Saving Sadie Page 4
Once settled at home I kept searching for glimpses of the “real” Sadie I had seen earlier, albeit briefly, at the shelter and afterward. What had become of that bright, energetic, affectionate dog who was trapped inside a mangled body and just itching to get out? I wondered, had Sadie lost the will to live? Had she suffered brain damage from the bullet to her forehead? The X-rays suggested the bullet was lodged in the soft tissue and hadn’t breached the skull, but we couldn’t yet be certain of the extent of the damage. I had wanted to save Sadie from the moment I first laid eyes on her. But was there even a dog inside there somewhere worth saving? Suddenly I was forced to ask myself some really difficult and painful questions.
After that first slightly hopeful appointment with Dr. Jodie on Wednesday, I took off work Thursday and Friday to spend time with Sadie, getting to know her better and figuring out whether some kind of long-term rehabilitation plan to get her walking again would even be feasible. In my mind it was important that Sadie show at least some progress, physically, mentally, emotionally, psychologically, during that first week in order to justify either of us sticking with this long term. I knew how cruel and selfish it would be to ask a beautiful, intelligent, dignified hunting dog like Sadie to spend the rest of her life incontinent, slowly and painfully staggering forward as she dragged her lifeless back legs behind her like so much dead weight. That was clearly not the future I envisioned for her or the future that she deserved.
In truth, Sadie’s immediate needs were so immense that I often feared we wouldn’t make it through the full week I had impulsively promised her after our appointment with Dr. Jodie. Jami-Lyn’s recommendation of euthanasia, which I knew sprang only from love and compassion, continued to haunt me, and in the back of my mind I understood there was an “easy” way out, if I so chose. After all, I kept reminding myself, Sadie was not “my” dog but just a stray that I had “borrowed” in the hopes of helping her heal. But, on the other hand, I was also still staunchly in “fixer mode,” waiting for the breakthrough that would convince me that Sadie not only wanted to, but would walk again.
Positive person that I am, I tried not to think about the clock ticking ominously in the background and casting a shadow over our days, a steady, ever-present, metronomic beat reminding me that when the week was over, I would have to make a life-or-death decision about Sadie’s future. In the meantime, there were more practical problems to attend to, particularly concerning bathroom issues.
The technique Dr. Jodie recommended for emptying Sadie’s bladder was only partially successful. When I took Sadie outside and helped her “go,” centering her between my legs and pressing either side of her abdomen, a strong, steady stream of urine emerged, but she still had a lot of issues with leakage between “bathroom visits.” I couldn’t very well continue sleeping outside beside her in the garage, but I also could not have her leaking all over my carpets and furniture, so it appeared that diapers were, regrettably, the only answer. A quick online search showed that doggy diapers, while readily available, were also much more expensive than human baby diapers.
A 12-pack of female doggy diapers cost $9.97, or about eighty-three cents per diaper, while a 44-pack of toddler diapers (the size Sadie would need) cost $8.97, which works out to about twenty cents per diaper. The sixty-three-cent difference between a baby diaper and a doggy diaper might not seem like much, but when I did a rough calculation of how many diapers Sadie would likely go through in a typical day (quite a few!), the difference was significant.
“Okay, Sadie,” I said, as her passive eyes met mine, “it’s time to get creative and put my craft-loving background to work.” I picked up a couple packages of toddler-size disposable diapers at the store and got busy with scissors and duct tape, attempting to fashion a doggy diaper with a hole cut out for Sadie’s tail that would be comfortable and provide her enough “wag” room, even given the limited movement she had in her tail, but was still tight and secure enough to prevent leaks or other accidents.
Sadie was a good sport and never complained or fought me as I sat cross-legged with her on the living room floor, struggling to slide the diaper beneath her lifeless back end and around her legs and tail and then tape the whole thing into position. I actually secretly wished she would complain or fight me; I was still desperately looking for signs of that bright, spirited dog I had seen just days before, and not this sad, dead-eyed dog staring back at me, listless and uninterested, as I duct-taped another diaper snugly around her withered hips.
