deaf dog

The second love of my life is curled on a down pillow, tucked into the crook of my left arm. This is what we do before bed: Betty sits on the stairs next to my old four poster, waiting while I fluff her pillow just so. I smooth the pillow and she steps daintily onto the bed, waiting for my hand signal to fall into the feathers. I pull the down comforter over the two of us, Betty snuggles in, making a soft puppy sigh, followed by a cooing sound, like a baby dove.

It is a ritual I adore and my little dog likes it to. Since she came to us almost three years ago, Betty has slept beside me every night.

She didn't look like much the first time I saw her. Thin, long bodied, scruffy, thin hair, with very pink, freckled skin beneath. She was billed as a Westie. That's dog rescue talk for "small white dog of unknown origin." We were looking for a companion for restless Bill, a grouchy Jack Russell, when we went to Yukon.

Anxious to make a match, the staff let us take her. We took both dogs around the corner from the rescue to the hayfield cum dog park and let them loose to run. It was hot that September and mosquitos cruised thick above the puddles in the pasture.

The dogs sniffed one another briefly, then Bill took off. Betty took off. They ran side by side, in tandem, interacting not one bit. There she was, a scruffy, funny looking small white dog who ignored us when we called, who watched balls fly and did not give chase, who ignored her potential sibling. I don't know why we decided to go ahead with the adoption. Something about her, her strangeness, the oddities in her behavior.

In the car on the way back to Tulsa, Betty paced the back seat looking out first one window, then another. It wasn't until we were 30 miles from Tulsa that she settled down and went to sleep.

Pulling in the driveway woke Billy as it always does. We parked, opened the doors, I got my purse off the floor in the back. Betty slept. I called to her, nothing. Finally, I reached in and stroked her head. She woke up looking sleepy and dazed, let me pick her up and carry her inside.

In those first few days, I would often lift her, hold her next to me on the sofa or in a chair. From my first touch, she would move not a muscle and once on my lap or next to me, she'd stare straight ahead. Thin, long bodied, scruffy dog statue. Not a blink, not a twitch, absolutely still.

I figured it out somewhere around the fifth day she was with us. Drinking coffee, reading a book early that morning, Betty was by my side on a pillow. She was looking away and I said something to her. No response. A glimmer of suspicion about this odd little dog, so I loudly said her name. Nothing. I yelled, clapped, "Betty!" Nothing.

"Mike! Betty's deaf, she's deaf!" and I gathered her into my arms to kiss her little head. It's so strange that I felt instant guilt over not having known. All the signs were there from the first day she didn't respond to our voices, when she slept so soundly on the way home.

Mike came to look at her, administered his own tests, agreed we had a deaf dog on our hands. Our thin, long bodied, scruffy, pink and freckled deaf girl. Knowing made me cry. I imagined how terrified she must have been living on the streets of Oklahoma City, at the construction site where she was found begging food. Without the ability to hear, she is at such risk, even now.

And then I thought of what she misses out on. Happy voices praising her, inciting her to play. She can't hear me when I tell her she's the best little dog in the world. She doesn't hear us laughing when she does something funny and she'll never hear my voice telling her I love her.

We called the rescue folks to tell them of our discovery. The director answered the phone, was a little cool as I related our news. When I told her we'd been reading up on sign language for dogs, she began to laugh, then expressed her relief that we were not bringing her back.

Take her back? My skinny, brown eyed, freckled, scruffy haired deaf girl? Not a chance. She is the child I never had. I'm not a mom, never will be, so I laugh when I tell friends that I couldn't love a child more than I love this dog. Mothers all, they laugh along with me, but I am serious. Do you have ~ have you had ~ an animal love, one you couldn't imagine living life without?

bear

I do penance for Bear every night as I lift the quilt and invite my dogs to join me on my stacked featherbeds. I tuck them in by my legs, two small terriers, letting them snuggle down into the feathers before wrapping them in the old quilt for warmth. Dogs love warmth, every dog lover knows that. I learned it watching Billy seek out the sunny spots in the house or jump into a basket of laundry fresh from the dryer. I often think of Bear as I fall asleep, the soft breathing and sweet, warm bodies of my dogs forcing me to remember her.

