Saving Sadie Read online

  Karen probably spoke to me for twenty minutes or so, but I remember little else of what was said, other than her closing, which was, “Remember, Joal, dogs don’t die like people do. When they leave us, it is very peaceful, and they go to a place where their souls are free and live in bliss forever.”

  I was still numb as we said our good-byes and I climbed into my SUV. I drove home on autopilot; it was fortunate that it was such a short drive since I could barely breathe through the thick lump in my throat, or see the road through my hot, furious tears. What if Karen was right? Personally, I didn’t put much store in wacky New Age philosophies, but I also couldn’t be sure that Karen didn’t have a way to access parts of Sadie that I couldn’t.

  When I arrived home Jeff was there with Sadie, having just returned from swimming. I gave Sadie the biggest hug ever, then I took off her diaper and encouraged her to play in the grass. But she just sat there, withdrawn and vacant. “Come on, Sadie, let’s play,” I cajoled, tossing her one of her toys, a red rubber squeeze ball. She turned her head to watch the ball sail through the air, but she remained firmly planted in the grass. “Come on, Sadie, go for the ball.” I went over and grabbed the ball, ducked and faked, moving my hand with the ball up and down and side to side. Still Sadie sat, tongue wagging, eyes staring aimlessly.

  “C’mon, girl. Please? For me?” Like a flash, I experienced a sudden moment of insight in which I saw Sadie differently, at a distance and more objectively, from the perspective of someone not so emotionally involved. I had had Sadie for more than a month now; how much progress had she actually made? Hours of therapy and exercise, a special diet and supplements, and for what? “Okay, Sadie, maybe you’re just not in the mood right now,” I decided. “We’ll try again later.”

  After saying good-bye to Jeff, I helped Sadie urinate, then cleaned her up, brought her inside, and gave her a clean diaper. Sparky greeted us with slobbery kisses and requests for treats while Miss Kitty and Kit Kat administered urgent head bumps and arched themselves against my legs, demanding attention. Meanwhile Sadie just sat, watching, head down, chin resting on her front paws. Hard as I tried, I just couldn’t get the conversation with Karen out of my head. Do I imagine Sadie is getting better because I want her to be better? I wondered and worried. Am I too blinded by love to see the truth?

  This was the worst I had felt since Sadie had entered my life. I was a mess, and my hands were shaking as I phoned Marnette and told her of my encounter with Karen. “I think she was saying that Sadie doesn’t want to live,” I explained, my voice breaking. “I think she was trying to tell me it was okay to let her go. Like she was giving me permission or something.”

  Marnette was furious when she heard this. Anyone who’s met Marnette knows she is a classy, elegant lady who has developed true Southern charm and grace after living in the South for so long, but she is also a cougar when it comes to protecting those she loves. Unsurprisingly, she leaped to my defense. “Don’t listen to her, Joal,” Marnette pleaded. “Karen doesn’t know Sadie. She doesn’t know you. Karen has never even seen Sadie in person, for goodness’ sake! You are the one that Sadie speaks to; you are the one she communicates with, not Karen. Karen doesn’t have any special insight into how Sadie is thinking or feeling. Trust Sadie. Trust your heart. Sadie will tell you what she wants and needs.”

  I sighed. “I know I shouldn’t let Karen bother me,” I agreed. “Her comments just caught me off guard, I guess. And I’m nervous about Sadie’s surgery on Monday. I’m worried how she’ll handle it.”

  “Of course. She’s your baby now, and even minor surgery is scary,” Marnette comforted. “But just remember how many people care about Sadie, how many people are praying for her every single day. Draw strength from that, Joal.”

  As I hung up the phone after talking to Marnette, I did feel a little better. There would probably always be people who didn’t “get” Sadie, or who didn’t approve of my putting so many resources into rescuing one disabled dog when there were so many other worthy causes in the world. But I couldn’t think about those people or those causes at the moment. For now, my main job was to think about Sadie.

  * * *

  Monday, June 4, 2012, the day of Sadie’s surgery, dawned warm, hazy, and humid, with storm clouds gathering on the horizon. My own mood was just as cloudy and unsettled. I hadn’t slept much the night before, worrying about how Sadie would handle the anesthesia, the operation, the recovery. I kept peering over the side of my bed to see how she was doing, curled up on her dog bed on the floor. I’d taken her to the clinic the day before for her pre-surgery exam and blood work and everything had looked good. Still, as I lifted Sadie in my arms that morning and bundled her into the back of my SUV, I held her a little longer than necessary, kissing her lumpy forehead and pressing her close to my chest, then rocking her slightly, as you might a child, absorbing the full warm weight of her in my arms.

