And then there were five. Dag, Winter...

The family, as it once was. From left to right: Rusty, Sam, Panchita, Sasha, Benny, Duncan, Winter.
June 19, 2016.
Only three of them are left today. 

When she came to us, the whole lower half of her body — from her waist to the toes of her hind legs — was completely bald. Her tail was a mess of scabs and patches of long, matted hairs. Of course, no one in the building wanted to pet her, or even feed her; unlike the other occasional strays that had wandered onto the company's parking lot lately, most of them recently abandoned and still looking good, no one wanted to encourage this raggedy mutt to stay.

Winter at the Amicorp building, August 26, 2010.
(Note that I framed the photo just so, in order to avoid showing her bald half. I posted this on Facebook that evening, captioned as "I need a home." Nope, no one was interested.)

So, on the evening of September 13th, having witnessed one more disgusted cringe at these intensely eager brown eyes, I let heart overcome reason and brought her home. She needed no encouragement to climb into the car; I opened the rear and called her ("Baby", or "doggie", or some such; she was still nameless then), patting the seat, and she jumped right in. 

Temporary, I repeated to myself as I drove. We'll get her healthy, and in a few months she'll be ready for a forever home. Once her hair grows back — her skin issues, as unsightly as they might seem to the untrained eye, probably weren't all that serious — people would see what I already knew, that this was a gorgeous dog, remarkably smart and with a sparkling personality, who would make a family somewhere immensely happy. All she needs is a few weeks of good food, good shampoo, good meds. 

After all, wasn't this the very reason why we had, just a few months before, bought our own house? So that we could provide a safe haven for dogs without pesky landlords giving us the evil eye? Yes. Yes, it was. 

She was mostly healthy; no heartworm, thank the dog gods, just a bit of tick fever, and the skin problem turned out to be a flea allergy — anti-flea shampoo was all she'd need to get rid of those. But it took months for her fur to grow back. Even three years later, her back end was still kind of scraggly. 

Winter (with Duncan and Rusty making faces) at the doggy beach in Jan Thiel, August 2013 — three years after she came to live with us. You can see how thin her fur was still then.

And by then, well, we were attached.

She was a difficult dog. A larger-than-life personality. And stubborn to match. She was the most aggressive of our dogs — up to that point, anyway. She bit the gardener once. She hated strangers. Taking her to the vet was an exercise in saintly patience. She bullied other dogs, stole food, even provoked a reactive and highly aggressive pitbull at the beach one day. (And barely escaped with her life. Did she learn from it? No, she walked away from that one — after the owner had managed to restrain her dog; I, of course, was useless — with head held high, ears perked up happily, and with a look in her eye that said, "Ha. You should see the other guy.") 

Winter at St. Joris with Benny and Jopie, November 28, 2017. This was the spot where that Pitbull encounter happened. Might even have been this same day.

She was better off here, with us, where she wasn't judged, or punished; where she'd be loved anyway, in spite of her misbehaviour — maybe even because of it. And she seemed to fit in the pack, somehow; Panchita, always the Alpha, seemed to know how to make her authority stand even for Winter. And Rusty, always calm and playful, became Winter's favorite sidekick. 

We didn't know how old she was. Throughout those first months of frequent vet visits, we came to the conclusion, based on her general health, that she must be around 5. She had obviously had several litters of puppies — who knows what happened to them — and her teeth were in terrible, terrible shape. A few were missing already, and several others so damaged they needed to be extracted. She probably has another five years, we were told. 

On the front porch, October 27, 2016. Clockwise, starting from bottom left:
Benny, Rusty, Winter, Sasha, Panchita, me.

Five years passed, and she was still going strong. We congratulated ourselves on a job well done. After another three, she started showing only faint signs of age. A bit of stiffness in the joints after walks, some more teeth that went missing or had to be taken out. And we suspected she might be losing her eyesight somewhat. But she was still feisty, full of life, and stiff joints or not, she still seemed to believe the world was hers and the rest of us just lived in it.

