From Unwanted & Unloved to Wanted & Loved

A dog’s story

It was 1990-something when my then-husband arrived home from visiting his friend Donald. Donald was a shade-tree mechanic, who lived in a rundown mobile home at the end of a long, limerock road. He was one of those anti-government types who exist in the shadows of civilized societies.

Donald grew up on a hard-scrapple farm where animals lived or died without human interference or assistance. At his mobile home, he always had two tough dogs — a male and a female for breeding. There were always redneck buyers for his large, aggressive puppies.

The dogs in residence were always changing. I never understood why, and I didn’t approve of his macho dogs or puppy-producing activities. Mostly, I stayed away from Donald.

My husband told me Donald’s newest canine couple were a female brindle Pit-Bull and a male Rottweiler. Six pups were born three weeks earlier. The mother killed five of them, either by biting off their heads or burying them alive. The last pup, a female, had crawled away, hiding under a metal container. She was alive but close to death.

I exploded:

How could you leave that poor puppy to die?!

My husband replied:

Because it’s not my dog or my business.

Well, I made it my business, insisting he take me to Donald’s immediately.

I crawled through the dirt under the metal container and found a tiny puppy, barely breathing, covered in sand and fleas. I gently lifted the weak pup; she fit in the palm of my hand. She was a brown brindle, just like her mother.

I wiggled from under the container and wrapped the tiny creature in a soft scarf I had brought. I defiantly looked at Donald:

I’m taking her.

He shrugged:

Okay. She won’t make it through the night, you know.

I replied:

Maybe not, but she’ll die clean, warm, and flealess.

At home, I pulled out my animal rescue supplies and chose the smallest bottle and a can of goat’s milk formula. While the milk was warming in a saucepan, I gently bathed the puppy, killing every flea I found. She flopped about with no voluntary motion, like a child’s tiny ragdoll.

Feeding the little one was challenging. Mostly, I squeezed goat’s milk into her mouth, over and over, watching it dribble down her chin, until her instincts kicked in and she began to swallow. Not much. Just a little, but she was getting some nutrition.

I spent that night sleeping on the living room floor with the pup, waking to feed her every 30 to 60 minutes. She made it through the night, and by morning, she was sucking on the tiny bottle.

The frequent feedings and sleeping on the floor continued through Sunday. Monday, I took her to my vet. After examining the pup, Dr. C said:

She’s very weak and has an eye infection, but I don’t see anything else wrong with her. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t have organ damage from starvation and neglect. I’ll give you something for her eyes and a high-protein formula. Keep doing what you’re doing. If she makes it to Friday, there’s a good chance she’ll survive. Bring her in next week, so I can see how she’s doing.

I named her Boo-Dawg. Where I got that name is a mystery. I looked at her, and that’s what popped into my mind.

The pup made it to Friday and was staggering to her feet and trying to walk. The medication took care of her eye infection, and her second vet appointment was very encouraging.

Boo-Dawg not only lived, she thrived. After four weeks, I put her in an outside pen to introduce her to our other four dogs. After three more weeks, she moved into the fenced yard with the other dogs. They loved and looked after their little sister.

Boo-Dawg’s parents were large, aggressive dogs, and we soon saw signs of aggression in our sweet pup. The vet gave us exercises to counteract her negative traits. The exercises worked. Later, we took her to dog obedience classes. She graduated with honors. Boo-Dawg was protective but never mean.

Boo-Dawg didn’t stay little for long. By the time she was two years old, she weighed 85 pounds. She had the coloring and face of her mother, but the size and body shape of her Rottweiler sire.

Boo-Dawg was a loving, sweet giant. Unfortunately, she only lived for five years. One day, we arrived home from work to find her curled in a ball, not breathing.

Wanting to know why she died so suddenly, we asked our vet to examine the body. She found that Boo-Dawg’s liver had burst.

She had a tumor on her liver. Sometimes these types of tumors are asymptomatic. If the tumor gets large enough, it causes the liver to burst. It’s a sudden death with no warning signs. At least, she didn’t suffer.

Maybe Boo-Dawg didn’t live a long life, but she had five excellent years when she was very wanted and very loved. Even now, almost thirty years later, I miss my sweet Boo-Dawg.

The dog in the photo is not Boo-Dawg but looks remarkably like her. When I left my husband, he kept my photo albums, which included the photos of our many pets. After he died, his brother took the albums and refused to relinquish them to me. My husband and I were separated but still married, so the house and its contents were mine. Although my brother-in-law took other items, I only cared about my photo albums. My attorney sent a demand letter, and he responded that he threw away all the photo albums.

© Dennett 2023