The Chihuahua Who Became Chucho

The name his rescuer gave him was Everest, because she found him in Montaña, a neighborhood in here in Curaçao, which translates to "Mountain"... Personally, I might have gone with Kilimanjaro, or even Blanc (you know, for Mont), but—well, naming is the rescuer's prerogative. Either way, this first name wasn't going to last, because a couple of months later, when a fabulous woman adopted him—only temporarily, as it turned out, but I'm getting ahead of myself here—she decided that, him being a (sort of) Chihuahua and all, he needed a more Mexican name. One of the most common appellatives in Mexico is Jesús (pronounced heh-SOOS), and every Jesús I know gets called, for unfathomable reasons, Chucho for short.

So Everest became Chucho.

Chucho (even before being called Everest) came to us on October 5th, 2016, and it was thanks to Facebook. I belong to several animal rescue groups (surprise, surprise), and on this particular fine afternoon a post popped up on my timeline from a fellow member asking for advice. She'd found this tiny dog on the side of the road, walking in tight, tight circles and acting disoriented. She didn't know what to do. I was probably the third person to reply, and echoed exactly what the other two people had said: Take him to the vet. ASAP. And I added that I'd be happy to do it myself, if she wanted. People not intimately familiar with rescue have no way of gauging what the veterinary 'damage' will be, so sometimes they hesitate to take an animal to the vet out of fear they won't be able to afford the bill. Plus, not everyone can drop their lives at a moment's notice in order to rush a strange dog to the ER. In this particular case, the rescuer said in her post that she knew next to nothing about dogs, that she'd always been more of a cat person; I felt she had done enough by picking up the dog to begin with, so it seemed only reasonable to step in and offer help.

At the home of his rescuer while they waited for me. All he wanted was to sleep. No water, no food, just... sleep. Yep, not a good sign.

I arrived at her door about a half hour later, after a few wrong turns but not nearly as many as I expected; it was Election Day here, and a voting location had been set up just a block from her house, so the crowd and the lines of parked cars were hard to miss. She helped me load the dog—who really was tiny; he'd looked rather larger in the photo she posted—into the car, and I promised to call as soon as I had some sort of diagnostic. I did warn her that, from the behavior she'd described—the walking in circles, the disorientation, the lack of appetite or energy—the prognosis would probably not be very good. "There's a chance he'll need to be put down," I told her, as kindly as I could. She nodded, reached a hand in through the open window to pet the tiny head again. "I understand."


But it was not to be; Everest would live. The vet that afternoon couldn't find any obvious injury or clear signs of disease that warranted ending his life. "Let's keep him in observation for 24 hours," she suggested—which, of course, meant I had to bring him home. That hadn't been the plan, especially since my pack at home is notoriously averse to newcomers (canine or human). But Everest's rescuer worked full-time, and had a small daughter; no way she was going to stay up all night to monitor the dog. We had no right to ask her to, even.

So Everest came home with me.

Chucho (aka Everest), on his first night with us, curled tight in the smallest dog basket I have. (And he still manages to make it look huge. He was so, so small...)

After an uneventful night (which I spent on the couch next to him, just in case), he began experimenting with leaving the basket. He didn't seem able to walk in anything other than circles, which was worrying (to put it mildly). I carried him out to the backyard and let him wander, hoping that in the open space he'd finally find his bearings... But no luck. He basically walked, always in tight circles, until he exhausted himself and laid down, where he stood.

Yeah. Not good.

For a good seven days, we—I mean the vets and I—were convinced the kindest thing would be to put him down. Sure, he had no obvious injuries or any signs of neural disease (such as, say, distemper), but—the circles. The disorientation. He had to be freakin' hand-fed. He wouldn't even drink water on his own for the first two or three days, and when he did it was basically by taking a swim in the water container.

But... how does one give up on this face?

So I got in touch with my dog network—behaviorists, vets, owners of multiple Chihuahuas, the most experienced rescuers, anyone I could think of, really—and told them about Chucho. The idea, initially, was to gather input from multiple, and independent, sources in order to work up the courage to put him down. This video was filmed on Oct. 13, eight days after Chucho was rescued, and the original, unedited version was meant for a behaviorist friend who lives in Germany and had asked to see him 'in action', so to speak.

