Why adopt a geriatric dog?

Last night I found myself filling out the paperwork for a dog I’ve been fostering for a year and a half. It was time. Bear’s been in and out of my life for nearly 10 years now, and I realized why it’s taken me so long to find him the perfect forever home: I wasn’t ready to send him off into the unknown again, not this late in his life.

I was reminded, as I filled out the adoption paperwork, of another geriatric dog I adopted nearly a decade ago. Muffin was my first, an 11-year-old red Pom-schipperke cross that had been brought to a veterinarian to be euthanized after her person died. The vet, whose name I never learned, decided to place her in rescue and found Second Chance a month after she was confined to a cage at the clinic. Her eyes, when she first arrived at my house, were flat; her mottled coat suggested that she probably didn’t have much time left, either, but she bounced back quickly. I little bit of love and freedom, and the light returned to her eyes, followed by a feisty personality. After a month or two, I adopted her into a home that seemed to be a good fit for her, until the family called me to tell me that Muffin was biting the family members.

I was disappointed, but not surprised—although I hadn’t seen that behavior in my home. Eventually, a second home surfaced and then returned her after Muffin began nipping family members for confining her to a bathroom. I began to dawn on me that Muffin wanted to retire to my house. And, although I had no plans to adopt a dog at that point in my life, I did. I allowed my heart to open up to this little dog that wasn’t going to win any more beauty pageants.

Three weeks after I adopted her, I noticed a change in Muffin’s breathing. Visits to the vet. X-rays. Trips to the University of Minnesota. More tests. Ultrasounds. Ultimately, I learned the source of her stress. Muffin was suffering from collapsed trachea and bronchi, congestive heart failure, and chronic pneumonia. Tracheal flushes. Medication every day. Vet bills amounting to hundreds of dollars each month. I wondered what I was doing. And vet visit after vet visit, I asked the same question: “Is it time?” Regardless of the vet, the answer was consistently, “No.”

Muffin, you see, was a spitfire. She was happy in her retirement home; we were a great team, and she made me laugh and smile every day, despite vet visits and medications and the fact that her fur was beginning to resemble a muppet’s. She lived for more than a year longer, until one day the man I was dating gently pointed out that the medications were no longer controlling her breathing, that she was struggling to get air. It was time.

Muffin left this world with the same pluck she lived in it. She did not go gently into that good night, but that was part of our journey together, too. In our final moments together, I realized I couldn’t imagine my life without her even though I had only known her for two years. Muffin enriched my life daily, and I know I’m a better person for having known her.

Now I look at Bear, who has suffered a different set of experiences than Muffin, but no less challenging. I’ve known him since he was 4-years-old, when I first placed him in a “forever,” but for some reason I’ll never understand, that wasn’t our final meeting. And he’s not the same dog that he was in 2004. He doesn’t have the same energy, and his smells are a little stronger than they used to be. His body is more tired, too. Overall, he’s got less curb appeal than he did then, at least to the untrained eye.

But to me? I see wisdom in him and a quiet acceptance of his life. He can curl up in my arms for hours, or anyone’s for that matter. He’s content to rest his bones sleeping in a patch of sun on the floor, and he’s happy just to get a meal and a few strokes. He gladly accepts the affection I give him, but unlike the younger dogs in my house, doesn’t ask for it. Because Bear asks for so little, I become more aware of him, notice him following me from room to room or waiting at the bottom of the stairs when I run up them. I try to give him everything he could want. Often, I carry him up and down the stairs with me, place soft bedding on the floor for him to lie one, bring him on visits to people who will allow him to rest in their arms, and indulge his insistent barking as I prepare his meals, his only obsession.

It’s a quiet, gentle relationship, one based on acceptance and trust, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. To know a geriatric rescue dog is to love him, as I love Bear. And whether we have 6 months together, or a year, it doesn’t matter.

The only thing that really matters is that he’s home—at last.

