Description:
He came from Hell. Hell, California, otherwise known as the Devore Animal Shelter. Tucked in the foothills between the austere Mormon Rocks which so vividly mark the location of the San Andreas fault and the depressed and the depressing city of San Bernardino. It is a cold place for Southern California. The wind funnels down from Wrightwood ski area and the mountains, cold and heartless. The shelter, like its surroundings, is cold, heartless, depressed and depressing. A lonely, bleak and hopeless looking huddle of buildings – like the animals housed within.
It was March 20, 2010 and it was a bitterly cold morning. I came to pull a 7 year old male pug. He was represented as healthy. We had a foster lined up and I was pulling and transporting him. I got there before the shelter opened the day he was available. The less time a dog spends in hell, the less they are damaged. I watched through the chin link fence from the parking lot as the staff hosed out the kennels. There was no discrimination between the dog crap and the dogs. Obviously to the man handling the hose they were one and the same. The dogs huddled together trying to avoid the icy spray of water.
I was at the door when they unlocked it. Handing them his ID number and picture, they directed me to an empty chain link “meet and greet” kennel. There I was to wait until they brought him for me to inspect before filling out the rescue paperwork. There was a cacophony of desperate and angry barking, as dogs still kenneled vented their frustration that one was liberated and passing them by.
The gate opened and he burst in eyes full of panic and terror. A small, fawn pug; wet and visibly shivering, he made his way around the enclosure. My heart sunk. He was emaciated; his ears were torn and swollen, his tongue hung off to one side, much too large for his mouth and crusts and green snot covered his nose. His face was gray, looking much older than his purported seven years. His gait was awkward and drunken, his back end held low – German Shepherd fashion, his tail hung straight. As he circled the enclosure, he left a trail of urine and feces behind him…incontinent. I picked him up and hugged him to me. He was icy cold and stunk of waste and infection.
I hastily filled out the paperwork, fighting back tears and acrimony. He was brought to me, still trembling, still panicked. I picked him up and carried him out to my car. I turned on the heater for him and held him for a while as he trembled in my arms. I told him he was going to be okay, he would never be neglected or abused again. He was safe now. Then he did something no other dog has done before or since – he stopped and looked into my eyes, like he could see inside me, through me. Then abruptly, it seemed he was satisfied and trust was conveyed. His trembling ceased and he curled up on the seat beside me and fell into a deep sleep.
I quickly called Suzi, the rescue coordinator, to inform her that I had him and he was not as represented. He seemed older, his condition was poor, he was sick and incontinent. Despair and frustration were in her voice as she said that she had no open fosters who would take an incontinent dog, especially a sick one. She had no place for him. As I hung up the phone I debated my options: I could return him…not an option. I could plead with another rescue to take him, or I could keep him and foster him myself. In that instant, I knew what would happen, I knew he would be with me for the rest of his life, but I did tell my husband his stay was temporary until a new foster was found; a story he has heard many times now over the years and learned is nearly always a prevarication on my part. Right then and there I named him Dickson, I don’t know why – it just came to me.
Quickly, Dickson began to heal. He gained weight; his coat grew in beautiful and glossy. He was diagnosed as having hemivertebrae, a malformation of the spine common in screw-tail breeds like pugs and stable ataxia. It caused his awkward stance and gait and his incontinence. The vet said he had probably been this way all of his life and the condition was stable, meaning it would not get worse. He wore a belly band in the house to prevent “Dickson trails”. Poop just happened and I became accustomed to picking up nuggets from time to time. He had a permanent hangy tongue, a trait both endearing and disgusting, because it was usually dirty. The vet felt that he was somewhere between 7 and 10 years old, but it was hard to tell because of all of his problems.
Of all of the pugs I have had, Dickson was the only one who LOVED balls. He would play fetch with you as long as you would throw the ball, and sometimes, if you wouldn’t throw the ball, he would work his mouth and hangy tongue in just a way that the ball would suddenly pop from his mouth and he would happily go chase it and repeat the performance. It was so funny to watch this crippled up little old dog happily chasing after a ball like a pup.
Most wonderful of all was watching his personality blossom from the frightened and insecure, broken little dog who cried piteously whenever I left the room to the bold and confident little lion he became. He was always on alert to protect us from the bad animals and people on the television. When my husband watched reality shows, Dickson would set up a bold stance in front of the screen and bark at the bad guys, he also didn’t like dogs fighting, bears, horses, sharks…..and the ocassional news anchorperson. He would bark at them and keep them safely in the magic box and away from his family. When the scene changed, he would puff out his chest and strut away chewing his tongue. You could just hear him thinking
“I told them, damn bears! How dare they try to come into MY house!”
He loved it if you would lift him up onto the couch, but if you didn’t, he would find a spot on the floor, always sitting on someones foot or upon the recumbent body of one of the other pugs. We always figured it had something to do with his neurological problems that he would not sit on a bare floor or carpet.
Even though he was incontinent, he slept on the bed with us every night from the day he came. He was normally dry through the night…but if you slept in too long; you risked encountering an early morning poop. I always got Dickson out the door first in the morning. He loved to cuddle and snuggle in the bed and when he got really, really happy he would gum at the corner of my pillowcase, leaving a stinky wet spot. We didn’t care, we adored him. He was our brave, loyal and loving little lion. He even had a belly band with lions and tigers on it and we used to say it made him feel manly and tough!