Who was going to adopt this dog? Who has the time, or the inclination, to hand-feed a tiny Chihuahua twice a day, to give him even water by hand, too? No one, that's who. And, if you're any good at reading dog body language, you can see that this disorientation was causing him stress, too. Was he in pain? Was he suffering? All we could do was guess, but at the time this video was made, and shared with people equipped to judge, the consensus was that this was not a happy dog, or—more practically speaking—an adoptable one, either. Best to let him go.

But Chucho had other ideas. On the same day the video was filmed, I brought him to the vet for a check-up—and he surprised us all by walking more or less in a straight line in the examination room. We had thought he might be blind, but after multiple tests (the vet stood in his way, put obstacles in his path, changed items of furniture around) we were convinced that he could see perfectly well. We were still no closer to figuring out why the walking-in-circles or the disorientation (painfully evident in the video), but it was clear that a) he wasn't blind, and b) he was improving. No way to know how much he'd improve, or whether he'd ever be completely normal, but it was only logical to give him the chance to recover as much, and as far, as he could.

We all breathed a sigh of relief.

And then, two days later, this happened.

Did he sense, somehow, that we were on the verge of making the decision to let him go? Did that last visit to the vet work some kind of all-is-well spell? Could it have been blue-harness magic? He seemed to like that harness. Bottom line, your guess is as good as mine. The point, however, is that as of that day, he improved by leaps and bounds. Three days later (the day after video #2), he was eating from a normal dog bowl. Unassisted. And there was no more of that walking-in-circles spooky crap. When I called him, he turned toward me (instead of toward the wall, or the sofa, or the kenepa tree), and actually came to me—in a straight line.

And so we began to look for a home for him in earnest. Yes, he'd probably need special care all his life, but—well, a dog that can eat and drink without physical assistance has a much better chance of being adopted versus one that can't.

So it was. After a halfway stop at a pseudo-foster (who had every intention of keeping him), he met the (human) love of his life and now lives in the Netherlands. He is feisty and doesn't allow his miniature size to limit him in any way. He shows no signs of reverting to his circle-walking days, except when stressed; he did it a little bit after his castration surgery, but once the anesthetic wore off completely, he was back to his normal, straight-line self.

Chucho in the Netherlands, at his forever home. Yes, on the bed, heel graag ;)

All we need is love. A flurry of miracles that converge on a single point, and—tah-dah! The rescuer—who wasn't a rescuer at all, just a normal, non-dog-loving person who saw a dog in distress and simply couldn't drive on, couldn't turn a blind eye. The vets who saw him—who could very easily have recommended euthanasia on the first day. The foster-slash-adopter who gave him a chance. And the adopter in the Netherlands, who gave him a home to belong to, and a life worth living.

I love this story. Chucho, you make me believe in miracles.

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A quick & dirty rescue story

I know, I know—I'm behind on rescue stories: the blind Chihuahua, the puppies... But this one happened just recently, and it has a gorgeous happy ending, too, so... Well, happy endings are too few and far between to postpone sharing, right?

Right.

So back in January I got a job. Yeah, a real one (albeit part-time), involving actual paychecks. And it didn't really work out the way I expected—I'll get into that some other time—so I quit. But, being the responsible human being I am, I didn't just quit; I gave a three-week notice. And over the course of those last three weeks, on my way to and from work, I kept seeing a rather large black dog, all matted fur and pointy ribs, on this one street. A rather busy street. I didn't see the dog every day, but whenever I did, traffic simply didn't allow me to stop. By the time I'd turned around and gone back, s/he was gone. Now, this dog looked skinny and in need of help, but s/he also looked street-smart. S/he wasn't panicky, dashing in front of oncoming cars or acting freaked out. (If she had, sorry, everyone, but I would've put the car in Park right there in the middle of the street and stopped traffic bodily if need be. I actually did that for a kitten, probably around a month old, that dashed out into the street right in front of the car ahead of me. I screeched to a stop, got out, ran out to stop the cars in the next lane, and herded the kitten—who was, miraculously, fine—back to his panicked owner on the sidewalk.)