About Giffy, Pt. 1: How I started working with dogs

To be honest, I really was a cat person all my life. It wasn’t until I found myself adopting a 5-month-old Pomeranian puppy that I started to explore the world of dogs. That was nearly 20 years ago. And, sadly, Mandy lived a short life for a Pomeranian. She fell down the stairs when she was 8, suffering some “major neurological episode,” and died. I was devastated.

Distraught by the emptiness of my home, I couldn’t stop feeling Mandy’s absence, and then it occurred to me that I needed to do something. Because I decided I wasn’t ready to love another dog just yet, I decided to try fostering, to give another dog a chance in Mandy’s honor; I checked into local rescue groups, and after several people recommended Second Chance Animal Rescue, I contacted them. I think the year was 2000.

At first, my foster dogs were highly-adoptable puppies and small dogs, wriggling bundles of energy and fur. Some of them literally lasted hours before they were adopted, but over time, I developed a reputation as a person who could work with more challenging dogs, and more challenging dogs I got.

It began, innocently enough, with a call from the dog coordinator asking me if I could try working with a dog that had some challenging behaviors. She probably prefaced her comments, “I’m not sure this dog can be saved,” a line that has led many a rescue dog to front door. To be honest, I’m not even sure which dog it was—perhaps the Lhasa Apso whose person had committed suicide or the stray 14-year-old Pekinese with a spinal condition and dry eye or the Pekinese cross that had proptosed its eye squabbling with another, larger dog in its previous foster home. Maybe it was Wally, who lived with his siblings in the walls of a house, completely unsocialized. Or Maude, the Neapolitan mastiff that had been fed carcasses and had to have 18 inch tumor removed from her kidney. I no longer remember which dog started my journey, but I am so grateful for it.

So, I became the difficult dog foster, the person who could handle aggression, shy-fearful behaviors, submissive wetting, separation anxiety. The list became longer over time, and then when I began working with a holistic vet, Dr. Pomeroy, I began to work with allergies, too.

Since 2000, I’ve fostered approximately 170 dogs!

A Miracle Lands in My Lap

On December 3^rd, Charles, a 7-pound, 8-month-old, Chihuahua-Pomeranian cross awaiting adoption through Second Chance Animal Rescue escaped from a fenced yard in Hugo, Minnesota. To make matters worse, he was wearing a leash, which would certainly complicate his journey and could cause him to ensnare or strangle himself. During the next 10 days, with temperatures dipping near zero at times and wind chills much lower, nearly a foot of snow fell and created deep drifts in the rural community where he had escaped; his survival was by no means certain.

With the dedicated work of volunteers who trudged through the snow and posted flyers and community members who watched for him or placed food and live traps on their property, especially Applecrest Orchards, we were certain that Charles was still alive, at least through Monday, December 10^th, the last time he was spotted by a community member--running in an open field near Hwy 14 and 35E, still dragging the leash. With an already low body weight, predators, snow, temperatures, traffic, and a leash, the deck was stacked against this young dog. Every day was critical, but weather didn't cooperate.

I tried meditating on it; usually, my dog Sarah helps with that, but I couldn’t connect to her. Instead, I felt the presence of two of my dogs who had died, Kunda and Muffin. In my meditation, I asked them to find Charles, wherever he was, to comfort him and guide him toward shelter. The second time I meditated, I saw Charles seeking shelter in an outbuilding, perhaps a barn, with hay scattered on the floor. I doubted myself. Maybe I was seeing what I wanted instead of what was real.

So, yesterday, with no sightings of Charles in several days, I drove to the location where he was last seen with my friend Carol to meet fellow volunteers, Mary and Carl, so we could continue to search. Despite our assignment, it wasn’t an entirely bleak prospect. After all, I was able to spend time with Carol, a lovely person, the kind you want to spend time with; everybody does. On the way, we spoke of miracles and asked one difficult question: At what point should we give up the search?

Ultimately we decided that, as long as Charles was still being spotted, we should continue to look.