Bear was a small black Schipperke, the second of those tailless Belgian dogs to live with us. Bear followed Cindy by eight years, years filled by a seizure-prone pug. She was a playful puppy, an energetic adult, great fun for us in our grade school years.

When I was nine, Bear developed an itchy back and like Cindy before her, it was unrelenting. Whatever it was, and there were plenty of theories, it drove her to fits of scratching. Dr. Ray's ministrations and his soothing ointment had no effect. Nothing impacted this itch. It must have been maddening and torture for that little dog, the most severe itch being on her back where she could not reach.

At every opportunity, Bear would race to my father's bed, an old mahogany four poster my mother had fitted with metal rails in order to accommodate a larger mattress. The rails were the perfect height to scratch Bear's back, to soothe that desperate itch. Scratching made it worse, of course. We'd put her out so she wouldn't scratch; she'd dart inside as soon as the door was opened.

Missing her one day, we found her in the bedroom, her back a bleeding mess. This horror was repeated over and over until she ended up with an oval patch of bleeding, hairless skin from rubbing against the rails. We put her outside to stay and from that day on she lived in the back yard. We were, by then, front yard kids, active, outdoors a lot, but Bear was a backyard dog and so she was alone.

That's how I think of her now ~ alone. And the worst, the most painful, agonizing thoughts are of Bear alone in her dog house on the coldest night of winter with deep snow and all of us warm inside. On those desperately cold nights, I would sometimes find myself seized with a kind of panic, a 12 year old's guilt, wondering how she was faring out there, realizing I couldn't sleep until I knew.

Going to the door, I'd call her, persisting until she hobbled from her dog house, a moving inkspot against the snow. Rousing her from her nest, from whatever warmth she could find, I'd feel reassured that she was alive. I'd pet her briefly, then shut the door and so to bed. I left her there, cold, alone, in the dark, with no companionship, with nothing that dogs thrive on. Nothing.

I hate myself for this. It is one of my worst sins. I can't write it without crying. What a hideous thing to do to a dog. It's no excuse that I didn't know what dogs were like, what they needed. It was a terrible, terrible thing to do and it is a permanent stain on my conscience and an ache in my heart.

I think the intense shame and guilt I felt over the treatment of one small black dog fueled my near lifetime insistence that I didn't like dogs. Until Bill arrived in my life five years ago, I lived dog-free, touting the superiority of cats over the panting, shedding, jumping, licking canines of my acquaintance. I jokingly insisted my sister should administer "the final solution" to her pack of nine unadoptable and ailing dogs. And Bear was always on my mind. I couldn't laughingly denigrate a dog without thinking of Bear and with Bear inevitably comes a hot shame. Always.

There was a little comfort for Bear when my father remarried. As my stepmother arrived on the scene, we were coming alive again after the shock of my mother's disappearance. A dog lover, this good woman was horrified at our neglect of the little Schipperke. I am horrified too, and filled with regret. After 35 years, I am still sickened by my mistreatment of that poor animal.

I can't fix it. I thought writing about it might help. I don't need reassurances that what I did wasn't that dreadful. It was, end of story. But I live a program that insists I make amends, to right wrongs where I can. Long before my dogs arrived, I helped animals where I could, supported rescue, paid vet bills for strays, anything to assuage the guilt. And though it can't be fixed, my neglect of Bear, it is some comfort that my two terriers have the best possible dog's life, every comfort, constant companionship, inside living with their people, lots of exercise, endless, boundless love and affection.

I wish I could do it over with Bear, give her this kind of life. I'd find a solution for her itchy back as I've found for Billy's itchy hip. I'd tolerate her quirks as I tolerate Deaf Betty's barky attention to every falling leaf and passing car. And I'd let her sleep with me every night. I'd hold her and love her and keep her warm, every night.

There aren't any do-overs, and regret is the most wretched of emotions. I suspect I will die with this one. What about you? Do you have regrets that simply will not leave you?

i got my dawg!