And then, about 2 years ago, Rusty had a seizure — and a week later, Winter had a suspiciously similar one. We did all the tests (the ones available here on this island), but couldn't find a cause. No damage done, it seemed; they were both fine afterwards, as happy and healthy as before. Phew, we thought, having no idea that it was the beginning of the end. 

The last time — according to photo record, anyway — that Rusty and Winter managed a hike.
St. Joris, May 2019.

Back in June this year, kidney failure was determined. For both of them. Rusty's was acute, but Winter's wasn't quite so bad, so we hoped — especially after Rusty declined so fast, and we had to put her down in July — that Winter would give us a few more months. Six, maybe. Maybe even a year (though the vet kind of winced at that). 

She didn't. Not because she didn't want to; she was feisty and full of life till the end. But that was her; we couldn't expect anything less. She hated weakness, and she was loath to show any herself, even when she should have. For her, it was always death or glory.

There was this one time, some five years ago, when I took her on a walk to this new beach I had heard of and wanted to find. (That's Curaçao, full of secret little coves everywhere.) I miscalculated the distance and parked way too far. We did find the beach, but by the time we started making our way back to the car, it had been over 2 hours — in the searing island heat. I was running low on water both for me and for the dogs, and we were all exhausted. 

Secret beach finding mission, November 30, 2017.
Gorgeous place, but the water was too rough for the dogs to do anything more than soak their paws in the surf. Which meant they didn't cool down much by the time we started back on the 1.5 hour hike to the car.

About halfway to the car — still about a kilometer left to go — Winter finally sat down in a scrap of shade from a thorny bush and refused to keep going. We rested for a bit, but with little shade available for the rest of us bigger folk, and with water down to the last inch in the container, the other dogs were eager to keep moving. So I picked her up and carried her. Oh, no, she was having none of that. She wriggled and bit until I put her down again. But she really just couldn't walk. So we did that dance — pick her up, struggle with her in my arms for some twenty steps, then set her down — almost all the way back. When we were close enough, maybe three hundred meters or so, I left her in a shady spot and power-walked with the other dogs to the car, then drove back to get her. Did I find her waiting? Nope. She was sauntering, at her own short-legged pace, down the blistering red earth of the path, towards us. She must have thought I was abandoning her (which broke my heart), but did she show it? Fear? Relief? Not at all. She acted like it was all good, this was the plan all along. Nothing to see here, move along. 

The car was parked at that far-off first windmill — or the last one, from the perspective the photo was taken. No shade anywhere from here on, so this is the spot where I left Winter and dashed ahead to get the car. When I drove back, she'd made it just past this clump of cacti.
November 30, 2017

That was Winter.

So, as she became more and more blind, as her body began to fail her more and more, she refused to give in. She put up a brave front, and wouldn't back down. But the joy was seeping away, and no matter how lionhearted she tried to be, things were slipping out of her control. Her bladder, for instance, demanded she go out in the middle of the night — sometimes multiple times — to empty it. With all the dogs sleeping in the bedroom with us, and with her poor eyesight, that caused problems. After waking up to a few skirmishes (and a few puddles on the floor), we decided she was better off sleeping out in the hallway. She seemed fine with that — the hallway had become her safe spot during the day, too. But, as months went by, that hallway became her whole life. We noticed she was going outside less and less, and often requiring assistance to navigate the other dogs lying along the way to the patio door. In a combination of her loss of sight and the kidney failure, she was becoming more and more disoriented, more and more prone to bump into another dog — and, if this was Benny, for instance, or Jopie, the consequences could be painful. 

So it became a self-fulfilling prophecy: she was afraid of going outside, so the other dogs saw her less and less, and would attack her more, so she became more afraid and went out less. In the end, she slept maybe 22 hours a day. She flinched every time another dog passed by. She couldn't find her way to the patio. She couldn't negotiate the three steps on the front porch. Her hips weren't cooperating. Her eyes weren't, either. 

Was she in pain? Maybe. We wouldn't know it, because she wouldn't show it. But, after discussing all these symptoms with the vet, we agreed that she was definitely living in fear if not pain. And, inescapably, we grudgingly came to the conclusion that had been staring us in the face: her time had come. If we waited for her to show real feebleness, then we'd have waited too long: she was simply too plucky, too unshrinking, to do that. It was up to us to stop her suffering before it became so intense that she simply couldn't hide it any longer.

