Saving Sadie Page 3

  I left Sadie in the SUV as I went inside and was immediately overrun by my three fur babies: Sparky, my huge black Newfie-border collie mix, a big, boxy, lumbering old gal anxious to bowl me over and smother me with slobbery kisses, along with my two cats, the arch and elegant Kit Kat, a model-slim, blue-eyed, stark-white diva, and Miss Kitty, my mysterious tortoiseshell girl with vivid green eyes. The three let me know in no uncertain terms that they had missed me, and that they were hungry. “Okay, okay,” I told them. “Dinner’s on the way.”

  I wondered how they would respond to Sadie. Would they be upset or threatened by her disability, her “differentness”? Or would they welcome her into the fold? There was no point in finding out, I decided, since Sadie would not be with us for long. Instead I fed the three of them, then grabbed some more food, a water dish, and a blanket and went back out to Sadie.

  I arranged Sadie’s things on the ground and then lifted her out of the SUV and laid her on the cool, damp grass. I sat down beside her and stroked her head, contemplating Jami-Lyn’s advice. There was no easy way to make this decision. And was it even my decision to make? Sadie seemed to relax as I stroked her, and I began to appreciate what a magnificent creature she must have been before being shot and left for dead. The fur on her back had been shaved down to the skin, allowing me to take a closer look at her injuries. I couldn’t really see the bullet and shrapnel entry wounds, but there were dots where the skin had closed over. The cyst near her tail was large and could be felt beneath the skin. As I carefully stroked her forehead I could feel the bullet lodged within the tissue. Amazingly, even with all these injuries, Sadie didn’t seem to be in any pain.

  Spring in Wisconsin, even late April, can be cold and blustery, and snow is surprisingly common. As the sun teetered toward the horizon, a chill breeze unfurled from the woods behind us and our breaths became visible. Sadie and I huddled closer for warmth, the weight of her head resting in my lap. She and I had been sitting in the grass for over an hour. Clearly, I needed to make a decision, but for now my only decision was to put some food, water, and blankets in the garage and move Sadie there for the night. I didn’t want to bring her inside the house because of her incontinence, and because I didn’t want to upset or confuse Sparky, Miss Kitty, or Kit Kat. And, if I were completely honest, because I didn’t want Sadie to think this was home. Her home. Our home. Her forever home. Ushering her into my home would mean ushering her into my heart, and I was still trying to convince myself that I could somehow prevent that from happening.

  Even if I wasn’t ready to let Sadie into my home, I also couldn’t fathom leaving her outside in the elements, either. I wanted her to feel loved, even if—especially if—this was to be her final night on earth. At least she would fly to the angels having experienced human love firsthand.

  So I settled Sadie in the detached garage, made sure she was comfortable, then went back inside and made a quick phone call to the shelter in Kenosha, letting them know that I was keeping Sadie for the night. They seemed surprised but gave their consent. After the call I slid out of my stinking, sweaty, soiled clothes, grabbed a quick shower, and fixed myself dinner. I tried to focus on my everyday tasks—cooking a meal, doing laundry, answering emails, handling follow-up calls with clients, and yet it was hard to concentrate because my mind kept returning to Sadie.

  Because the garage was not attached to the house, I worried that I wouldn’t hear her bark or know if she became distressed. Several times I went out to check on her, and each time I opened the door her head rose and swiveled toward me and her eyes lit up with a mixture of fear, surprise, and hope. She seemed comfortable enough, although on my second visit I noticed that she had soiled herself again. So I cleaned her up, carried her outside, and placed her in the grass, hoping she might complete her “business,” but alas nothing happened. I felt sad and embarrassed for both of us that I couldn’t help her with this most basic of tasks.

  After I got her settled back in the garage with clean bedding, I went inside. I was so exhausted that I put on my pajamas and collapsed into bed with Sparky, Miss Kitty, and Kit Kat curling up beside me, battling each other for the curved pocket of warmth closest to Mom. I thought I’d fall asleep immediately, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw Sadie’s face as I’d first seen her in the shelter, head down, chin quivering, those big brown eyes reaching out to me, begging me to help. She’s not even my dog, I chided myself. Why can’t I get her out of my mind?

