Tag Archives: rescue dogs

Big Sisters

Some folks like to characterize families by familiar stereotypes. Of course she did, she’s an only child. He’s acting out because his older sibling got all the attention. Of course she’s spoiled, she’s the baby. You’ve heard it all, I’m certain.

I’m the eldest. Yes, the most responsible. For everyone. Brought up by strict, I would say Teutonic because my father was German/Swiss, rules.

At first I always wanted an older brother, to protect me from bullies of course. But most of my life what I’ve missed is a big sister, someone I could go to for non-parental advice, someone who’s seen a bit more of life than I and could relate useful experiences.

When I got out in the working world, the real one after college (babysitting and summer gigs don’t count) there were no female mentors that I knew of. After a few years I finally got the best boss of my life, a woman, who let me actually do my job and grow in it. That was short-lived, however, and was followed by the absolute worst boss I ever had, a power-hungry megalomaniacal micro-manager who made my life a living Hell. She was female, as well.

Now that I’m all grown up and retired, I think of what my life would have been like with a sister as mentor in life and at work. I certainly would have made fewer mistakes, that’s a given. Perhaps I could have been a better mentor to my young colleagues if I’d had one myself.

Interestingly, I see it in the animal kingdom as well. For the past few months, we’ve been “adopted” by a discarded pup who has had some serious setbacks. She was abused and dumped here, afraid of human touch, ribs protruding with hunger, she craved affection but didn’t know how to get it. We think she was about nine months old as she came into heat a couple of months later.

Named Sara now, she is still an outdoor dog but does have a warm place to go on winter nights. I’d take “Princess” Lulu, my mini-Aussie apartment dog out for a walk on leash and Sara would copy everything Lulu did. I petted Lulu while she was standing still relieving herself and said “good girl” so that Sara would know that human touch and voices could be kind.

Sara was attacked on New Years’ Day by a big dog and the bites became infected immediately. She went through a horrible month of home-based ICU (Nurse Dee, here) and rehabilitation. She’s out and about now and we’re like proud parents watching her progress. She ate sitting up! She ate standing up for the first time! She walked, and the swelling is going down. Today, for example, she patrolled the house for the first time since her injuries. This is a major step, though she’s still dragging the leg quite a bit.

When she first came, in July, she started mimicking Lulu and would pee a few feet away, expecting verbal praise and petting for doing so. Same with #2. After the mauling and ICU (the dreaded wee wee pads) when she took her first steps she remembered that. Makes it easier for me to clean up, just one bag!

Similarly when Lulu was eight weeks old we had our first vet visit within 72 hours of buying her from the breeder 1,500 miles away. There were several stairs outside the vet’s office. Lulu learned to go up the stairs but there was an old dachshund about to leave the vet and go down the stairs. I asked the owner if we could watch. Downstairs went the Doxy, followed by little Lulu. How much time would it have taken me to explain it to her? All she needed was a mentor and she learned in a matter of seconds!

Mentors are so important. I’m getting more into volunteering in senior programs now and look forward to providing sought-after guidance for fellow volunteers given my decade of relevant experience. An important item to remember is not to over-share or be intrusive with advice that might be construed by the recipient as an intrusion. It’s important to be a good mentor, whether it be to siblings, colleagues or fellow volunteers. So be one! It’s gratifying to see a young person learn to fly and successfully solo! Cheers! Dee

Le Avventure della Principessa di Campania

Ok, I’m a city dog. I lived in a tall apartment building up North. Spent my life there, using elevators, meeting friends daily at the Park, inviting guests for social hours during COVID when our parents couldn’t socialize with each other. My frozen raw food was delivered. Peanut butter Kongs were always in the freezer and I loved the maintenance guys, they were way cool and let me jump on them to say hello.

Now I’m out in the country on a temporary basis, at least I hope it’s temporary. I’ve always been a wash ”n wear kind of gal and Mom brought along the shower attachment so I still have bi-weekly baths with my hole-y towels (I get to “kill” the dog towels after each bath, my reward) so no change there, but dogs are treated differently in the country. First off, some get dumped on others, thrown out car windows to fend for themselves. We got one of those the first week we were here, and she’s had a tough time of it.

But more about the newly-named Sara the Rescue Dog later. This is about me and country folk making fun of my Mom for having a spoiled princess. Like when the tractor mechanic saw the setup in Mom’s Acura (not exactly a farm vehicle). There’s a cargo net behind the back seat, an extra large 4″ thick orthopedic bed, and a tie-down so I can wear a harness and not be thrown if the car brakes suddenly. Oh, and two fans directed my way, thanks to the car battery. Too much? He got a kick out of that one. So did the guy who inspected the car so Mom could renew her drivers’ license here.

I brought a winter coat and a raincoat, plus Mutt-Luks in case it snows, which it may do this week. Mom bought the rescue dog a coat the other day but she can’t wear it yet. Sara was abused and abandoned until she found the home of my Grandma M and Grandpa J. She’s always afraid of being hit, and when she came she didn’t even know how to chase a tennis ball, just thought it was going to be thrown at her. Sad tale, she hasn’t told me much about it.

Three weeks ago my folks had to drive all the way to Dallas to get her spayed. My folks were told that the local vet couldn’t get her in for three months and she was in heat with regular visits from the neighbor’s dog so it had to be done asap.