And so we did.

Rest easy, beautiful girl.

Grief is the price we pay for love, so we're doing our best to embrace it, to celebrate her life and, in gratitude for the time she gave us, cherish the hole she leaves behind. She was the last of our first generation of dogs: Panchita, Frida, Rusty, and now Winter are all gone. Each of them taught us so, so much. Each of them changed our lives in ways we never even considered possible. They put up with our ignorance, patiently repeated the lesson again and again until we learned it. Their love was pure and unconditional, and we barely deserved it — but, by the time they began to leave us, they had prepared us enough to deserve the love of the other four-legged bundles of joy they left behind to keep us on the straight and narrow.

Dag, Winter. Maybe we loved you "in spite of" — but you loved us "in spite of", too, I think. Thank you so, so much for that.

Some things must be written about...

The sun is setting, and all I can think about is that she'll never see another sunset. Or another lunchtime. Or another walk in St. Joris, or Ascension, or Boka Sami. Tomorrow, you see, the vet is coming at 10:00 am to put Rusty down.

Rusty, always beloved.

She was so alive, so full of joie de vivre... and then she wasn't. She lies on the living room floor, unable even to shake off the occasional fly that lands on her decaying body. Yes, decaying. I'll spare you the particulars — I can hardly bear them myself — but suffice it to say that we should have made this decision a week, at least, ago.

How could we, though? No, seriously. Look beyond the fact that Rusty is the reason we bought this house, the house we live in, the house that we've turned into our home. That she's been the sweetest, most gentle dog we've ever had the privilege of making a part of our family. That, for over a decade, she's been the calming force in our oh-so-not-calm pack — and that, no matter how hard I try, I can't imagine a single outing without her. How could we decide to end her life, even after the vet told us, in no uncertain terms, that at 14 years old her kidney failure wasn't a matter of treatment or medication but of time — measured in days and hours, not months or even weeks? How could we make the choice, a conscious choice, to end to a life so full of joy and love and sheer delight at the miracle of being alive?

Rusty & Cor at the hammock, 2010

We did, though. Too late, almost certainly. She responded well, at first, to treatment: a course of antibiotics and prednisone, three days of IV fluids to help take a load off her kidneys... but her downward spiral was too obvious to ignore. (Believe me, we tried.) We had to help her get up, and she seemed disoriented when walking around. She wasn't drinking enough water. All of which we, in the hope she might give us another month, another week even, might have neglected — until she stopped eating. Rusty. Refusing to take food. Any food. 

And then we knew.

Oh, Rusty. I'm so sorry we waited this long. You've given us so, so much over these 13 years we've had you with us — love, certainly, and laughter (you are such a silly, lovable dog!), and hope... We found you on the streets, never had the intention of making your stay with us permanent, and then, somehow, you not just wiggled your way into our hearts but also wrangled us into buying a house. 

Rusty & Panchita exploring their new yard, April 2010

You became best friends with Panchita, you educated the fosters and the puppies we brought into your space, and you never complained, never acted out, always remained the ever good-humored, ever playful, even keel of the pack.

How can we ever live without you, baby girl?

The #DogBookBlogTour Giveaway — Announcing the Winners!

Wow, what a month it's been! Hectic, but really really good. The tour was fabulous, full of so many people who love animals and care about their well-being—and of incredible bloggers who made room for me & the Dog Book in spite of busy schedules and computer issues and personal stuff. And, as if that wasn't already above and beyond, they took the time to write lovely introductions, beautiful words in favor of rescue and animals in general, and some really really beautiful (and totally undeserved) things about me as well. I have the greatest blog friends, y'all. I can't thank you enough.

Okay. The giveaway. I'm sorry for posting so late; there was a certain writing deadline I missed (by, like, three weeks) and that piece absolutely had to go out today. Also, I wanted to include the commenters on Birgit's post, which she worked so hard to get out yesterday—technically no longer part of the tour, but... well, I thought it was only fair to include her readers.