Lately I had noticed he was a bit grumpy with the other dogs. He would growl at them if they disturbed his sleep or snap at them at feeding time. He and Zoe in particular had a deep and abiding hatred for one another, and he seemed to enjoy picking on timid and anxious Bear. In retrospect, I think he was having some pain, but at the time I just thought he was getting older and less tolerant of the other dogs.
Then came February 28th, 2013. It was a very busy day for me. I run a home-based business and the woman who normally helps me was out ill so I was handling the office alone. Plus caring for my babies, in total the Rusty Pug Retirement Ranch had 15 four-legged residents that day; nearly every one is either geriatric, special needs or hospice. I have two that are paraplegic and need their bladders expressed manually every few hours, some are blind, deaf, and a few are both. It’s a lot of work and ties me down immensely, but I love it and my world revolves around caring for them.
“They get the best and we get the rest.” My family says, half kidding.
I had put Dickson’s belly band and pad on in the morning. I was angry at myself, because normally I change it at noon, but the office phones had kept me busy and it was nearly two and I was feeling guilty that he would be very wet. When I went to change it…it was bone dry. Not good. I took him outside and he strained to urinate, but nothing came. I felt him and could feel the full bladder. When I pressed on him to express it manually he yelped and I knew we had a blockage.
I called the vet, my wonderful vet who is so good to my babies. They said bring him right in. In the office they took x-rays, but found no stones. They were able to catheterize him and drain his bladder, but I heard him cry out in pain as they inserted the catheter. They spun the urine down and found a few struvite crystals. He put him on stone dissolving meds and antibiotic and sent us home, saying the crystals must have bonded with protein and caused a gooey blockage.
That evening Dickson still couldn’t pee. You have no idea how much I wished to find a “Dickson trail” across the kitchen floor, but nothing. Again I could feel the full bladder and again manual pressure was painful for him. This time he went to the ER vet.
At the ER, the plan was to sedate him, catheterize him, leaving the catheter stitched in place so his bladder could drain and send him home for follow up by his regular vet. I waited in the lobby for a long time, a very long time. Finally the tech came out and said they were having problems with the procedure and the doctor was performing an ultrasound to assist.
When the vet eventually emerged, he said that he had trouble inserting the catheter because it was hitting a soft obstruction and the obstruction was also preventing the bladder from draining completely. He said the ultrasound revealed a large mass at the neck of Dickson’s bladder, an area where the urethra is located which carries urine out of the bladder and the ureters come into the bladder from the kidneys. He said most masses in this area are malignant, transitional cell carcinoma to be specific. He said it is a very invasive and fast growing type of cancer and due to the location, surgery is not an option. With that we were sent home.
Dickson slept in the bed with me that night, in an infant co-sleeper so that if he leaked, it would not wet the mattress. The next morning I awoke to find his body had pushed the catheter out. Because of his spinal malformation he could not reach the area to lick or pull it out, so I know his body pushed it out. He had not passed any urine, and he still could not pee. He took all of his pills like a good boy, but did not touch his food.
His normal vet was not in, but the relief vet is a kind man and a good vet, and they worked him in first thing.
Dickson broke my heart that morning. When he saw me gather my purse and keys and head his way, he ran from me. He ran with that same frightened look he had at the shelter that other March morning three years earlier. He didn’t want the pain that the catheterizations and manipulations brought. I felt like I had violated our trust forged so long ago. I tried to reassure him that we wouldn’t hurt him and again he gave me a deep look and settled down on the car seat to sleep, seemingly satisfied I would not violate his trust again.
The vet looked at the report faxed over from the ER and he told me we could surgically create a drain for his bladder further back from the mass, then biopsy the growth, and hope that we could get it into remission, but it would be expensive and painful and there would be huge risk of infection from the permanent catheter, if it was indeed a transitional cell carcinoma, even with treatment, he would likely still only have a few weeks or months at best and those would not be pain free months.
And so I knew what I had to do. The promise I had made him three years ago had to be honored. The vet gave him a large injection of morphine and left us alone for 15 minutes to say goodbye as he slowly drifted off to sleep. I told him how much we loved him and how brave he was and what a good boy. I took a picture of him before he fell asleep, he seemed relaxed and unafraid. Once he was deeply asleep they gave him the lethal injection and I watched and held him as he peacefully took his last breath. He died Friday, March 1st, 2013. Just nineteen days short of three years with us.
I wrapped him up in a sheet. It was an African print and trimmed in lions and zebras. So fitting. I bury my pets at home. He joined the others in our little graveyard: Simba the cat, little Bug, Princess Zoey, Mickey, little Barney Rubble and my precious Sammy. I bought him a perky little Blue Pincushion for his grave and when I was buying it, I felt like someone was watching me. I looked up to see a lion yard statue on the wall. It came home with me and now sits watch upon his grave and over the yard and house.
“…In the jungle, the quiet jungle, the lion sleeps tonight…..”
Goodnight my brave little lion. We will love you and miss you always. You were truly “special”.
http://i215.photobucket.com/albums/cc187/truckmountgirl/Pugs/Dickson.jpg
http://i215.photobucket.com/albums/cc187/truckmountgirl/Pugs/photobucket-1958-1348022117870_zps23af51be.jpg
Saying goodbye:
http://i215.photobucket.com/albums/cc187/truckmountgirl/Pugs/photobucket-40034-1362242534078_zps7cab2f2e.jpg
Final rest:
http://i215.photobucket.com/albums/cc187/truckmountgirl/Pugs/photobucket-44912-1362242570925_zpsa6547ada.jpg
With love,
Lisa Smith |
Pug Rescue San Diego County Home
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