As soon as she was about healed from the spay, she was brutally attacked by another dog in the neighborhood and is still recovering. It’s freezing outside, down to the teens at night. Sara hates crates and leashes and relishes being an outdoor dog with all the freedoms that entails, so she’s usually the outdoor patrol and I bark at intruders from inside depending on which bedroom I’ve taken as my own for the day. Why my own bedroom, where I arrange the covers as I deem fit? I’m the Principessa!

So now Sara’s using my huge crate in the pantry across a breezeway, with a space heater, the crate filled with towels and wee wee pads so she can convalesce. Her rear leg is twice its normal size and she’s on antibiotics and epsom salt baths to draw out the poison from the puncture wounds.

I miss my new friend. We had a great time chasing each other around the yard and through the garden. I have to be on a generous zip line now because once Sara and that cad (her one-night-stand boyfriend) led me out onto the State highway where trucks were zooming by at 70 mph. My folks didn’t like that much so I’m now stuck in the back yard but it’s no fun without Sara playing fetch and tug.

I don’t care much that the locals make fun of me and my folks for being so citified. When we get back to civilization, maybe I’ll write more about it. Mom thinks I’m a pretty good writer. [only pretty good? I said excellent and you edited it, Dee, watch it or I’ll eat your sock]

Oh, the funniest thing is that Sara can’t walk on the leg yet so needs to be supported to go outside. The only coat Mom could find with a handle for support was the bright orange swim vest from my one (thank God) swimming lesson! The other day it was sunny and warm so my folks moved the crate outside, and there was Sara, prone, wearing a new collar and tag, and sporting a bright orange life vest on Christmas week! Imagine if the tractor mechanic saw that, Grandma and Grandpa would never hear the end of it!

I’ll let Dee write tomorrow. She says Happy New Year and she’ll come up with something good for all y’all to read. Thanks for your kind attention to my regal pronouncements. Lulu, the Country Princess

One Dog Nights

Down south one never gets a “three dog night” as Great Lakes and other folk know it. Whether ithat term originated in the Australian Outback or with the Aleuts, it means a night so cold that one needs three dogs in bed to keep warm.

Of late we’ve had a couple of one dog nights. The rescue we took in a couple of months ago (dumped, abused and fearful) had a rough week. It took an overnight visit to get her spayed, a double dose of meds to get her calm in the back of my SUV and transferred to the vet clinic, and way too much tme driving there and back and recuperating.

Most dogs consent to a leash but not Sara, yet. So it was meds, which we tested. She took a test dose for a 45 lb. dog (she weighs 26 lbs.) and it took her 7.5 hours just to take a half-hour nap. She was loopy, but alert and cautious the entire time. So our vet had us double the dose for the three-hour trip to her clinic.

Instead of a cone of shame, we opted for a surgi-suit, but even Sara’s new owner M, the top-notch seamstress of quilting fame, was unable to make her one that would meet her needs, to not ride up and expose the surgical wound, keep the wound clean and allow for Sara to relieve herself outdoors without restriction. So she bought one, with the latter being an issue.

It’s now been six days since the surgery. Dr. V used surgical glue and absorbable sutures so that we wouldn’t have to trap Sara again and take her to a local vet for removal. She took off the suit herself, yesterday, and the sutures look fine. She’s no longer loopy and the pain seems to have subsided. Sara seems her happy self again, and doesn’t hate us for putting her through this, but we couldn’t have her attracting all the males in the neighborhood and getting pregnant.

The temperature dipped below freezing for a couple of nights. Sara now has a thick cardboard box sized for her and lined with three layers of area rug, clean and treated for the fleas she was diagnosed with. It’s covered with heavy plastic against the rain, and is placed in the coziest place in the carport where she can see everything important. The other day we added a “heating pad” comprised of a rectangular 1 liter plastic juice bottle filled with hot water. She liked it and stays in there a lot on cloudy days.

Keeping to the farm ethos, every eight hours the bottle (two now as we added a 2 liter Dr. Pepper bottle on a really cold night) needs refilling so the cold water is dumped back in the garden. We haven’t had much rain so the hardy red lettuce and kale are still growing and their roots need sustenance as well.

So, if there are any inventors out there willing to make a surgi-suit that allows rescue dogs to do their thing without being taken out on a leash, we’re willing to try it. If we can catch Sara again, that is. She’s actually accustoming herself to all people not being evil. At first, I picked up a tennis ball and went to throw it for her and she thought I was going to hit her with it. It took a few weeks but when the light turned on in her smart little brain, she found that play was indeed fun.

So now we have my in-laws’ outdoor patrol dog Sara formerly of the Flea-Ridden, and Princess Lulu of the indoor Secret Service. Bored with real life indoors, Lulu is considering applying for a job as a quality assurance tester for Indestructible Dog Toys, as within five minutes her latest was breached on the nose and both front paws. It used to look like a speedy hare, not so much now.

Life on the ranch. With Sara’s spay out of the way, in a couple of weeks when she has truly forgiven us, we may try to use Lulu’s indoor bath routine on her so she’ll be clean at least once in her life. Once the vet’s exterior flea treatment has worn off and she’s on a pill form of flea-tick prevention like regular dogs. It’s a thought. As I’m told, ranch dogs don’t get baths. We’ll see.

Merry Christmas to you and yours, and peace on earth to men and women of good will. We’ll need that last part in 2025! Today I thank my in-laws and everyone else in this world who has taken on a rescue. God bless you. Dee