With no further ado, here are the results:

Book, Tour, Dogs, and Gratitude for Everything #GratitudeCircle

Release day came and went, and it's been so hectic that I haven't even had time (or energy) to post an update. Vidya's Gratitude Circle linky for April is still open, and I've been wanting to join that hop since forever—and right now there is so, so much to be grateful for, especially this month, so I'm going to combine both.

First, one of our dogs, Panchita, had surgery last week and is healing marvelously. Some three years ago she was diagnosed with skin cancer, so two or three times a year the vet removes whatever growths she's sprouted in the hopes of preventing them from metastasizing. She's on the elderly side, though (turning 13 this year), which means that any surgical procedure, especially with general anaesthesia, is a risk. This is why we celebrate her coming through each surgery like it's 1999.

Panchita. Still going strong at 13.

The Dog Book is a GO!

After almost exactly two years (off by 19 days) since I started writing it, we finally have a publication date for the 'Dog Book' (aka It's About the Dog: The A-to-Z Guide for Wannabe Dog Rescuers):

FI-NA-LLY! Nigh on two whole years after the fateful April A-to-Z that led to a dog rescue how-to series, which led to late-night conversations with my publisher (he's in Australia, so the 'late-night' bit only applies to me; for him it was probably like lunchtime, or something), which led to months of revisions to the original blog posts and research and interviews, both formal and informal, which produced a full manuscript, which then the publisher reviewed, which led to more revisions, which led to more changes, which then led to Proof Copy One, which led to more tweaks, which led to Proof Copy Two, which led to—

Best Response *EVER* to Idiots Who Want Purebred Dogs!

A friend just posted this article on Facebook, and I had to share. All rescuers are intimately familiar, unfortunately, with those racist bigots who only want to have 'purebred' dogs—yes, racist bigots; what else would you call someone who exhibits overt and shameless prejudice towards race, country of origin, or ancestry?

So... this happened in Brazil. One of these racist bigots was interested in adopting a dog—but it had to be a purebred, "preferably an English Cocker [Spaniel]", because she didn't like "vira latas" ('mutts') due to "aesthetic reasons".

(The story is in Portuguese, but I've translated, loosely, the gist here.)

Magno's response, in green: "Hi! Yes, I do have one available."

Racist bigot Claudia, probably feeling all warm and fuzzy at the prospect of soon having her purebred puppy at home, goes on to ask what the adoption requirements are.

And that's when the dream shattered.

The Thing About Goodbyes...

In the predawn hours of Thursday, July 27th, our little Sasha died. Tiny Sasha, scared and shy Sasha, big-brown-eyed Sasha, fluffy toy-sized Sasha. I've been unable to write about it—hence the hiatus in posts. This is the fifth attempt at a draft, and quite honestly I'm not sure if I'm going to finish this time, either. Yes, of course it was my fault—isn't it always?—but I don't think that's the reason I find this so hard. Or not all of the reason. Maybe it has to do with the impossibility of quantifying loss. In a weird way, paying tribute to her like this, by writing about her death, by "announcing" it, so to speak, so publicly, feels like a lie. There is no way that the huge ways her little self impacted our lives can be translated into words. No way that I can capture the joy she gave us, the bottomless pit her absence left behind... No way I can do any of it justice.

But I must write about it. Until I do, I can write nothing else. Not on this blog, not (really) on the other one, not in my notebooks, not in my journal, not even a short story. I can't, no, because what happened to her left not just a hollow emptiness in the house, in the family, but also wreaked indelible, irreversible change on those of us still here. Powerful lessons that need to be assimilated. Learning on managing the ways our dogs relate to one another, and even to me. Observation skills that need to be developed. So, so much learning. And all of it needs to be processed and mulled over and, eventually, written—

But I cannot write about this, either. That is where every previous draft has fallen short. Fallen flat. Fallen away from the intention I set out to achieve, without ever taking the trouble to define it, even to myself. Every word I write, that is not about Sasha, feels like I am moving away from her. Every word I have written, that is about Sasha, feels like I'm reducing her death into a lesson, something practical and mundane. Every word I write, about or not about Sasha, has felt like I'm leaving her behind—without saying goodbye.