  Of course, protecting and caring for animals was nothing new for me. I had grown up in Wisconsin, with distant, difficult parents who didn’t always make life pleasant for me, my older sister, Marnette, my younger sister, Leane, and my younger brother, John.

  In hindsight I think that I used the love I found with animals as a substitute for what I didn’t always get from the humans in my life. In any event, our home was always bursting with dogs, cats, mice, canaries, turtles, ducks, and other assorted critters. When I was six our first newly hatched duckling imprinted on me and followed me everywhere, convinced I was its “mom.” By seven I had trained Rusty, our Irish setter, to sit and balance a cookie on his nose until I gave him the signal to flip it into the air and devour it.

  Even at that young age I knew that animals would always play a major role in my life. But now here I was, enjoying middle age, with my two daughters grown, both of them happy and successful with terrific families and careers. I loved keeping my trim, five-foot-seven-inch dancer’s body in excellent shape, and indulging my passion for classic cars and crafts and travel and skiing. Caring full-time for a disabled special-needs dog was definitely not an item on my lifetime bucket list. And yet . . . every time I closed my eyes I saw only Sadie’s sweet and patient face, looking up at me and begging for help.

  After tossing and turning for several hours, at one a.m. I finally gave up, threw back the covers, and slid my legs over the side of my four-poster canopy bed. “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” I said to Sparky, Kit Kat, and Miss Kitty, who looked confused as they stirred and blinked sleepily beside me, then promptly went back to bed. I put on my slippers, an extra layer of clothing, and my winter coat, then grabbed an extra blanket and a sleeping bag and tiptoed out to the garage. Sadie’s head shot up as I entered. “It’s only me, girl,” I soothed her. “I thought you might like some company.” She replied with a sharp little bark and a tiny-yet-determined wag of her tail.

  I must admit I felt a little foolish arranging a sleeping bag and blankets and lying down to sleep on my garage floor, but Sadie needed me and that was what mattered. As I lay beside her and we snuggled closer for warmth, I spoke to her in gentle tones. “I don’t have a clue what I’m doing,” I admitted. “I need you to guide me. If you want my help, please tell me. And if you don’t, that’s okay, too. Just give me a sign.”

  She responded with a low, little whine that struggled to rise from the depths of her chest. Still, that was enough for now. “All right,” I whispered. “Let’s see what the morning brings.”

  After that the night grew quiet, marked only by the sound of our breathing, along with the warm, mossy odor of potting soil and the cold ache of concrete, rising from the floor beneath us to seize our joints and stiffen our bones. My eyes searched the strange, almost menacing shadows, waiting for their stark, garish forms to resolve into the more mundane shapes of a rake, a lawn mower, a deck chair, a hose. “Sadie, I want to see you run again,” I whispered forcefully when I knew she was asleep. “You deserve the chance to race through the grass once more and feel the breeze move through your fur.”

  * * *

  When I woke a few hours later the sun was up and it was clear that Sadie had soiled herself again in the night. She seemed completely mortified, with her tipped chin and downcast eyes barely able to look at me as I sat up in my sleeping bag and glanced at her. “Don’t worry, girl,” I said. “We’ll figure this out.” I stood and stretched my aching back, feeling the pain not only there but also in my arms, shoulders, neck, everywhere, not
just from sleeping on the garage floor but from constantly lifting and carrying Sadie the previous day.

  I opened the garage and carried Sadie outside, setting her down in the cool, crisp grass still glittering with glossy beads of morning dew. I hoped she might relieve herself, but again nothing happened. At least I had made one decision during the night: I was not going to take Sadie back to the hospital in Chicago to be euthanized. Not until we got another professional opinion, this time from Dr. Jodie.

  I had been taking Sparky and my other animals to Dr. Jodie Gruenstern at the Animal Doctor Holistic Veterinary Complex for years. If anyone could offer Sadie some hope, it was Dr. Jodie. Fortunately, her clinic was almost walking distance from my house and I was able to get an appointment right away, so it was still only mid-morning when I bundled Sadie back into my SUV, drove to the clinic, and carried Sadie into one of Dr. Jodie’s exam rooms. More than simply my vet, over time Dr. Jodie had become a friend, and as she entered the room I immediately felt at ease. A caring, compassionate vet committed to taking a holistic, whole-animal approach to her patients, she seemed to sense right away not only that Sadie was a special creature, but also that she was quickly becoming special to me.