Eventually, after much trial and error, I managed to create a doggy diaper that at least seemed workable, in the short term. Longer term I hoped that Sadie would recover enough rectal tone and bladder control to be able to relieve herself outside, without diapers or human intervention. If she didn’t achieve at least that modest goal, it was highly unlikely anyone would be willing to adopt her and make her a member of their forever family.
Those first few days were chaotic, but fortunately, Sparky, Kit Kat, and Miss Kitty welcomed Sadie into the fold or, at least in the cats’ case, responded to her sudden presence with utter disinterest, in that superiorly feline way that cats are famous for. Sparky seemed to embrace Sadie, mostly because whatever food from Sadie’s special high-protein raw diet she didn’t eat, the plus-size Sparky was right there to “help” with clearing the leftovers.
I must admit, there were moments when I caught myself, sitting on the soft black sofa in my elegant living room with a cup of coffee, the bright spring light streaming through the windows as the cats curled up beside me and Sparky and Sadie relaxed at my feet, when it just felt “right.” It felt like family; it felt complete, and I could picture us like this forever. But those moments were as brief as they were blissful, the spell invariably broken when suddenly Sadie needed a diaper change (again!) or needed me to take her outside to express her bladder, or it was time once again to do the poultice for her forehead, or I had to struggle for forty-five minutes trying to get the necessary pills and supplements inside of her, or I found myself fighting through my own end-of-day fatigue to pick her up for the seemingly hundredth time and haul her up the stairs to bed.
In those moments I’d be overwhelmed with the relentless need need need, the seemingly endless patience, determination, and effort it took just to get Sadie from one day to the next. How long could I keep this up? I asked myself. Realistically, how long could I keep going? Had I been foolish and shortsighted in letting my heart overrule my head that day at the shelter when Sadie looked up at me, pleading with those sorrowful eyes?
I had to go back to work on Monday. Who would look after Sadie while I was gone all day? Hiring a full-time dog-sitter was certainly out of the question. And money would soon become an issue, between Sadie’s expensive raw-meat diet, the many supplements Dr. Jodie had prescribed, and the boxes and boxes of baby diapers.
Dr. Jodie had also recommended Sadie begin a regimen of swimming, acupuncture, healing massage, essential oil baths, and other therapies that were sure to cost a fortune. Proudly and fiercely independent, I was never comfortable asking other people for help, but I knew that if I kept Sadie, and that was still a big IF in my mind, I would have no choice but to reach out for financial support to keep Sadie afloat. But could I reasonably expect other people, especially total strangers, to see the wisdom and value in trying to rescue and rehabilitate one seriously damaged dog? I had found one person in Dr. Jodie willing to give Sadie a chance, but it would likely take an entire army to keep Sadie alive and thriving. What hope did I have of making that happen, I wondered in despair.
My biggest supporter, confidante, and shoulder-to-cry-on in those first dark Sadie days was my older sister, Marnette, a college administrator living in South Carolina. I had called her the night I first brought Sadie home and filled her in on the situation. She knew me better than anyone and understood my deep attachment to animals and my history of rescuing those creatures most in need of love and compassion and care, so she wasn’t at all surprised to hear that I had
brought home yet another stray, and she encouraged me to do everything I could to help Sadie get back on her feet.
When I spoke to Marnette again a few days later, I confided to her that things were not looking good, and Sadie and I were both struggling to make it through the full seven days I had promised her. I was so exhausted, so demoralized and spent at that point, and Sadie, retreating into herself, had made no progress whatsoever and in fact seemed to be regressing, getting a little worse each day. Euthanasia was increasingly seeming like the only realistic option.
“This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done,” I admitted to Marnette, not proud of the defeat evident in my own voice. “I’m not sure I can keep this up. It’s going to take a twenty-four-seven commitment, and I have to be back to work on Monday. And worse than that, Sadie doesn’t seem to be responding at all.”
She sighed. “Joal, I believe that Sadie is a special animal, a special creature with gifts that haven’t yet fully revealed themselves.” Marnette’s voice, warm and soothing, immediately put me at ease. “I hear it in your voice when you talk about her. You are becoming attached to Sadie, which is why this is so hard. Don’t be afraid to open your heart. Don’t be afraid to let Sadie in.”