This dog was different. S/he wasn't in any immediate danger. S/he needed food, certainly, and shouldn't have been on the street at all... But in this land of irresponsible owners who refuse to spay/neuter their dogs, who refuse to ensure their yards are properly enclosed, who throw away dogs like trash, you can imagine that not just the shelter but all animal welfare organizations and even homes of kind-hearted people are full to bursting with rescued dogs. My intention wasn't to pick the dog up, but only to give him/her food and water, and check out how friendly s/he was, maybe get close enough to assess his/her overall health. If there was an injury, or signs of any severe conditions, then I could ask for help. Until then, well. Just food.

On my very last day at work, I drove home late (tying up loose ends, you know how it is), and so it happened that, when I drove down the street where I'd been seeing the dog, traffic was non-existent. And the dog was there. I didn't even take time to think about it: I had food in the car but no water, I wasn't really wearing rescue-friendly clothes (or shoes), I didn't have a big enough kennel with me, or even a leash. (Remember that dog rescue kit we've talked about? And how important it is to always always have it with you? This is what happens when you get a job that requires you to act as if dogs don't rule your life.)

Too late. I was already there. And you know it was a dog rescuer* who came up with carpe diem: no time like the present. I'd just have to make the best of it.

I turned on my hazard lights and swung onto the shoulder, about ten meters from where s/he was sniffing at something in the grass, so as not to scare him/her away. I got out of the car, slowly, as silently as I could—a car door slamming would probably not be the best introduction—and walked around to the passenger side to get the food.

The dog looked up when I opened the passenger door. Alert, but—maybe, hopefully—not scared. "Hey, baby. Hi, sweetheart. You want some food?" And, unbelievably, she approached me. Yes, this was a dog used to humans. She would've eaten directly from the container in my hand if I'd waited a second longer before putting it down on the ground. And eat she did, ravenously. Two container-fuls, then a third over which she finally seemed to slow down some. I kicked myself mentally over the lack of water, but—well, nothing to be done. And I had bigger problems.

This dog was naught but skin and bones. But she was a purebred, or close to one; up close she looked like a Belgian shepherd. And she was human-friendly. That combination could only mean one thing: she had a home. She belonged to someone. A collar but no tags, though here in Curaçao that doesn't mean much; only about 20% of the (non-rescuer) people I know put tags on their dogs. Even fewer chip them. So the lack of ID didn't necessarily mean neglect, or abandonment. That could still be the case, of course, but... Bottom-line, this dog didn't belong in the street. As smart as she seemed, she was having a hard, hard time of it—those ribs told a story of hunger and fear that I didn't even want to contemplate. And much less contemplate the idea of leaving her there.

But where could I take her? Not home; we are at a population of 9 canines at the moment, and although two of those are foster puppies (the last two out of a litter of 5; story to follow soon), the other 7, permanent, residents aren't exactly lovers of new additions. So, no, home was not an option. All the other rescuers I know had recently acquired new members, too, so also overflowing... Not an option, either. That left the shelter. But if rescuers are overwhelmed, the shelter is way, way beyond that.

Crap.

Cars drove by. The dog sought out the last of the kibble from among the tufts of grass. I racked my brain for a solution. And then I caught a glimpse of metal peeking out from under the passenger seat—a stray leash! Would she let me put it on her? She seemed friendly enough, but up until then I'd been a fairy godmother of food. A leash was a wholly different scenario. And even if she allowed it, would she get into the car?

I left it to fate. I'd try the leash. If she allowed that, I'd try to get her into the car. And if she did get in, well... Then I'd drive her to the shelter and beg for mercy. Maybe buy her some time, at least.

Of course the stray leash wasn't a lasso leash, but it was still thin enough to make an efficient loop. When I approached the dog, she didn't back away, not an inch. Instead, she sought my hand. When I petted her, on the side of her face, behind her ear, down to her neck, she wagged her tail. Oh, man. No, honey, of course I won't leave you.

I slipped the looped leash over her head, tightened it slowly, and braced for her to bolt. Nope. As soon as I stood up, she heeled. She walked right beside me to the back of the car, and when I asked her to jump in, she did—she tried, but she couldn't. She was too weak. She looked up at me, asking for help.