When Carol and I met Mary and Carl at the site, we checked the live trap and spoke with the owner of the orchard, who directed us to a nearby abandoned farmhouse. Together we trudged through knee-high snow, and despite our heavy charge, I found myself grateful to be outside on such a beautiful day getting exercise, spending time with warm people, slowing down a bit, seeing nature. In the pristine snow, we noticed mouse tracks first, followed by rabbit tracks, and then a strange disturbance in the snow that Carl suggested had been caused by a raptor; there were no tracks leading to or away from it.

As we made our way across the field, Carol suggested I scout the abandoned farm off to our left. I veered away from the group and cut a second trail through the knee-deep snow. As soon as I entered the yard, I knew Charles had been there--although the tracks clustered around a tree were no longer fresh. The snow had been walked on multiple times by an animal about the size of a small dog, and there was urine in the snow. I was certain that this had been home base.

To my right, a small outbuilding with a couple of walls missing seemed a logical hiding spot as the tracks were clustered very near there. I rounded the corner and looked inside.

And there, staring back at me, was Charles, his leash wrapped around a board and very much alive!

I called out to the others in the group once, twice, three times, “He’s here!” I knew he couldn’t bolt, but he looked so scared. I thought he might die any second, of fear, of cold, I don’t know. He was just so close and still not safe. I needed backup and couldn’t move until it arrived.

After what seemed an eternity, Carol and Mary reached me. They held up a blanket to give Charles the illusion that the building wasn’t wide open, in case he broke free before we reached him. Then Carl rounded the other side of the building, and I was ready to go in. My heart was pounding, as a wrong move on my part could be fatal for Charles. I tried to clear my head, inhaling deeply, and stepped over the boards with nails covering the floor of the shed. He stood near the middle of the building, where he might have found protection in the dusting of hay under the boards if he hadn't been tethered to a board. I called for the others to throw me treats, which I tossed into Charles. He didn’t seem to notice.

He looked weak.

A few moments later, he cautiously stepped toward me, and Carol handed me some pepperoni that she had the forethought to bring along. It worked. In moments, he ate 5-6 slices of it. Someone handed me my mittens, and I grabbed Charles, tucking him close to my body and wrapping his leash around my arm and securing it to my wrist. From there, we began the trek back across the fields to the car.  Carol ran ahead to drive it closer, and Carl and Mary flanked me as I cradled Charles in my arms, his frail body collapsed against me as I tried to provide some small protection from the December air.

Immediately after returning to the car, we rushed Charles to the Life Care Animal Hospital to make sure he didn't have any other major problems. Turns out, although Charles had lost more than 20% of his body weight, some 1 3/4 pounds, he was able to eat and hold down food and water; he had no cuts or frostbite. Painfully thin, his ribs and hips protruding, he was still okay.

In the waiting room we took more pictures, and then Mary, while snapping one of Charles in my lap curled around a Snuggle Puppie that provided him heat, commented that somehow a blur had appeared across the screen although the rest of the pictures were perfectly clear.

Was it a strand of hair, perhaps?

I don't know, but I'd like to think it was some being that had been sent to protect him. One of my dogs, perhaps, providing comfort while Charles warmed himself on my lap? Perhaps it acted as a guardian until he was safe.  

Who knows, but I definitely think it was a day filled with miracles.

Thanks to everyone who helped bring Charles home.

 

A love letter to Lola

Usually, I write my posts, but when Louise sent me the following letter that she wrote in the days before she euthanized Lola, a former foster of mine, I had to share it. Louise's letter so completely captures the agony of letting go--but also the tremendous love she and Lola shared during their time together. It simultaneously breaks my heart and fills me with such peace. Lola was in a beautiful home. Thank you, Louise and family, for loving Lola completely and unconditionally. I am grateful.

---

Dear Lola~

"Second Chance Rescue's" vet estimated you to be about age 4; that was about 11 years ago when you joined our family. You were found abandoned at a pet hospital in the Battle Creek area of St. Paul. You had animal print collar around your neck connected to a matching leash ..A stranger said your were discovered, walking aimlessly outside the clinic.

