Sigh of Gratitude, THE CRAZY DOG LADIES

"I will never forget the first dog I took into rescue.  His name was Duke. He’d lived for all of his two years under third-world conditions in an upscale professor’s backyard in a college town in the upper Midwest.  

It was mid-summer when I’d gotten a call from the local shelter, referring me to a family who were threatening to turn in a young Siberian Husky.  The shelter had been full at the time and could not absorb another dog.  I had just hung out my shingle as the newby Husky Rescue person in the area.

Apparently the parents had gotten a puppy to teach their adolescent son responsibility, but after a few months, Duke was pretty much on his own, living on the end of a chain, getting fed when the 12-year old thought of it.   The fur tips of Duke’s ears had been chewed up by flies and he’d scratched himself bald in places from fleas and skin infections.  Having lived in grime and filth through three seasons had taken a toll on Duke’s health.

As I loaded the dog up into my car (using my own leash since the family had never gotten one), it was all I could do to restrain myself from not opening up to let these people have it. I sometimes wonder what had stopped me, though at the time I believed I had to be professional and not start going “off” on people.   Don’t know that I would  maintain that now.

As I pulled into my driveway, it was time to bathe Duke.  The vet had given me flea shampoo and ointment for his skin.   I ran the garden hose from the kitchen sink through my living room, out the window to the driveway.  He was so filthy I didn’t want to bring him in.  I secured him to the door handle of my car as my kids and I began to put the shampoo on him first, and then warm water.  We bathed him several times until the water ran clear.  Even the hamburger-raw looking areas along his flanks looked like they’d probably stung.  Through all of this, Duke was the best natured dog; he seemed to know we were trying to help.  Afterwards, he met my six Siberians in the backyard and began learning how to play.  He chased and was chased by a few of them, dropping into a play-bow on occasion and finally began to get the hang of being a free man.

I’d been sitting out in the yard, supervising play when Duke trotted over to me.  He rested his chin on my thigh and sighed in the loudest, most heart-felt way I’ve ever heard a dog sigh.  It’s like he knew the hellish first two years of his life were behind him.  I will never forget that sigh of gratitude.  From that moment on, I knew I had to help the many dogs like Duke out there languishing in circumstances that were no fault of their own.

After a few weeks the most loving, wonderful home opened up for Duke.  The family renamed him Sam, and Sam lived many long years until he’d died at the ripe old age of almost sixteen.  Aside from sleeping on the kids’ beds, Sam became the running partner to the father who ran marathons.  Sam lived in, what for a Siberian, is the perfect home.  Love, warmth, affection and nice long morning runs.

Years ago I’d gotten a phone call, tearfully relaying the news that Sam had passed on.  And while sad, I knew that Duke, a.k.a. Sam had gotten the silver lining that every dog deserves."

Source:  by RYAN on AUGUST 3, 2013; in DOGS, PETS: http://www.petsitusa.com/blog/?paged=2#sthash.ASMtW418.dpuf