroungy yesterday. But Amelia took center stage, and she was just so darn cute, I kept writing about her and never got around to Scroungy. I have picked Scroungy to talk about first (of all the dogs) because he’s been around the longest. He is the current old man of the group. He is a rescue, as are all of our dogs, but Scroungy’s story is atypical to say the least.

As I’ve mentioned, when we need to shop for more than just a handful of items, we have to drive about an hour. We had been on one of those shopping trips one evening in November of 1995. The girls were just 5 and 3 years old. They were strapped in the middle seat of the van, very quiet, because that hour-long trip home in the dark had lulled them into a near sleep state. But as we turned off the black top and onto our gravel lane, one of the girls piped up with—There’s something sitting under the mailboxes. We slowed down as we made our turn and looked at the row of mailboxes lined up beside the road. Sure enough, there was a little furry something just sitting underneath the mailboxes. It was too dark to make out exactly what it was. But just as we were noticing it, something else was noticing it, too. The neighbors had a huge malamute at the time. He was quite friendly to people, but he had definitely seen what looked to him like a meal, and he was creeping towards it.

My husband jumped out of the van and started talking to the malamute. I ran over and grabbed up this little dog who had continued to just sit under the mailboxes. I got back to the van, jumped in, and my husband followed. We drove on to our house and took this little creature in to get a better look. His fur was grown out too long, covering his eyes almost completely. It was matted and dirty, too. He had a very thin collar on and a flea collar. But both collars were so tight you couldn’t slide a butter knife blade between them and this little guy’s neck. Clearly, they had been put on when the dog was much younger and smaller. He had grown and the collars had not been adjusted. We had to cut them off, which we did immediately. The skin had already begun to mold to the collars. Luckily, the skin had not grown over and around the collars yet. (I’ve seen that on Animal Planet, and those poor dogs are in so much pain.) I don’t know how long the collars had been there, but the flea collar had obviously stopped working long ago—this little dog was crawling with fleas.

A name came immediately from my daughters. At the time, my five-year-old had two stuffed animals that went everywhere with us. Bunny (a floppy bunny that she had gotten in an Easter basket) and Scroungy (a floppy dog that she had purchased with her own little money at a thrift store). Scroungy The Stuffed Animal looked rough. He got his name because of just how rough he looked when she bought and fell in love with him. And this little mailbox dog looked so much like Scroungy The Stuffed Animal that they could have been twins (sort of). Anyway, my daughters could see clearly that this real dog should be named after the stuffed animal version that was already a big part of the family.

The first order of business was to cut the hair from around this new Scroungy’s eyes. Next, a bath with flea shampoo. Then a meal—he was very skinny underneath all that matted fur, and he ate so fast I was sure he wouldn’t be able to hold any of it down. Then water, and water, and water. We set him up in the basement with a folded blanket and some newspapers (knowing full well that he wouldn’t know what to do with those). And back upstairs to get the girls ready for bed.

Part of the bedtime routine that night would have to be a discussion about how this Scroungy wasn’t ours and that maybe he was somebody’s lost pet and how that person might be sad about losing a little buddy. We would have to make every attempt to see if he had a home somewhere. I knew that he was in terrible shape. Maybe he had been dumped. But what if he had run away or gotten lost somehow and had just been straying around for weeks and weeks. Hopefully somebody was looking for him. The girls understood. They wanted the sad people to get their dog back.

The next day I called the area newspaper. I was told we could run a free ad for two weeks, describing the dog we had found. The information went into the next paper. In the meantime, Scroungy went to the vet. We wanted our local vet to see him in case he accidentally knew this dog (and his owner). He didn’t know the dog. He thought Scroungy was a little less than a year old and that he had pretty much reached full size. He was an unneutered male, with poodle as part of the mix. It was the fur that looked poodle-ish, but not much else. No clue what other breeds might be in there.