That is the intention I had, when I began that first draft two days after she died. That was the purpose. But in telling the story of her death, in explaining the hows and the whens and the (stupid, stupid) mistakes that led to it, the Goodbye fell further and further behind, until it shimmered so distant in the rear view mirror of the words as the mirage of water on a hot summer highway at noon.

Here it is, then. Goodbye, little Sasha. I did love you, much, much more than I was able to convey to you. And I'm glad you came to our lives, and to our house. I'm glad we didn't give you away back then. Maybe you would have lived longer if we had, so it's selfish of me to say this, but I really am glad you stayed.

So, we'll go no more a roving
   So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
   And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
   And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
   And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
   And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
   By the light of the moon.

(So We'll Go No More A-Roving, Lord Byron)

If a Dog Was Your Teacher...

Posted at the Lessons Taught By Life page on Facebook. It echoed so much of my Lessons In Life From Dogs series for the April Challenge in 2014 that I simply had to share.

The secret, not just to happiness but to fulfillment and serenity? Be more dog.

The Chihuahua Who Became Chucho

The name his rescuer gave him was Everest, because she found him in Montaña, a neighborhood in here in Curaçao, which translates to "Mountain"... Personally, I might have gone with Kilimanjaro, or even Blanc (you know, for Mont), but—well, naming is the rescuer's prerogative. Either way, this first name wasn't going to last, because a couple of months later, when a fabulous woman adopted him—only temporarily, as it turned out, but I'm getting ahead of myself here—she decided that, him being a (sort of) Chihuahua and all, he needed a more Mexican name. One of the most common appellatives in Mexico is Jesús (pronounced heh-SOOS), and every Jesús I know gets called, for unfathomable reasons, Chucho for short.

So Everest became Chucho.

Chucho (even before being called Everest) came to us on October 5th, 2016, and it was thanks to Facebook. I belong to several animal rescue groups (surprise, surprise), and on this particular fine afternoon a post popped up on my timeline from a fellow member asking for advice. She'd found this tiny dog on the side of the road, walking in tight, tight circles and acting disoriented. She didn't know what to do. I was probably the third person to reply, and echoed exactly what the other two people had said: Take him to the vet. ASAP. And I added that I'd be happy to do it myself, if she wanted. People not intimately familiar with rescue have no way of gauging what the veterinary 'damage' will be, so sometimes they hesitate to take an animal to the vet out of fear they won't be able to afford the bill. Plus, not everyone can drop their lives at a moment's notice in order to rush a strange dog to the ER. In this particular case, the rescuer said in her post that she knew next to nothing about dogs, that she'd always been more of a cat person; I felt she had done enough by picking up the dog to begin with, so it seemed only reasonable to step in and offer help.

At the home of his rescuer while they waited for me. All he wanted was to sleep. No water, no food, just... sleep. Yep, not a good sign.

I arrived at her door about a half hour later, after a few wrong turns but not nearly as many as I expected; it was Election Day here, and a voting location had been set up just a block from her house, so the crowd and the lines of parked cars were hard to miss. She helped me load the dog—who really was tiny; he'd looked rather larger in the photo she posted—into the car, and I promised to call as soon as I had some sort of diagnostic. I did warn her that, from the behavior she'd described—the walking in circles, the disorientation, the lack of appetite or energy—the prognosis would probably not be very good. "There's a chance he'll need to be put down," I told her, as kindly as I could. She nodded, reached a hand in through the open window to pet the tiny head again. "I understand."

A quick & dirty rescue story

I know, I know—I'm behind on rescue stories: the blind Chihuahua, the puppies... But this one happened just recently, and it has a gorgeous happy ending, too, so... Well, happy endings are too few and far between to postpone sharing, right?

Right.