Such a wonderful story to compare to Atlanta Falcons scumbag Michael Vick. I got my dawg! Rejoice!

sick dog

Small Bill was up all night with a horrible bloody diarrhea. Vet says it's hemorrhagic gastroenteritis again, don't know what's causing it. At least he's not throwing up this time but I'm worried. Anyone have experience with this nasty crap?

vicious

Another vicious dog encounter, this time two St. Bernards and a smaller herding dog about knee high. But for a woman passing by, who stopped to join in the fray, one or both of my dogs would surely be dead.

Little Bill, Deaf Betty and my sweetheart, Mike, all confronted with the slavering jaws-o-death while innocently trotting through the neighborhood. Mike's been taking an ancient Irish shillelagh on his walks, but forgot yesterday afternoon. I told him to start packing my little purse sized .22, but he won't do it. Wyoming boy, the one who got me started carrying guns.

I'm not sure what to do about this. Every time we get comfortable after a few weeks of not having seen any free roaming animals, something like this happens. The terriers are like crack for big dogs: high spirited, cocky little smarty pants dogs. I imagine the lumbering St. Bernards and Pit Bulls and Rottweilers look at these little dogs, who imagine they're giants, and want to put them in their little dog places.

Yuck. Reminds me of one of my worst ever boyfriends, who said he was attracted to me right away because "you looked like you needed to be taken down a peg." He mentioned that as I was shrieking at him to "leave me the fuck alone." That was only moments after I attempted to crush his pelvis with his kitchen table, which effort succeeded only in crashing through the drywall and studs into the next apartment. Whew! Ever had one of those out-of-body rage experiences? I could see myself doing it, could say "stop it, stop it!!" in my head, but it was as if a wild thing had taken over my body and simply couldn't be stopped. The real me had taken a step out and was observing the madwoman in action. Thank God for sobriety.

If that's anything like how these big dogs feel when they see my little ones, that's very, very scary. From dogs to men. Not so much of a leap in some cases.

something to smile about

Since I've been overtaken by gloom and hopelessness, I went back to Willym's recent post about his ever-so-handsome puppy, Reese. In this post, Willym notes the striking resemblance between Reese and the great John Barrymore. It is quite remarkable and Willym is certainly the alert observer to note the similarity between the two. In the photo of his profile, Master Reese strikes a regal pose which would seem to indicate he's known all along that he's a stageworthy fellow.

monster pit

Mike and my babies out for a late night walk. Rounding the corner a few blocks away from the house, they're confronted with a growling, advancing monster of a pit bull. I know this dog; it killed a cat a month or so ago on this same street. It's constantly out in the front yard while its owner dicks around in his garage. He is a monstrous animal, muscular beyond any pit I've seen, and obviously aggressive.

My sweet Betty immediately cowered behind Mike. Even Bill, who just this week backed off a huge and surprisingly aggressive St. Bernard, tucked behind Mike without so much as a snarl. Bill, the wee short-legged Jack Russell, is pretty certain he's a Doberman or Rottweiler, but the viciousness of this pit bull scared even my stout-hearted boy.

Mike was not afraid, likely because he was rising to the defense of his kids. He had a piece of Bill's very heavy and very long leash with which he kept striking the pit in the face. The dog kept trying to get around him. Mike said he came within about a foot of Betty who, being deaf, could not hear this beast's threatening growl.

I am so grateful it wasn't one of those fast dog attacks, else my dogs would be dead and my husband surely injured. Two neighbors heard Mike yelling at the dog to get back, came out into the street to join in backing this monster back to his yard. Finally, his owner strolled out onto the porch to ask what was going on. My ex-hippie, live and let live husband said "get your dog or I'll call the law."

"The law," just like in those westerns he loves so well. Mike is not a law-calling kind of person. That's me. But he loves his puppies and can see the danger for everyone in an immense, threatening dog like this one roaming the streets.

I'm not opposed to pits as a breed, but I'm opposed to the current pit culture which indoctrinates irresponsible kids with the idea that they're big men if they have a vicious dog. Viciousness is created in all sorts of inhumane ways, and the result is a serious threat to life.

My family escaped. Hope the next one does. Mike hasn't called "the law" but I'm going to. Don't know what kind of action I'll get, but the neighbors say this dog's out all the time, it has killed other animals in the neighborhood (that sweet kitty!), and now my people ~ all three of them ~ have been endangered.