If I told you this post was about my dog, would you run? What if I promised to write a story so powerful, you’d be moved to tears? Well, I ain’t, but this is the story of Professor Dudley J. Fourpaws, aka Dudley the Dog.
I want my children to be good people, offering myself as their role model, so I often take them to volunteer at a few local places, one being the Delaware County SPCA. Last summer, we were there quite often, as they offer a reading program where kids teach illiterate cats to read (or something like that). My son, Owen, and I are very much allergic to felines, much to Clementine’s dismay, so we wait patiently for her to get all catted up and then head to walk some of the many homeless pooches.
Luckily, there are more than enough to keep us busy. If you’re ever feeling too great about life, or maybe think that all is right in the world, head to your local animal shelter. You pass cage after cage of animals that don’t deserve to be homeless and have most likely seen some shit. Real shit. They plead with you ‘Please, please don’t just walk past me and my sad eyes. I beg of you to take me on a walk…maybe love me..?” So, needless to say, we are usually there for quite a while.
Some dogs are so super-excited for attention; they push themselves into the chainlink that separates you in hopes of keeping the contact going just a little longer. Then there are the others who literally have to be carried out by staff to walk because they are so traumatized by what is happening all around them. The sounds of endless barking, the concrete floors, the strange people who they don’t realize are actually helping them, the horrible smells, etc. Ben accurately likened it to being in a dog warzone. After taking one of the latter kind out of the warzone for our ‘last walk of the day,’ we brought/carried him back when the pup next to him caught my eye. He was black and white, like our previous pooch (shout out to Alf up in doggy heaven/rainbow bridge) so while I credit that as the reason, Ben suggests the likelihood of us being “weird-footed-redneck kindred spirits.” (Yep, he's a charmer and alllll mine, ladies.)
His name was Todd, a name given to him by a person who has no clue how to name animals. He had been trucked up from a high-kill shelter in West Virginia after being found roaming the streets and was beyond pitiful--cone, scars and all. So we took him out to the pet cemetery used as a play yard (yep) and he charmed his way into our little black hearts. I texted Ben a picture of him and told him tomorrow we could pick him up as a family.
We brought him home the next day and he instantly bonded with the kids and got acclimated with his quieter, less dog-poo-smelling home. Then he proceeded to just about die on our couch for the next 10 days. He had pneumonia, with only 50% operating lung function, and would cough like a pack-a-day pooch. In addition to this, he also had a campylobacter infection which turned his intestines into a geyser. I won’t go into details because I’m a lady, but let's just say shoes and appetites were ruined. He stopped eating his food, so I started cooking solely for the dog. Chicken, rice, pumpkin, sweet potatoes, etc, all while my kids looked on hungrily. Eventually, he refused to eat anything at all, losing about 5 lbs, so I had to start pureeing everything and turkey basting it into his gut. It was quite a honeymoon period to say the least.
(You know why the sheets are there...)
That was 8 months ago, and I wish we could say it's been all sunshine and rainbows (NOT rainbow bridges of course), but I'd be a damned liar. His physical health is great (at least we assume, as he hasn't been to the vet since then; he's exhausted his allotted vet fund for the rest of his life), but he's still a "spaz," as the trainer referred to him. He has a very small social circle; he loves us and like 4 other people in this world and the rest of you are trying to murder us and he's on to you. He may try to kill you first. It's not fun. He eats books, legos, beloved stuffed animals, shoes, and hopefully someday Guinea pigs. He knocks things over, he tracks mud through the house, he tears up the couch. He sheds everywhere, all the time - probably on pace to burn out two vacuums a year. And did I mention he's a spaz?
But there's something about the pure, innocent joy (actual joy, not your garden variety happiness) that he brings out of the kids that's indescribably deep and gratifying to watch. When they play together - which happens many times a day, and is initiated by both child and dog alike - they all just have so much FUN. They get bitten, slapped, roughed up, scratched in the face, jumped on, knocked over, squished, and there is almost always a constant laughter throughout. It's real love, given and received, between my kids and a total redneck spaz of a dog who by all rights should be dead. And I figure if anything's going to make them good people, it's that, right?