So back in January I got a job. Yeah, a real one (albeit part-time), involving actual paychecks. And it didn't really work out the way I expected—I'll get into that some other time—so I quit. But, being the responsible human being I am, I didn't just quit; I gave a three-week notice. And over the course of those last three weeks, on my way to and from work, I kept seeing a rather large black dog, all matted fur and pointy ribs, on this one street. A rather busy street. I didn't see the dog every day, but whenever I did, traffic simply didn't allow me to stop. By the time I'd turned around and gone back, s/he was gone. Now, this dog looked skinny and in need of help, but s/he also looked street-smart. S/he wasn't panicky, dashing in front of oncoming cars or acting freaked out. (If she had, sorry, everyone, but I would've put the car in Park right there in the middle of the street and stopped traffic bodily if need be. I actually did that for a kitten, probably around a month old, that dashed out into the street right in front of the car ahead of me. I screeched to a stop, got out, ran out to stop the cars in the next lane, and herded the kitten—who was, miraculously, fine—back to his panicked owner on the sidewalk.)

And so it begins, this year 2017...

I hope you had the most wonderful beginning to the new year. May 2017 bring you naught but positivity and hope. (I know, for all us progressive, liberal types hope seems a tad out of reach, but remember all it takes for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing. It's easy to feel hopeful when things are going well; it is in dark times, though, when the light of hope is most needed. Keep the flame burning.)

I'm sorry for my absence. I haven't posted for over a month, and haven't written a serious post since the A to Z Challenge ended. And I'm sorry about that. You deserve better—and there's been plenty to write about, just... not enough time to do it, I guess. Speaking of time, I won't be joining the Challenge this year, by the way... A multitude of reasons, but mainly because the rescue book—the one that began in said A to Z Challenge—will be coming out within the next couple of months, and promoting that will probably overlap with April in some way.

The cover for the rescue book. Photo by yours truly (yes, that's Sam),
and design by Matt Potter, publisher extraordinaire at Truth Serum Press.

A shame, really. I had a theme all planned out. The A to Z of Fostering Rescue Dogs, ha. A good follow-up to the Rescue posts of last year (and my publisher wants to work on a follow-up book, too, so... two birds, one stone, all that). In October I got involved in fostering again—which is part of the reason I've been so freaking busy. I'd been unable to foster since 2013 because three of my own dogs have 'issues' with new dogs, but... Well, the way things worked out, we didn't get much of a choice. (More on that later.) But, hey—perfect, right? I mean, this is all fresh material that will bring the whole fostering thing much more alive for strangers to the 'craft'...  Yes, I'd have had some excellent A to Z posts. And I still plan on writing them, and certainly on writing the Fostering book, but... No, it won't happen this April.

I may do something in April anyway, just to avoid losing the habit, but it won't be an alphabet thing. I'm thinking maybe a music thing. Maybe on the other blog. I saw this 30-day music challenge on Tumblr a while back and, with some tweaks (additions, deletions, combinations, etc.), it might be fun. Maybe, if you're not an A-to-Z-er yourself (and if you love music), you might want to join me. We'll be the rogue April Challengers—ha!

Anyway. I wanted to keep this short, but I promise to be back soon—like, within the week—to tell you about these fosters we've had. The first was a little Chihuahua mix that seemed to have some severe neurological issues; so severe, in fact, that he had us (heartbreakingly) convinced the kindest thing we could do was put him down and end his suffering. Then, a month later, he went to the best of the best forever homes—and we got a litter of five puppies, about 6 weeks old, who'd been abandoned in a plastic carry-all on the side of the road to die. One did, in fact, in my arms two weeks later, but the other four are doing great. The week before Christmas—the day of the winter solstice, actually (which I found beautifully coincidental)—they were declared healthy enough to receive their first vaccination.

The puppies! Clockwise from top left: Bowie (F), Jopie (M), Lemmy (M), Harper (F).

So. More on the foster stories, puppies and Chihuahua, coming soon. I promise. One of my resolutions for 2017 is to never abandon this blog (or the other one) for more than 2 weeks. Yes, you can hold me to that :)

Thanks for sticking with me, y'all.

Because Nothing Connects Us With The Good Like A Puppy Coming Home

I don't know about you, but I needed this.