So we waited. Would somebody call us, ecstatic to get their baby back? Well, he’s been with us these fourteen and a half years so I guess you know that answer. I’ll finish his story tomorrow. Until then . . .

Scroungy (Part II)

3/20/10

I guess I wasn’t terribly surprised when no one called during the two weeks of running the newspaper ad about Scroungy. But someone owned him at some point and had cared enough to use a flea collar. I called the newspaper and they said they would extend the ad for two more weeks. That made me feel better. I was telling Scroungy’s story at work (I still worked away from home in 1995), and a couple of co-workers said I should consider that someone got this guy as a little puppy and oh isn’t he cute, etc. But when he started being an adult dog, it just wasn’t so much fun and he just wasn’t so cute. My co-workers said that somebody probably knew what a dog lover I was and dumped the dog near my house for that reason. It was really odd that Scroungy was sitting right beside the blacktop underneath the mailboxes. I guess I didn’t actually think he was perfectly placed there so that I could find him. But no one ever claimed him. And I’ll never know for sure how he got there.

Here’s what I do know. He claimed me. Some of you may have experienced this. I know from talking with all of the wonderful dog owners who board with me that sometimes an animal picks a human and that person is The Chosen One. Over the years, I have also learned that this not only happens regularly with pets, but it happens A WHOLE LOT with poodles. (As I said, Scroungy has some poodle in there somewhere.) And there’s more—poodles not only pick a lifelong favorite, they also like to have that person to themselves. Isn’t that just sweet? Isn’t that precious? Yeah, well, it plays out a little differently in reality. Some of these poodle types demand that other pets (oh, and people) stay away from their Chosen Person. It isn’t always pretty.

Within a few months of life-with-Scroungy, my precious little girls had learned not to run up and grab me for a hug if Scroungy was sitting in my lap. Of course, if I could anticipate a daughter-hug quickly enough, I would hurriedly put Scroungy down. You would think this wouldn’t be that much of a concern. But EVERY time I sat down anywhere, Scroungy would immediately materialize in my lap. Slowly, the cats learned not to jump into my lap if Scroungy was already there (and he always was). We all adjusted. I don’t sit that much anyway, never have. So it wasn’t too serious. He didn’t bite anybody (not back in those days). He would just grumble and swing his head toward the offender as if to warn them that they had gotten too close to his Chosen One.

But there was another behavior. Scroungy wasn’t that crazy about people outside of the immediate family. When the girls had a friend over, and the little friend bent down and reached out to pet Scroungy, he did his same grumble/ head swing but with a lovely addition—a snap. He didn’t connect, but I was always horrified that he eventually would. So began the visitor routine. Person-outside-of-the-immediate-family comes in. Member-of-the-immediate-family starts explanation and warning. Don’t try to pet Scroungy—he’s a little grouchy. It was a bit of a hassle, but it has worked for us all of these years.

The attachment that Scroungy has had to me has been interesting. Though I’ve wished he wasn’t as grouchy with others, I’ve truly enjoyed the loyalty and love this dog has showered on me. I’ve been home for over ten years now. I was able to leave my job just over a year after I opened my kennel. But during the years that I worked away from home, Scroungy grieved on a daily basis. My husband and I arranged our schedules so that one or the other of us was home with the girls most of the time. Husband would tell me that while I was away at work, the biggest part of Scroungy’s day was spent at one of the two windows that face the gravel lane leading into our driveway. He would sit and stare and wait. When my vehicle arrived at home, Scroungy would race through the house, big circle in the family room, and to the front door. If I didn’t make it in quickly enough, another race, circle, and back to the front door.

There is no racing now. Scroungy is almost completely blind. He is, I’m convinced, completely deaf. He still has his sense of smell, and he uses that to find me. When he’s not sleeping (which is a huge part of the time), he wanders through the house sniffing for me. When he finds me—sitting at the computer, standing at the dishwasher, making kennel calls at my desk—he plops down right beside my feet. Luckily, he almost always falls asleep immediately, happy that he has found me. So when I tiptoe away to go to the next task, he usually doesn’t know I’ve gone.