“But what if this doesn’t work?” My voice cracked and I swallowed hard, fighting back tears. I absolutely refused to cry. I would weep for one of my own fur babies, of course, but not for Sadie, the dog who still belonged to no one. “And what if Sadie doesn’t even want this?” I asked in despair. “What if, by trying to help her, I’m actually making her suffering worse?”
“Let Sadie guide you,” Marnette encouraged gently. “Let her tell you what she wants and needs. I will stand by you and support you in whatever decision you make. I’m here for you, no matter what. But I know you, Joal. When you set your mind to something, nothing is impossible. Remember Flip and Flop?” She chuckled.
Oh yes, I certainly remembered. When I was about six, our collie, Belle, had a litter of puppies. The two runts of the litter we named “Flip” and “Flop” because one had an ear that “f lipped” over and the other had an opposite ear that “flopped.” They were just babies and far behind their siblings developmentally when I took them aside and worked with them, one on one, until each was able to sit up and stand on its own. Even at age six, I was already showing the emerging signs of my lifelong “never say die” attitude.
“The Joal who worked with Flip and Flop would give Sadie a few more days,” Marnette said confidently.
But my insides were tied up in knots, my mind and heart battling for supremacy as Marnette and I said our good-byes. Why did this have to be so difficult? Why couldn’t I just do the reasonable, rational, sensible thing and let Sadie go? How had she already managed, in the span of just a few days, to work herself so completely under my skin and into my heart that I could barely imagine a life without her? And yet, it was almost equally difficult to imagine a life with Sadie, long term, considering her need for round-the-clock care.
That afternoon was warm and sunny, so, in lieu of making any final decisions, I instead chose to give the perpetually stinky Miss Sadie a bath, outside near the wooden gazebo, where red-breasted robins and black-masked cardinals assembled their delicate nests, and the still-tender late April grass grew soft and dense and emerald-green, not yet bleached and toughened by the harsh summer sun. If I do take Sadie to be euthanized tomorrow, I told myself, allowing that possibility to creep into my consciousness, it’s important that she be clean and shiny and smell nice. It should be obvious to everyone that she has been cared for; she has known true human love.
I still had, stored in my garage, a little kiddie wading pool from when my grandkids, then ages ten and twelve, were younger, so I took that out and filled it half with cold water from the garden hose and half with pots of hot water heated on the kitchen stove.
Once the pool was ready, I lifted Sadie up from the living room floor and carried her outside, steadying her in my arms as I pushed open the screen door with my elbow and laid her down carefully in the long, lush grass. I let her soak up the warmth of the sun as I removed her diaper, wiped her backside, unbandaged her back paw, and prepared to bathe her. She was such a pitiful, pathetic creature, it almost felt like I was invading her privacy, breeching some sacred space, just by gazing upon her broken body.
“Oh Sadie,” I sighed, gently rubbing her tummy, “why did someone have to do this to you?” My heart filled with love as my eyes moved across her withered limbs drawn in close to her body, the open sore scraped onto her back paw, the gouged-out, thumb-shaped wound on her forehead, and her narrow, sunken chest with its thin ribs rising into high relief each time she drew a breath.
“If love alone could make you better, you’d be healed in no time at all,” I said sadly. Unfortunately, real life was never so simple or so kind. With a sigh I slid my arms beneath Sadie’s shoulders and hindquarters, lifted her up and gently lowered her into the water, submerging her paws, legs, and lower body. As usual she didn’t complain, she didn’t really react at all except to stare at me vacantly, eyes placid and empty, even as I rubbed baby shampoo between my palms and lathered up her fur, scrubbing away the matted dirt, mud, and dried excrement as the water around her thickened and darkened with debris. As I rinsed her off with a steady stream of water poured from a plastic pitcher, her true, vivid colors began to emerge, burnished by the rays of the late afternoon sun.