Now, it's one thing to pet a strange dog, but to pick one up in your arms... If she freaked out, if she had an injury I couldn't see under all that matted fur and by picking her up I hurt her, my face—my jugular—was really, really close to her teeth. And this is a dog that, when healthy, should weigh upwards of 45 pounds.

I crouched down beside her and explained what I was going to do. Not that I believe she'd understand; it was probably more for my benefit than for hers. Either way, it worked. She couldn't have weighed more than 20 lbs, she was that thin; when I lifted her up she didn't even twitch, just waited for me to set her down inside the car. And when I did, she stood still and looked at me as though waiting for permission to lie down. Yes, sweetheart, it's okay, you're safe now.

She rode like a champ, even—eventually—sticking her face out the window. She rode quietly, no fuss, no drama at all. At the shelter, when I opened the door for her, she waited for me to get a hold of the leash before jumping out. She walked neatly next to me, not pulling on the leash once. This was a well-trained dog. Someone had invested a lot of time and effort in her. Please, please let them be looking for her.

The shelter turned me away even before I finished explaining where I'd found her or why I couldn't keep her. "I understand," I told them. "I'm a rescuer, too. I know you guys—and everyone else—is beyond capacity. But... what do I do?"

So we got on the phone. Me, to a rescuer friend with a huge network in the hopes she could help me find a spot somewhere, somehow, for this Belgian girl. And the shelter volunteer to—well, I couldn't really tell, since it was all in Dutch, but she came back with a smile. "There's a family that lost a black shepherd a while back. I just called them. They're coming over now to see if it's her."

In the meantime, they told me, she could stay in the quarantine kennel. Not the nicest place (it's meant to be isolation, so the cages are rather dark and, well, isolated), but we hoped she'd only be there briefly.

And... she was. The shelter volunteer told me (the next day when I called) that, yes, it had been an ecstatic reunion. She and her brother had been missing since the end of December. Back in January, another dog rescuer spotted them (a few blocks from where I found her) and managed to get the male, but the female ran off and no one had seen her since. The owners had given up all hope, I'm sure—I can't imagine how horrible it must have been for them. And for her, the dog.

So there you have it. Rescue stories rarely end well, let alone with a reunion like this one, the long-lost dog reunited with her family. It made my year to be a part of that.


*I totally made that up.

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And so it begins, this year 2017...

I hope you had the most wonderful beginning to the new year. May 2017 bring you naught but positivity and hope. (I know, for all us progressive, liberal types hope seems a tad out of reach, but remember all it takes for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing. It's easy to feel hopeful when things are going well; it is in dark times, though, when the light of hope is most needed. Keep the flame burning.)

I'm sorry for my absence. I haven't posted for over a month, and haven't written a serious post since the A to Z Challenge ended. And I'm sorry about that. You deserve better—and there's been plenty to write about, just... not enough time to do it, I guess. Speaking of time, I won't be joining the Challenge this year, by the way... A multitude of reasons, but mainly because the rescue book—the one that began in said A to Z Challenge—will be coming out within the next couple of months, and promoting that will probably overlap with April in some way.

The cover for the rescue book. Photo by yours truly (yes, that's Sam),
and design by Matt Potter, publisher extraordinaire at Truth Serum Press.

A shame, really. I had a theme all planned out. The A to Z of Fostering Rescue Dogs, ha. A good follow-up to the Rescue posts of last year (and my publisher wants to work on a follow-up book, too, so... two birds, one stone, all that). In October I got involved in fostering again—which is part of the reason I've been so freaking busy. I'd been unable to foster since 2013 because three of my own dogs have 'issues' with new dogs, but... Well, the way things worked out, we didn't get much of a choice. (More on that later.) But, hey—perfect, right? I mean, this is all fresh material that will bring the whole fostering thing much more alive for strangers to the 'craft'...  Yes, I'd have had some excellent A to Z posts. And I still plan on writing them, and certainly on writing the Fostering book, but... No, it won't happen this April.