Right now, today, he has no major health problems. He has a small tumor on one eyelid. This causes his eye to run. His age won’t allow general anesthesia to remove it, so we use an eye ointment and hope it doesn’t grow too fast. He bites everybody over everything now, but his teeth are quite dull. Our biggest dilemma at this point is that he gets so upset over being groomed that we can’t take him anywhere for this service. We even bought our own dog grooming kit, but he jerks and growls and fights so hard when we try to groom him that we are beginning to have big concerns about a heart attack. He breathes heavy for nearly an hour after any attempt. We’re going to talk to the vet about this problem next week.

I don’t know how much longer Scroungy will be with us. I’m trying to take it one day at a time. He’s still here right now. And right now is really all any of us have anyway.

Scroungy is white with beige spots. We’ve always had trouble describing him. His body shape and size just don’t fit any other breeds. His fur and personality scream poodle. When he was younger, he was routinely groomed. Without that poodle fur, he looks like no other type of dog. Since he’s gotten older, he wears a cream-and-beige sweater when his coat is short because he gets really cold now without his fur. That’s MY dog. I love him with all my heart; no doubt I get double returns.

Sylvia (human friend)

3/22/10

I’ve entitled this post Sylvia because I want to talk about one of my boarders who also became so much more. It’s private rescue that I do. This probably conjures up images of starving cats, cowering dogs, medical problems, socialization, etc. But a huge part of rescue work is finding the perfect home to make the perfect ending. For me, this is the hardest part of all.

Let’s go back now to when I met Sylvia. It was the Summer of 2002. She called to ask about my boarding kennel. She had a mini fox terrier who was going on nine years old at the time. We had a nice conversation about boarding—the same one I have with every new caller: I’m state licensed, I’ll have to have a copy of the vaccination record, here is my schedule for drop-offs and pick-ups, and this is what you can bring along for your dog or cat. She informed me that this first stay for her little dog was only a couple of nights. She had three cats, too, but they would be fine at home during this quick trip. She planned, however, to do some traveling here and there that would be for longer periods. By August of that Summer, Sylvia was scheduling to board all four pets for a slightly longer trip. And so began a relationship that would extend over the next five years.

A side note—Sylvia’s dog didn’t board with us that August. He died before that trip. Sylvia sent a short letter to me in the mail about losing him. She also sent a check in that letter to help feed the homeless group I had at that time. She did this as a way to honor the little guy she just lost. She missed him so much—in her words—I am very blue and miss him so. He added much more to my life than I ever knew. Please accept this check as a memorial to him.

Fast forward to June 2003. My younger daughter was in a Summer basketball camp in a town about 25 miles from home. So every morning that week, my daughters and I would load into the van, drive to camp, and drop off the Younger. Older and I would head back home. It was extremely hot for June. Temps were reaching near 100 degrees in the afternoons. It was morning and already 95 degrees. We were driving along (singing, if I remember correctly) and as we whipped by a little cemetery about halfway home, I realized that my peripheral vision had caught sight of something that didn’t fit. Somehow my brain registered a tiny black-and-white dot in the ditch beside the cemetery. I slowed down and started looking for a place to turn around. We drove back and sure enough—there was a tiny little kitten standing in that ditch, screaming at the top of its lungs. I pulled over and ran to get it. In that split second, my daughter had unfastened her seatbelt and moved herself from the middle seat in the van to the front passenger seat and was already buckling back up. No way was she going to miss one second of this.

But when I got back into the van, I realized something was wrong with the kitten. It was foaming profusely from the mouth and nose. Oh, my gosh, it’s got rabies. No, stop, think. Use your head here. It wasn’t staggering around. Its behavior is normal. Wait, is it—yep, it’s purring, too. So calm down. This kitten does not have rabies. That was just me being a mother with irrational fears taking over because my daughter is sitting six inches away waiting to have this kitten put into her hands.