Cheryl, Second Chance foster mom, was your first and only respite from an unknown former life. Her time with you was short; her love was abundant. She chose us to be your newfamily.

I think I know why you might have been relinquished..All that endeared me to you might have been too much for your first family...

You are one feisty, strong willed girl. Always have been and continue to your ripe age of 15. You are the alpha; I have given my place in the alphabet to you. And have taken a beta or, better yet, a zeta!..Your charm and sweetness provoked my vulnerability...Like an innocent child with a bouncy, perky, demanding disposition; you have barked the shots...

Forcefully to that of your first family, perhaps. Probably,leaving teeth marks, too. And maybe that is what led you to the place where you were found.

I saw evidence through the years... But never complained. That was you in true form, my little warrior!

I have made excuses for you...defended you, my furry daughter... You did wrong but I could not acknowledge! No training, behavior mod ever made a dent...i accepted you as you were and loved you for the goodness I recognized.

How you tormented your non-biological siblings. especially pudgy Pauline. Maybe not torment...but took total control...stalked, bit, confronted, terrorized Pauline; your stamina was uncontested....always. Pauline out of your control has caused you angst...

I turned you over on your tummy so many times. "Stop it," I repeatedly declared.. You continued your operatic-like growl and gurgle, with continued resistance and focus on Pauline, your loving nemesis...

You don't give up easily my little angel in devil's uniform. Despite your mania, you were a marvelous, loving little companion; always by my side and vigilant in your protection...through the many years that we shared our lives.

Which makes it all the harder...and more painful.

The challenges of old age are upon you, my dear one...Each day is an effort. Neverthess your tail wags. You are strong. Stronger than I.

It's time.
Maybe.
Yet, who knows when it is time?

The live love we have, dog child and mom will soon vanish... I, though, endowed with human attribute of emotion and memory, will keep you tucked safely in my mind and heart.

Rest in peace, my little loved one.

Tomorrow?

AllBreed Obedience has star power

Calvin--a star is born

Last month, the Woodbury Bulletin started a trend that is still continuing. It ran a story about AllBreed Obedience's acting class. A reporter from the Saint Paul Pioneer Press checked out the class with cameras in tow. Watch for the article in upcoming weeks. And last week, Fox 9 news ran the story, as well. (Nice work, Deb!) Even though my foster dog Calvin didn't make the final cut, I'm thinking he's got the chops for a future in show biz. Don't you?

And, you know, it's never too late to sign your star up for an acting class at AllBreedObedience. It's a great way to build a strong bond with your canine companion--and we all know how I feel about building a strong bond.

Plus, acting dogs get paid. :o}

Rescue dog -- Delta dog

Last night, my remarkable rescue dog Sarah was Delta Society certified. To show you just how far she's come, here's her story. . .

Three years ago, Sarah came to me as a foster dog, emaciated, afraid of people, and, I believe, dying. After eating a high-calorie diet for three months as she recuperated in my home, she managed to put on 11 of the 25 pounds she needed to gain, only to lose all of the weight and more when she developed a minor skin infection. Her body was simply too weak to fight it. Luckily, I was able to find a holistic vet, Dr. Fred Pomeroy, who treated her with herbs and supplements and saved her life.

Psychologically, her recovery was much slower. Uncomfortable being in the same room with me if I was holding food, she'd panic and bolt. Part of her tongue was missing from an injury I could only guess at, and it was clear she had suffered profound traumas in the breeding facility that had been her home before coming to Second Chance Animal Rescue. I've been told she lived in a horse stall, and evidence suggests the conditions were deplorable. Her coat was dull, but her eyes flashed fear at the slightest unexpected movement. She was emaciated and terrified. I don't know anything else.