I may do something in April anyway, just to avoid losing the habit, but it won't be an alphabet thing. I'm thinking maybe a music thing. Maybe on the other blog. I saw this 30-day music challenge on Tumblr a while back and, with some tweaks (additions, deletions, combinations, etc.), it might be fun. Maybe, if you're not an A-to-Z-er yourself (and if you love music), you might want to join me. We'll be the rogue April Challengers—ha!

Anyway. I wanted to keep this short, but I promise to be back soon—like, within the week—to tell you about these fosters we've had. The first was a little Chihuahua mix that seemed to have some severe neurological issues; so severe, in fact, that he had us (heartbreakingly) convinced the kindest thing we could do was put him down and end his suffering. Then, a month later, he went to the best of the best forever homes—and we got a litter of five puppies, about 6 weeks old, who'd been abandoned in a plastic carry-all on the side of the road to die. One did, in fact, in my arms two weeks later, but the other four are doing great. The week before Christmas—the day of the winter solstice, actually (which I found beautifully coincidental)—they were declared healthy enough to receive their first vaccination.

The puppies! Clockwise from top left: Bowie (F), Jopie (M), Lemmy (M), Harper (F).

So. More on the foster stories, puppies and Chihuahua, coming soon. I promise. One of my resolutions for 2017 is to never abandon this blog (or the other one) for more than 2 weeks. Yes, you can hold me to that :)

Thanks for sticking with me, y'all.

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The Story of Little Leo (and How He Adopted Us) — Guest Post by Susan Brody @unpubYA

It all started when cancer took our beloved Murphy from us in February. He wasn't quite 11 years old.

Murphy & me

We'd had three months of warning that this was coming. In November, he had collapsed. I was the only one home. I scooped him up and drove like a lunatic to the vet. The vet did a sonogram and showed me the unmistakable outline of the large tumor on his spleen. He could probably save him this time, the vet told me, but it would only be a matter of weeks or months until the tumor ruptured and no one would be able to save him. Every day from here on in would be a gift.

The vet did save him that time, and then performed the same miracle once again in December. But in January Murphy began steadily losing weight and becoming weaker, despite his six daily medications. When he collapsed again on February 6th, we knew it was the end. Despite all the time we'd had to prepare, once he was gone no one in my family could imagine what we would do without him.

But we still had another dog at home that we had to take care of: 8-year-old Finney, our younger Goldendoodle, who from the age of 8 weeks had never known life without Murphy. And, unlike us, he didn't understand what had happened.

Finney (left) and Murphy

The month of February passed in a blur of tears. But at some point along the way, my 19-year-old daughter began campaigning for us to get another dog. It wasn't that she imagined we could ever replace Murphy; it was that she was very worried about Finney not having a companion. Gradually, my husband and I began to think about it, and we both came up with the same idea: that the best way to honor Murphy's generous spirit would be to save a life by adopting a shelter dog.

By the end of March we felt ready to begin our search. My daughter insisted that we look for a dog close to Finney's age, so that they would have roughly similar life expectancies. My husband and daughter both have pet allergies, so we tried to look for poodle mixes, but they were few and far between. And possibly the hardest part of all this would be that Finney has always been very selective about other dogs, and not in the least shy about making his preferences known.

We hit our fair share of bumps along this journey. Then, on April 12th, my husband emailed me at work: "Is this Cockapoo worth inquiring about?" It was a little guy, about 7 years old, who when rescued had been so neglected, his hair so hopelessly filthy and matted, that he had to be shaved down to the skin.

Leo, when he was rescued...

But he was described as friendly and affectionate, and we decided it was worth the hour-long trip to the shelter to see whether he and Finney could get along.

The two of them seemed perfectly comfortable together right from the start of our meet-and-greet, and the three of us humans all fell in love with the little guy, who had recently been given a name at the shelter but who clearly didn't recognize it. When we signed the adoption agreement that day, the woman at the shelter urged us to give him yet another name, and we came up with Leo.

At our meet-and-greet. (The white furry cutie in the back is Finney.)

We didn't bring Leo home that day because the following weekend we were going to take a long-planned trip to Washington, D.C., visiting our adult son and his girlfriend. We weren't staying at a pet-friendly hotel, and we couldn't leave little Leo in a kennel his first weekend with us, so we arranged to pick him up the following Sunday on our way back from Washington.