But there was something wrong. I had never seen a cat or kitten foam like this. I got our trusty towel from the back of the van and wrapped the kitten in it. He started panting so hard I thought he would hyperventilate and keel over right before our eyes. He was dramatically over-heated. I handed him to my daughter (she had been waiting patiently), and turned on the air conditioner—full blast. We headed home.

He was black and white. Male. Short-haired. Maybe eight weeks old?

He was breathing normally by the time we made it home. He had a vet check the next day, and seemed in good health except for fleas and being a little underweight (both of which were easily remedied). The girls named him DiMarno. (Don’t ask me where they got that name. But it was perfect.)

No, I haven’t lost sight of the title of this chapter. Sylvia’s story and DiMarno’s story will soon intertwine. And that’s only the beginning.

Sylvia (Part II)

3/23/10

During June (2003), we started trying to find a home for DiMarno. We had long ago filled our home with dogs and cats, so any newcomers needed to be adopted into wonderful homes. For stray dogs, we had a nice area they could live in until one of those wonderful homes showed up. But we had no such place for cats. DiMarno needed a home, and soon. Over a month went by, and not a single taker. Kittens, where I live, are in numbers that would scare most people. I began to worry that we would not find a home for DiMarno. (Alot of people would say I’m a little too picky about the homes I am willing to put animals into.)

Just about that same time (mid-Summer), Sylvia called to schedule her three cats for two stays in August. Knowing how much Sylvia loved her cats, I told her about DiMarno and asked her to keep her eyes and ears open for a wonderful home for him. She asked all about him. Actually, she asked ALOT about him. I remember my heart began to beat faster as we talked because of the level of interest she was showing. She started talking about how one of her three cats was 13 years old and another of the three was just over 17. And then she said it—I’d love to have DiMarno myself except I’ll be gone for most of August, and I wouldn’t want to bring him home only to turn around and confuse him with boarding a month later. Would you be willing to keep him until I could properly adopt him at the end of August? Oh, let me think about it. YES. YES. YES. Oh, my gosh, YES!!

So DiMarno had his home. And what made it even better was that we would continue to get to see DiMarno in the future because he would be boarding with us over the years. When Sylvia picked up her three at the end of August, DiMarno went as well. And by October, he was back for a week-long stay with his three adopted siblings. In December, the group was back again. Sylvia picked them up just after Christmas and left a card for me. In that card was a check with a note: Buy food for your homeless group of dogs.

And that would have been that. The cats stayed a couple of times during the Spring of 2004. Then in the Summer, Sylvia’s oldest cat died at age 18. DiMarno and his now two siblings stayed with me at the end of the Summer for over two weeks. Sylvia went ahead and made a reservation for the three to come again in December. We didn’t know then that December 2004 would bring a blizzard . . . and another surprise.

Sylvia (Part III)

3/24/10

December 2004. Sylvia brought her three cats to board on the 6th. Her scheduled pick-up date was the 20th. She would be back in time to have Christmas with her family. Her cats were sweethearts, and here was another chance to admire DiMarno.

December 19, Sunday afternoon. The girls went for a walk in one of the wooded areas by our home. They walked deep in the woods that afternoon. And when they returned, they literally burst through the front door, carrying a way-too-skinny, partially hairless, swollen-bellied puppy!! They both started talking at once, and I had to slow them down to even get the story. They were walking in the woods and one of them caught movement out of the corner of her eye. There was a huge tree, whose roots were up out of the ground on one side and washed out below. It made sort of a small cave at the base of the tree. Just out in front of this cave was the puppy, frozen in place as if to become a statue so the girls wouldn’t see her. They stopped cold. Very slowly, they started creeping toward the puppy, talking very softly, encouraging the puppy to stay where it was and not tear out through the woods. It worked. They got all the way to her and just reached down and scooped her up. But bending down allowed a great shot of the inside of the tree root cave. Two more puppies!! They were pressed back into their hideout as far as they could get and stone silent. Afraid they couldn’t keep all three in their arms (what if one got away, ran deeper into the woods, and was alone and not find-able), the girls made a split-second decision to run this puppy home and then go back for the other two.