She was vetted and spayed immediately, after which I picked her up and brought her to my house and discovered a huge hematoma, which threatened to need another surgery to drain. In an effort to avoid that, I'd curl up with her, pulling her bony body to me every few hours and placing hotpacks on her abdomen to bring the swelling down. Eventually she learned to enjoy our ritual. She'd relax ever so slightly and hold her leg so I could hold the warm towel against her sunken belly.

Little-by-little I fell in love with her. Maybe it happened when I placed those towels on her, or maybe it occurred as I celebrated each ounce she gained. Maybe it happened when she tried to die as I willed her to live--until a very wise friend, Deb Schneider, told me it was time that Sarah start to fight for herself. I know that I loved her when I accepted that she might not make it. Three months into our journey, she took a turn for the worse. With bloody diarrhea and vomiting multiple times a day, she couldn't keep food down. I agonizingly braced for her inevitable death, but it didn't come.

After six months, she had put on 20 pounds, but still cowered when people approached her. I could see the pain in her eyes and could not approach her with food.I tried taking her to obedience classes, where she literally stood stock still for every hour of an eight-week class, at the end of which, she couldn't even sit. Still, I continued to train her, a daunting task, as the only way I could reward her was by stroking her ear. Treats would send her out of the ring. Eventually, she completed a few dog classes--but we never returned to obedience. I couldn't teach her to sit reliably or to lie down on cue, even with Janey Shaddrick's outstanding guidance and remarkable patience. I didn't really care, either. She was, after all, alive.

Courtesy of Barbara O'Brien Photography

After ten months, my partner Bob and I decided to adopt her as a Christmas present to one another, and Sarah has lived with me ever since.

I consider Sarah one of the greatest blessings I have ever had. In a home with dogs coming and going--170 fosters in ten years--Sarah speaks dog more eloquently than any dog I have ever met. She's the dog I curl up with when I'm having a bad day. She grounds me and makes me kinder. She touches virtually every one who meets her. In fact, early on a woman I rather randomly encountered described Sarah as "a beacon of light" that would draw people to her. It's true, too.

She also told me Sarah and I could change the world.

So I shouldn't have been surprised last summer when I took my mother (who has Alzheimer's) on a walk at a dog park and Sarah focused exclusively on my mom's well-being. That day, I brought my mom on a trail we had no business walking on and only realized my error when we could neither return nor continue safely. Noting the uneven, treacherous path well before I did, Sarah paced between us, nudging me persistently as if scolding me for failing to protect my mother, and circling my mother, perhaps to prevent her from falling.

Eventually, we did make it out of the park safely, but watching Sarah as I tried to assist my mom, I began to consider the fact that this untrainable dog might just have the makings of a therapy dog. So I talked to Bobbi Stark, a Delta certified trainer at AllBreed Obedience who knew Sarah, and surprisingly, she agreed. We decided to teach Sarah basic obedience commands, and then Bobbi would complete a therapy class with her. When we began, an amazing thing happened: Sarah began to take treats from us. After three years, she finally overcame her fear of food.

She also visited a nursing home, where she instinctively learned how to great people and maneuver around wheelchairs. She visited a woman who hadn't spoken in ages, and this woman conversed with us coherently as her caregiver watched on in slack-jawed amazement. Sarah was a natural.

And then Bobbi passed the therapy class with Sarah on her first try, followed by Bob, who passed on his first try, too!

So, when my mom moved into an Ecumen care facility last week, I began to wonder if I could test Sarah. Last night, on a bit of a whim, I did just that.

And she passed.

So now Sarah, my amazing, lovely, rescue dog has been certified to work as a therapy dog with three handlers. Do you know how remarkable that is? She's already visited a nursing home regularly, and I'm working on setting up visits to a memory care unit. We're also talking about working with her in hospice care. Or maybe a veterans' hospital. Or cancer center. Who knows where Sarah will take us?

I constantly feel humbled by this dog and so completely grateful to know her.

Thanks to every one of you who helped her find her way.

Photo by LS Originals