Everything went smoothly that day. Leo didn't display any recognizable emotion—not fear, not excitement, nothing. He sat straight up on my daughter's lap in the back seat the whole way home, looking out the window. He didn't make a sound during the hour-long drive, and it was impossible to tell what was going on in his mind.

When we got home and out of the car, my daughter and I immediately attached his leash and took him for a walk around the block. That seemed to go fine. Meanwhile, my husband left to go pick up Finney from the kennel where he had spent the weekend.

We finished our walk and brought Leo into the back yard, and that was when I realized how freaked out he was. He wouldn't go farther than a small corner of the yard, no matter how much we encouraged him to explore. And when I brought him inside the house and put him down on the floor to sniff around, he went right back out to the yard again. I finally put his leash back on him, which he seemed to find comforting, and walked him around the house a little before bringing him back outside.

Leo in the backyard, the day we brought him home.

And that was when my husband pulled up in the driveway with Finney in the car. I panicked. If Leo was so traumatized by his new surroundings without another dog there, what would happen when he encountered Finney, who is three times his size? I instinctively scooped Leo up in my arms and braced myself for Finney to come bursting into the yard and finding the little intruder. A few seconds later, Finney did burst in, but the strangest thing happened. He walked right past me and Leo as if we weren't there. No reaction whatsoever. Had all the dogs in my life suddenly turned into zombies?

I figured that the two of them were going to have to meet sooner or later, so I put Leo down on the ground. Finney continued to act as if Leo were invisible, and Leo didn't show a whole lot of interest in Finney, either. I couldn't believe how nonchalant they were both acting. In fact, Finney's arrival seemed to make Leo feel more comfortable; he willingly followed into the house and started checking the place out.

That night, and the next day, I kept waiting for the shit to hit the fan between them, but it never did. And it still hasn't. Finney has been a saint about this attention-grabbing little interloper, and Leo quickly started acting as if he'd known Finney his whole life.

Things weren't perfect. Leo pooped in the house twice. It's been very had to convince him that whatever food is in Finney's bowl is the same as what's in his own bowl, not some magical elixir. But, overall, it's been a smoother ride than we ever imagined it could be. When we took them for a hike the following weekend, Leo just followed Finney around like an old pro.

Leo's first hike

Leo's hair is growing back, and he's a healthy little boy who would be happy to sit on his new people's laps 24/7. I would have to say that, after 10 days of living together, we've all really adopted each other.

The family

And I feel sure that, somewhere, Murphy is watching and smiling.

 ~ * ~ 

Thank you so much, Susan! Yes, I agree; wherever Murphy is, he must be so happy that you opened your home, and your hearts, to little Leo. There's so many positive things about this experience... You did a fine, fine job at all sorts of levels. I'd love to get into the details of how this magic happened—Finney's reaction, for instance, is a lesson in itself—so here's the plan: I'd like to invite this little community to join me in assimilating the learning here, and in a few days, once people have had a chance to read, comment, ask questions, mull it all over, I'll put up a follow-up post on bringing rescue dogs home using your story as illustration. Sound like a good idea? Oh, I hope so!

Thanks again for sharing this here. Much love and light to your beautiful family!


Susan Brody blogs at TheArtofNotGettingPublished, tweets as @unpubYA, and can also be found on G+. 

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A-Z of #Dog Rescue: Who Rescues Who? — #AtoZChallenge

BELLA

By Michele Truhlik at Angels Bark

There is something known as the “potato chip syndrome” to those of us in the greyhound communities. The famous Lay’s Potato Chips line, You can’t have just one, applies also to greyhounds: you simply can’t have just one! Many of us end up adopting a second greyhound, and then a third… and, for me, a fourth and a fifth.

Bella was my second. She joined me and Maggie. 