I took this lone pup and headed to the basement. It looked to be maybe 8 to 10 weeks old, and it was NOT in good shape. The body was bony, but with an extremely swollen belly—roundworms. But the bigger problem was the hair loss. This puppy had mange. It had to be sarcoptic mange (which was actually good—explanation later) because this pup was too young to be showing signs of the dreaded demodectic mange. Meanwhile, the girls raced back to the woods. Would the puppies still be there?

It wasn’t long before they showed up—each with a puppy tucked into her coat. They had taken the time to look around the area in case there were any more, but it looked as if these three were the only survivors of a litter of who knows how many. We had been dealing with this sort of thing for years. Unspayed and unneutered dogs roamed these parts. Litters were born and only a few survived. Of the survivors, one or two managed to live to breeding age and start the problem all over again. But back to the pups. The other two were in the same shape as the first. They were obviously slowly starving to death out there. The temperatures had not been bitter yet this Winter, but with so much hair loss, and so little fat, life must have been miserable.

Now they were warm and safe. Some pretty bad weather was predicted for the upcoming week. Thank goodness the girls found these babies when they did. We would have them to the vet ASAP to get the treatment we would need for the mange. But the belly situation worried me enough that I decided not to wait for the results of a stool sample test. I would go ahead and treat for roundworms immediately. These bellies were so swollen the skin looked like it could pop. Oatmeal baths would help soothe the skin, but not today. There had been enough trauma. These three little girls had never had any experience with people. They were so timid they wouldn’t look at us. After a meal, all they wanted to do was crawl into a pile in the corner and burrow down into the blankets.

Sylvia came the next day to pick up her cats. As we sat in my office and talked about her trip, I told her all about the puppy rescue. Sylvia was always interested in my rescues and always applauded our efforts. We talked about the upcoming weather and how she got back just in time to get settled in and buttoned down. It was looking more and more like this system might get really nasty. And it was headed straight for us.

Sylvia went home. The puppies went to the vet. And I promise, Sylvia will come back into the story. Very soon. But first, there’s a blizzard to get through.

Sylvia (Part IV)

3/25/10

December 2004. Recap: Three little female puppies have come into our lives. Sylvia has picked up her three cats (DiMarno being one of those). We’ve been to the vet and will begin treating the mange. A blizzard is headed right at us.

Side note about mange: there are two types—sarcoptic and demodectic. These puppies were not our first experience with mange. (I will eventually write about those first battles.) By 2004, we had gotten pretty good at identifying which type it was by age of the dog and hair loss pattern. Demodectic mange is extremely hard to get rid of. Treatment can go on for months. It used to be a death sentence—there was no good treatment and pet owners were often advised to have the dog euthanized. That is no longer the case. We have brought several dogs through demodectic mange (it’s no picnic). Sarcoptic mange is much easier to cure. With proper treatment, a dog can be relieved of this condition in one month. But there is a little extra that comes with sarcoptic mange. Unlike the demodectic version, sarcoptic mange can be transferred to people. Oh, what a joy that is. Yes. I have had mange.

Before you begin to freak out, let me explain. Mange in humans is self-limiting. It is actually milder than having a case of chiggers. Years before, when the girls and I were volunteering at a human society, we agreed to foster two little puppies. They had mange. Nobody knew that (it was thought that their skin was bad because of malnutrition). But while at the vet’s office for something to do with one of my own pets, I just happened to mention the four or five little bumps I had on my arms and hands and that my daughters had the same thing. They were like very small mosquito bites, but it was not mosquito season. Our vet, knowing my history for having dogs and cats in all sorts of conditions, asked me about any strays I’d recently taken in. Well, one thing led to another, and before