  Dr. Jodie’s exam confirmed what the other vets had said—Sadie had virtually no rectal tone and also could not empty her bladder properly. “So her only hope then is a lifetime of doggy diapers,” I said sadly.

  “Not necessarily,” Dr. Jodie replied as her warm brown eyes brightened and she tucked a loose brown curl behind her ear. “There’s a way you can help her urinate, if you’re comfortable doing it.” She proceeded to demonstrate for me. “You straddle her like this,” she explained, standing over Sadie with Sadie centered between her legs, Sadie’s head facing forward. “Then take both of your palms, with your fingers extended, lift her back end slightly upward, and gently push on both sides of her abdomen until the urine is expressed.”

  Then she beckoned me to come closer and try it. Sadie seemed not to mind this rather intimate indignity, and sure enough, the procedure worked. “You would need to do this for her several times a day,” Dr. Jodie warned.

  That thought was both hopeful and daunting. How could I, or anyone else, for that matter, who worked full-time and had a social life be available to help a dog urinate several times a day? And, of course, this still only addressed half the problem. “What about the fecal incontinence?” I asked with trepidation.

  Dr. Jodie stroked her chin. “I think we can handle that through diet alone. Soften the stool and make it easier for her to relieve herself.”

  This was better news than I expected, but I said nothing as Dr. Jodie continued examining Sadie, listening to her heart and lungs, peering into her eyes and ears, evaluating her nerves, strength, and muscle tone, and carefully noting the position and depth of Sadie’s gunshot wounds and other injuries, including the sore on her back paw and the cyst near her tail. I could see that Dr. Jodie was quickly developing a rapport with Sadie, and I appreciated how much time and attention she was lavishing on a dog that, at that point, belonged to no one. Sadie, for her part, remained a model patient, never barking, flinching, or complaining, no matter what she was asked to endure.

  My heart was pounding as Dr. Jodie finished the exam and prepared to deliver her verdict. I had already explained that Dr. Rudawski recommended getting Sadie a cart while Jami-Lyn and her colleague proposed euthanasia as the best and most humane option.

  “But what do you think?” I asked carefully. “Is there any hope for Sadie?”

  “I believe we can help her,” Dr. Jodie said with confidence. “I think we can make her better, improve her quality of life. I say, let’s give her a chance.” My spirit soared. Dr. Jodie must have seen my face light up because she quickly added, “Understand, Joal, when I say we can help her, I mean you and me, working together. Make no mistake, this would be a massive undertaking.” I caught a flash of steel beneath the twinkle in her eye. “Few people could cope with an animal with this level of overwhelming special needs, but if anyone can handle it, Joal, I know you can. The question is, do you want to take this on?”

  “I don’t really know,” I answered honestly, stroking Sadie and rubbing behind her ears, grateful she wasn’t able to understand our conversation. “She’s a beautiful dog and I believe she deserves the chance to walk again. But . . . it’s a lot to consider. If I say yes, what would be the next steps?”

  Dr. Jodie described her proposed plan. The bullet in Sadie’s forehead was an immediate concern. She suggested applying a poultice several times a day to try to draw it out. She held Sadie’s skull and pressed her thumbs aside the wound to demonstrate. “It appears that the bullet is lodged in the tissue beneath the skin, rather than in the bone, which is good news,” she explained. “And if the poultice doesn’t work, surgery to remove the bullet should be possible at some point in the near future.”

  “What about the bullet in her back?” I asked hopefully.

  Dr. Jodie shook her head. “I’m afraid the bullet and the shrapnel in her spine are too deeply embedded to make surgical extraction an option. But I think we should consider possibly amputating Sadie’s left rear leg.”

  This surprised me. “Really?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she replied. “If we can strengthen and build up her right rear leg and then amputate the left, she might be able to walk again on three legs. Let me show you what I mean.” Dr. Jodie showed me how when Sadie tried to push herself upright and walk, her left rear leg automatically crossed underneath her body, like a reflex, getting in the way of the other legs and preventing her from walking. “Amputation could potentially fix this,” Dr. Jodie explained.