For the first time I could see that her black fur wasn’t just a dull, flat, dusty black as it had first appeared; her coat was actually a sleek, dazzling ebony with lapis lazuli blue undertones, deep and rich as the ink of ancient manuscripts, while her beige fur, more of a chamois-tan and less prevalent than the black, served to contrast and highlight the black with warm, soft, butterscotch-brown accents on her chest, snout, jaw, legs, and paws, along with two whimsical, roundish eyebrows, slightly off-center and just above her amber-colored eyes, adding quirky humor and depths of expression to her gentle, patient face.
“Sadie, you are truly beautiful,” I marveled as I towel-dried her back, tummy, shoulders, and paws and cleaned the gummed-up fur around her ears, taking care not to disturb the pockmarked wound that marred her forehead. “This is the real you. If only everyone could see you like this, with your true beauty shining through.”
After thoroughly drying her, I clipped away the most badly tangled and deeply matted sections of fur and then sat her upright in the grass so I could brush her vigorously, stroke after stroke, first her left side and then the right. The dying rays of the sun, shimmering on the horizon, combining with the scent of budding lilacs and daffodils and the steady, easy rhythm of the brushstrokes lulled me into a reverie where I felt my soul tiptoeing closer to Sadie, to a wordless place where we could reach each other and communicate, one to one.
“I don’t believe your earthly journey is finished, Sadie, I just don’t,” I stubbornly insisted as I brushed her fur into glossy waves. “There is so much more to you than what you’ve shown thus far. You have a special gift. But for now, I just need you to give me a sign. Please let me know if I’m doing the right thing.” I paused and swallowed hard before I continued, voice trembling. “And, if this isn’t right and you want to find your peace in a different place, somewhere beyond the Rainbow Bridge, that’s okay, too. I promise I’ll be strong enough to let you go. No matter what, I’ll never forget these past few days with you.”
Sadie looked at me, suddenly making eye contact, wagged her tail a difficult inch or two, and nestled her chin into the crook of my elbow, sighing deeply. “Okay then, girl, it will all be all right,” I promised as I wrapped my arms around her shoulders, then kissed the top of her head and buried my nose in her fresh, clean-smelling fur.
* * *
That night was a rough one, following a day that had been the most exhausting so far, between the feedings, the forty-five-minute sessions to fill her with her medicine and supplements, the countless trips outside to empty her bladder, and the ongo
ing diaper changes. Now it was nearly midnight and Sadie just wouldn’t settle. I let her sleep in a dog bed on the floor beside my bed, so I’d be close in case she needed anything. Sparky, Miss Kitty, and Kit Kat all slept in the bed beside me so there wasn’t room for Sadie, too, not to mention I worried that, without the full use of her legs, if Sadie were on the bed and got scared or panicked in the night, she might roll off, further injuring herself.
Sadie had been whining on and off for almost an hour and I was at my wit’s end, having no idea how to help her. “Sadie, what’s going on?” I asked in exasperation as I lay flat on my back, staring up at the canopy atop my four-poster bed. Sadie kept nipping at her own backside and rolling her upper body back and forth as if struggling to get comfortable. Too frustrated to deal with this any longer, I climbed out of bed and knelt down beside her on the floor.
“What is it, girl?” I asked softly, stroking her head and rubbing behind her ears. Her tail swished and she let out a low, pitiful moan. As she nosed around her own abdomen, nudging and whining, it occurred to me that she might be missing her lost puppies, the ones she’d delivered shortly before she’d been shot. Instantly, my heart ached for her, for the sorrow and loss she struggled to express.
“Sadie, I know you miss your babies. How fiercely you must have loved them.” I imagined Sadie had been a natural-born “mom,” nursing and snuggling a litter of five or six wiggly little black-and-tan bundles of joy, bathing them with her tongue until their fur shone, nudging them closer together for warmth, lifting them carefully in her mouth, and gently reprimanding them when they misbehaved. Had she even had time to wean them? I wondered. Or, I thought darkly, had she just weaned them, and that was why she was marked for execution? Having dutifully provided the required litter of healthy puppies, perhaps destined for the evil puppy mills, was she then shot because the puppies were ready for sale and hence Sadie was no longer considered “useful”? At roughly four years old, Sadie might have birthed multiple litters in her lifetime. Perhaps all her babies had been taken away from her, one by one by one.