Your Feel-Good for the Day. Or the Week.

How cool is this?

High school cross-country team take shelter dogs out for a run. Read the story here, and watch the video the team's coach (and mastermind behind the whole idea) posted on Facebook.

Kudos, St. Joseph High School. Here's to more kids (and adults, and schools, and offices, and... well, people) following your example.

"My Dog Has A Job?" — Guest Post by Lynne Hinkey (@LMHinkey)

Lynne Hinkey is a marine scientist by training, a writer by passion, and a curmudgeon by nature. An Olympic-caliber procrastinator, she honed her skill through years of practice and dedication to life on island-time. She uses her experiences living in the Caribbean to infuse her novels with tropical magic, from the siren call of the islands to the terror and hysteria caused by the mysterious chupacabra. 

P.S. from Guilie: And she *loves* dogs.

The Divide Between Animals & Humankind (or: Where Myth Meets Truth) — Guest Post by Ann Bennett

Ann Bennett is out to give science a good (and fun!) name at Science Ladybug. At So Much To Choose From, she blogs about writing, her thoughts & experiences, and so much more. Welcome, Ann!

Sometimes, late in the evening, I can hear my father’s voice. Playfully he spoke in rhymes and shared beloved stories. The ones I loved best were stories from his memory which had been passed down through generations.

This is one of my favorites.

The Story of Little Leo (and How He Adopted Us) — Guest Post by Susan Brody @unpubYA

It all started when cancer took our beloved Murphy from us in February. He wasn't quite 11 years old.

Murphy & me

We'd had three months of warning that this was coming. In November, he had collapsed. I was the only one home. I scooped him up and drove like a lunatic to the vet. The vet did a sonogram and showed me the unmistakable outline of the large tumor on his spleen. He could probably save him this time, the vet told me, but it would only be a matter of weeks or months until the tumor ruptured and no one would be able to save him. Every day from here on in would be a gift.

The vet did save him that time, and then performed the same miracle once again in December. But in January Murphy began steadily losing weight and becoming weaker, despite his six daily medications. When he collapsed again on February 6th, we knew it was the end. Despite all the time we'd had to prepare, once he was gone no one in my family could imagine what we would do without him.

But we still had another dog at home that we had to take care of: 8-year-old Finney, our younger Goldendoodle, who from the age of 8 weeks had never known life without Murphy. And, unlike us, he didn't understand what had happened.

Finney (left) and Murphy

#AtoZChallenge Reflections on the #Dog Rescue Series

It’s been 12 days since the last A2Z post went up, and I’m still in full-out PTA2Z (aka post-traumatic A2Z disorder). Even the sporadic like on FB feels like lifting a bag of cement. Twelve days and the house is still a mess. The dogs still need baths. We still haven't returned to our regular treks-and-hikes schedule. Twelve days, and my brain still feels fried. Twelve freakin' days and I still haven't finished replying to comments!!!!

Seeing as this happens every single year, the question’s just begging to be asked: Was it worth it?

A-Z of #Dog Rescue: Zealot — #AtoZChallenge

As defined by the wise folk of Merriam-Webster

Animal rescue, like anything that involves intense emotional involvement—religion, politics, vaccines—has its share of zealots. I am the sole possessor of Truth. Righteousness is mine. (You know the drill.)

Look, I have nothing against deep convictions, or the passion to defend them. But there’s a fine, and murky, line between that and bigotry.

A-Z of #Dog Rescue: Youth vs Age — #AtoZChallenge

What are the pros and cons of rescuing older vs. younger dogs? Is it really easier to rescue a puppy than a senior? 

A-Z of #Dog Rescue: The X-Factor — #AtoZChallenge

So what is it, once all is said and done, that makes the difference between a successful rescue and a failed one? All month we’ve been talking about what to do and how to do it, but—really, does this all add up to a fail-safe recipe for success in dog rescuing?

Short answer: No.

(Wow. Shortest post I’ve written. Ever.)

No, of course it’s not that simple. There are too many variables in dog rescue. Too many unknowns. Too many X factors.