Bella’s story is heartbreaking, from her unfortunate beginnings and then her tragic end.* I first met her back when she was known as “Carol” (because that is the name of the woman who found her wandering around in the fields of her property), when she came into the foster program with the greyhound adoption group. And she was a mess! She had been out in the wild so long that she had developed a horrific case of mange. She literally had no fur! Her whole body was bald. Only her face had some sketchy patches of hair left. No one even knew what color she was going to be when her fur came back in. Yet, when I looked at her face, I saw an incredible beauty.  

Nothing much was known about this naked dog except that she was a former racing greyhound (as evidenced by the NGA** tattoos in her ears). But, from the condition she was in, everyone believed she had been relegated to the world of underground racing after her career was over. 

(Some greyhounds are lucky and get put with adoption groups when their racing days are over. In these parts, others are not so fortunate and they end up in the seedy world of “rabbit runners”—the name for people who take greyhounds for illegal gambling purposes. They call them rabbit runners because these horrible criminals use live rabbits as bait for running. The dogs receive very little food—if any—and very little water, absolutely no veterinary attention, and they’re usually abused).

For some reason, I just couldn’t stop thinking about this dog! I called Beth, the adoption coordinator, and inquired about her status. Yes, she was still there, she had been spayed, was fattening up and her fur was finally filling in. So I let Beth know that if it was okay, I would give that dog a home and she could come live with me and Maggie.  

The adoption was quickly finalized. I wasn’t crazy about the name Carol. I renamed her Bella because that Italian word for beautiful so suited her. Boy, was that ever a long settling-in process. Bella was a very frightened dog. So frightened that she was reluctant to even eat! I had to gently pull her up to her food every day and let her know that it was okay to indulge in that big bowl of kibble and mush in front of her.  It was so obvious that she had suffered abuse at the hands of those who had once held her captive. When I’d reach down to pet her, she’d cower. Every time I’d move, she’d shrink down, with head bowed and tail tucked. I knew instantly that she had probably been hit or kicked…and probably both.

I would lie on the floor next to her, stroking her gorgeous golden fur. I felt her heart beating nearly out of her chest she was so scared, eyes wide with panicked uncertainty, always on the ready to flee. I worked with her every day to let her know that she was safe with us, and nothing bad was ever going to happen to her again. It took a long time — nine months in fact — before that angel girl would even allow me to stroke her face without flinching. She always did continue to keep her head down when approaching people… and she always approached with caution. Then she’d go off to a quiet place in the house, away from the activity. So came her nickname, compliments of my dad: 

Lonesome Dove.

Over the years, Bella blossomed into one of the most trusting and sweet dogs. It was a process in which we both flourished. Bella was actually teaching me to trust as well. You see, I got Bella. I understood her fear and apprehension. Through her, I saw my own fears and insecurities. She was afraid of being hurt by people. So was I. She was afraid of being abandoned. So was I. She was afraid to love. So was I.

Bella taught me many things. She taught me that even though I’ve been hurt in the past, not everyone in the world is out to hurt me. When someone extends kindness toward me, I take one step closer to trust.

Bella grew to love and be loved. She grew to trust, and with that trust came security. Through her, I learned that when I trust and let people in, although a bit hesitant, I gain a sense of connectedness and security. Surprisingly, I feel safe. Bella taught me to have an open heart, knowing that even though the pain of the past never quite goes away, I can get past it to live a full and happy life.

This beautiful fawn greyhound enriched my life beyond measure. Like Bella, I still find myself going to my quiet place sometimes. But, in the silence, when I curl up to go to sleep, I have nothing to worry about. I know I am loved.

Although Bella was considered the rescued one, I have to argue that it was I who was rescued.

*I wish I could say that Bella and I had many years together. Sadly, she died on the table getting her teeth cleaned due to a reaction to the anesthesia. She was only 8. I was robbed of her physical presence, but the lessons she taught me and the love she shared with me live on forever. Until we meet again, my sweet girl…

** The National Greyhound Association (NGA) is the primary registry body for racing purebred dog Greyhound pedigrees in the United States.

~ * ~

Michele, thank you so much for sharing Bella's story—and yours—here today. It's an honor to host you both. Although I'm still in tears that you lost her so soon, I have no doubt at all that the time she spent with you was the happiest of her life. You say she enriched your life beyond measure—but you enriched hers just as much. And now both of you have enriched mine :)

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