  Dr. Jodie went on to describe the overall treatment plan as she envisioned it, encompassing therapy, holistic medications, and a special diet; a possible CT scan to further assess Sadie’s injuries; swimming three times a week; acupuncture twice a week; Neuroplex and neurotrophins for nerve function; soaking in essential oils; a raw protein diet of turkey, rabbit, and beef, to minimize stool and increase muscle mass; Nature’s Variety probiotics; Merrick high-quality dog food to mix with her other food; a vet wrap for the sore on her foot where it dragged when she tried to walk; oatmeal and aloe shampoo and conditioner; Nature Rich soap; and the Chinese herb Yunnan Baiyao.

  Whew! Not only would the bill for all this be significant, my head spun as I tried to fathom the time, energy, and effort needed to implement such a regimen. If I did adopt Sadie, and in my mind this was still an absolute if, how could I possibly handle what sounded like a full-time commitment caring for such a desperately needy dog? And yet . . . here was Dr. Jodie, not making any long-term promises, but at least offering some hope. Hope. The thing I had desired most for Sadie. In Dr. Jodie I had found someone willing to give Sadie a chance.

  “Look, I know this is a lot to take in,” Dr. Jodie said. “Why don’t you go home and take some time to think things over? If you do decide to go forward with this, come back to see me in a few days. We’ll check on Sadie’s progress and begin the next steps.”

  That sounded like a good plan. I don’t have to be Sadie’s forever mom, I reasoned. Perhaps I could just rehab her and get her walking again. Dr. Jodie gave me a powder and showed me how to mix it with water to make a poultice and apply it to Sadie’s forehead, which I was to do twice a day in hopes of extracting the bullet. She also showed me how to clean, treat, and bandage the sore on Sadie’s back paw. As I scooped up Sadie and carried her back to my SUV, she felt warm and safe in my arms, and my mood brightened. “Good girl, Sadie,” I whispered in her ear. “I’m proud of you. You were an absolute star in there.”

  I had just settled myself behind the wheel when my cell phone rang. It was Jami-Lyn, calling from the hospital in Chicago. “Have you thought any more about the euthanasia?” she asked. My heart stopped, even though her voice was kind. “We’ve got an opening if you’d like to bring her in later this morning.”

  I knew Jami-Lyn meant well; she was concer
ned about me, both as a vet and as a daughter, and she perhaps understood better than anyone the heartbreak that was likely ahead of me if I decided to keep Sadie. Still, hearing her say those words was painful.

  “I’m giving it a week,” I said, surprising even myself with my snap decision. “I’m going to see how Sadie and I handle the next seven days. If after one week I decide that this isn’t workable, I will have her euthanized. But at least I will have given Sadie the best darn week of her life.”

  I had tears in my eyes as I pulled out of the parking lot and onto busy Janesville Road. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Sadie sitting up, nose pressed to the window, watching intently as the world flew by. I knew I had some serious decisions to make. But one thing was already certain in my mind: Sadie was never, ever going back to live out her days in an animal shelter. Either I would commit to rehabbing her and getting her walking again, or I would have her put down if it became clear that her life would be too painful and too limiting for her to endure. Even so, I seriously questioned whether I had the physical, emotional, and financial resources to care for a dog that had so much wrong with her. At that moment, all Sadie and I had was a thimbleful of hope. But sometimes, even just a thimbleful of hope is enough to keep you going.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A Second Chance for Sadie

  That precious, trembling thimbleful of hope that I clung to so desperately as we pulled out of Dr. Jodie’s parking lot was sorely tested during my first few exhausting days as Sadie’s temporary foster mom. Sadie was clearly deeply traumatized by everything she had experienced during and after being shot, but that trauma showed itself not in fear or cowering or aggressively acting out but instead in almost complete passivity. It broke my heart to see Sadie just “sitting there,” withdrawn into herself, not complaining about anything, but also not willing to engage, with me or with her surroundings. She watched, as if from a distance—a spectator, not a participant, in life.