WoW Petopia Community

Since this is a forum where everybody loves animals I don't feel so silly talking about this here. My dog's name was Dutch, named after the gangster Dutch Shultz. He was named this because we weren't supposed to have dogs where I lived. He was half husky and half lab. His coat was pure white and in the winter he would grow this amazing coat. He looked like one of the most majestic wolves in the forest.
The way I got him was while visiting a friend he took me out to see the litter of pups his husky had just had. They were 3 weeks old and I saw that she kept pushing one of them away. My friend said she just started doing that and he assumed it was because he was the runt and she didn't have enough milk. I admired the little guy's spunk as she would push him away and he'd crawl back for more anyway. That's when she snapped at him and I saw the trickle of blood come down his head. Being the sucker that I am I took him home that day and started the bottle feedings.
Well that dog grew and grew finally peaking at 85 lbs in his prime. He was smart as a whip, able to bring things to people just by me saying "bring this to Frankie" or "bring this to Joe". He never made a mistake in his deliveries with the dozen or so people he "knew".
Whenever I said I was going out he would rush to grab his leash and meet me at the door. He loved the car and would sit dilligently in the drivers seat when I would go into a store. Getting him to understand only I had the opposable thumbs and drivers license between the two of us was a different matter. In the McDonald's drive through he would bark till I ordered him a sandwitch too. He always got part of our dinner besides his own food. On spaghetti nights he would look forlornly at his dish until you put grated cheese on it. Then he would chomp it down, let out a belch, and go into the living room to work on getting rid of his sauce moustach.
About 3 months after his 12th birthday we took our usual morning walk. We went about half a mile from the house when he had a massive stroke. The glazed look in his eyes and his labored breathing told me his time was short so i just sat in the street with his head on my lap and tried my best to comfort him and make sure he knew how much he was loved. All the while I cried like a baby at having lost my best friend.
For the next year I would not go out without his leash tucked firmly in my back pocket and today, 8 years later, I still have his tags on my keychain. It's only since the birth of my daughter 4 months ago that I have even thought about getting another dog.
Despite the sadness at his loss, I can remember all the years when he was there to talk to, to play with and to love and be loved in return. This is one thing I know I want my daughter to experience.

The first greyhound we ever adopted was a big male, white with black patches and ticking. He raced as GM's Sly One. When the adoption co-ordinator let him out of his kennel, she warned us he was "wild as a buck." This "wild" greyhound came running into the front office, straight to me where I sat in a chair...and put his head on my shoulder. That was it - he was ours. And never did he have a wild day the entire time we had him.

I always called Sly the "Atticus Finch of dogdom." No matter who he met, he was always a perfect gentleman. If he didn't care for someone, he'd let me know, but oh so very politely so as not to offend. As he settled into our household, he developed quirks, as all dogs do. His was slightly odd. At the time, we didn't have a bed frame, so our mattress and box springs sat flat on the floor. Sly could wake me up from a sound sleep by simply standing at the side of the bed and staring at me. At first, he did this just when he needed to be taken outside during the night, but as time passed, his purpose in this behavior changed. I am a Type 1 diabetic, and one night, I found myself awakened by Sly standing there staring. I tried to send him back to his bed, but he would not be budged...just kept standing there. As I got more awake, I realized that I didn't feel terribly good. I checked my blood sugar, and it was below 60. Needless to say, I got out of bed, went downstairs, and made myself a snack to bring my blood sugar levels up. Sly gravely watched me make the snack and take it upstairs and eat it. As soon as I had finished, he quietly went back to his bed and went to sleep as though nothing had happened. If he hadn't awakened me and my blood sugar had continued to fall, I could have suffered seizures or brain damage from lack of fuel to my brain. My greyhound possibly saved my life. He repeated this performance several times over the years...and he was right every time. He'd even start staring at me when I was up and about the house during the day if he sensed my blood sugar was going low.

Towards the end of his life, Sly developed arthritis, as many athletes do. We started him on Deramaxx, and it helped him be more comfortable. About two weeks before he passed away, we took a walk one summer evening. Sly was moving stiffly, and we could tell he was rather tired. As we strolled through our apartment complex, we suddenly heard a child's voice calling "Doggie! Doggie! Doggie!" We turned to see a mother, a father, and two little girls coming back from the swimming pool. One of the little girls was confined to a wheelchair. She had seen Sly, and was calling to him. The mother and father asked if she might pet Sly. I told them if he was feeling up to it, she could. To my knowledge, Sly had never before in his life seen a wheelchair. Without batting an eye, he marched straight up to that little girl and put his head in her lap so she could pet him, standing still as a stone despite his discomfort. I spoke with the family, and told them his name and about his racing career. Once the girls were done patting Sly, they went their way, and we went ours. But every time he was taken out for a walk for the next several days, Sly looked towards the spot where we had encountered the family, as though he hoped he might see them there again.

The arthritis became too much for Sly, and his body could no longer function. He couldn't walk. We made the decision to set him free from his pain. The box with his ashes in it is sitting on the bookshelf just to the left of my computer desk, at least since we moved. At our old place, he sat on the fireplace mantel, because he loved to lie in front of the fire on a cold winter's evening.

I owe Sly quite a bit. I owe him for being a wonderful first greyhound, for introducing me to these beautiful, ancient, wonderful dogs. I could very well owe him my life for waking me when he sensed my blood sugar was going low. And I owe him for teaching me that sometimes, taking the time out to make a new friend can be a wonderful thing to do. He left some big pawprints for our current greyound, Toby, to fill. But Toby is teaching me his own lessons, though he's far more Gomer Pyle than Atticus Finch.

Out of all the animals in my life, I would have to say that it's my red and white Pembroke Welsh Corgi, Cassidy. I was looking for a dog online to buy (or adopt) and found her on this one website (that I can't remember, sorry). Anyways, she was a red/white like I wanted, and she was at a price I could afford, so I called the breeder. Turns out that it was some Amish kid living in the Pocono Mountains, about 7 hours away from where I live. I thought to myself, "That's such a long ways!".

He mentioned that to get her papers, I would have to contact her ORIGINAL owner, as he was just a go-between to sell her. So I called the woman, told her what I was doing, and she was happy that Cass had finally found a home. So, my mom and I went to go pick her up. It was only after a very long and taxing drive that we found out that she was living in the worst way imaginable.

The kid was keeping his dogs kenneled in an unheated barn/garage, on cement, with nothing but a thin layer of straw to try and keep warm on, in the middle of the winter. Several of his bitches were extremely pregnant, and all were thin as rails. Not starving, but very close. They were all dirty, had long toenails, stank like dirty dog, and had fleas (I know, I looked for them). Shocked doesn't even begin to cover it. I purchased her as fast as I could sign the papers, and scooted out of there. We called the SPCA, so I hope the other dogs were taken care of.

The very first thing we did is hit a McDonalds, and bought Cassie a burger. She smelled the food coming in the car, and gave me this pathetic, wanting look like "Oh, please.." Of course, soon as it was cool, she got to wolf it down. I'll never forget that look though. When we got home, she got a bath and a brush and flea medicine and wormer (just in case), and she just looked completely flabbergasted to be fussed over and treated with gentleness (and treats). But I will always remember the first night she got to sleep in my bed, and how hesitant she was, and how exactly she fit curled up against my body, with her back to my chest and her head on her white, socked paws. And the long deep sigh she gave that sounded like "I'm home. Finally."

Vespias, get a corgi. It's a big dog, just with short legs, so that means they're great companions for little people with short legs (kids). XD

I'm biased though.