  Since Dr. Jodie preferred to focus on holistic treatments for her patients, Sadie’s actual surgery was going to be performed by Dr. Jodie’s colleague, Dr. Witte. It wasn’t even nine a.m. yet when I carried Sadie into the clinic, but the staff was busy and bustling as always, already well into their day. To an outsider, it would have looked like an ordinary morning in which I was dropping off Sadie for her treatments and therapy on my way to work. Looks, however, can be deceiving, because inside, I was a wreck. There was nothing ordinary about Sadie undergoing surgery.

  Dr. Jodie’s assistant Kati took Sadie from my arms and carried her into the back to start prepping her for surgery. I stayed behind at the front desk, signing consent forms. Included in the forms were questions about what type of CPR and other life-saving measures I was authorizing for Sadie, should something go terribly wrong (always a possibility with surgery and anesthesia). This paperwork was routine, just a formality, really, but still, it was sobering to think about those things and have to make those life-or-death decisions. What if I make the wrong choice, or change my mind? How can I be sure what’s really best for Sadie?

  Once the paperwork was finished, it was time to say good-bye to Sadie. She was in an exam room, stretched out on a table, an IV port already inserted into her front paw. I kissed her forehead, then rubbed it with my chin, feeling the bullet beneath the skin for what I hoped would be the final time. I would have preferred to have stayed at the clinic all day, close to Sadie in case she needed me, but really there was nothing I could do here but sit and wait; she’d spend most of the afternoon sleeping off the anesthetic. And considering my financial circumstances, I certainly couldn’t afford to take a day off work; there are no paid sick days or personal days when you’re self-employed.

  As I climbed into my SUV and pulled out of the parking lot, I felt utterly bereft, desperately trying to think of something other than Sadie. The fear and helplessness I felt brought back traumatic memories of when my younger daughter, Jami-Lyn, was about three years old and developed a severe case of bronchiolitis, a serious viral infection of the bronchioles, the small air passageways in the lungs. My normally fair-skinned, steady, levelheaded toddler, always so cheerful and inquisitive, suddenly became stiff with fever, arching back and going rigid in my arms. Her skin was crimson and hot to the touch, as she screamed and sobbed, fighting for breath.

  Frantic, my husband rushed us to the doctor’s as I held Jami-Lyn in my arms in the backseat, rocking and praying and bargaining with God. “Please, God, protect my baby. Let her be okay.” And to Jami-Lyn I cooed, “Hang on, sweetheart, Momma’s got you now.”

  From the doctor’s office we were sent straight to the hospital, where Jami-Lyn was torn from my arms and whisked off to an exam room. Once stabilized, she was admitted as a patient, placed in an oxygen tent, and given intense vaporizer treatments.

  I refused to leave her bedside during those long, terrifying few days, willing her to breathe, watching her tiny chest rise and fall, unable to touch her or hold her through the plastic tent surrounding her hospital crib. It felt like the earth had
stopped turning, suspended in time and space, until finally Jami-Lyn recovered enough to come home, and the world could kick into motion once more.

  “You’re being foolish, Joal,” I told myself as I merged onto the highway, heading toward that day’s job in Illinois. Sadie isn’t your child. She’s just a dog, you know. And yet deep down, I had to admit she was so much more than a dog to me now.

  Fortunately, I was able to phone the clinic several times during the day while at work, getting periodic updates on Sadie’s status. I was so relieved when I received word that the surgery was over and had gone well; both the bullet from her forehead and the cyst from her tail had been successfully removed and she was resting comfortably.

  When at last work finished for the day and I rushed back to the clinic, Dr. Witte was with a patient so Dr. Jodie took me in to see Sadie. Poor Sadie! She was still quite groggy and barely seemed to recognize me as she slowly lifted her head from the pile of blankets surrounding her, and her amber eyes struggled to focus. The fur on her forehead had been shaved down to the skin and she had six or seven large green stitches closing an incision that went from above her eyebrows, between her eyes, and down to the base of her snout.

  Dr. Jodie explained that the surgery hadn’t taken long. The bullet was fairly close to the surface, thanks to the poultice, and hadn’t gone into the bone. Then Dr. Jodie reached into her pocket and pulled out a cylindrical metal object.

  “Here it is,” she said, holding the object up to the light. “Fortunately, it hadn’t fragmented and came out in one piece .” A chill arced through me as I realized she was holding the bullet. To actually see it with my own eyes was shocking and sobering, bringing home the reality that Sadie had actually been shot, with a real gun and real bullets, and by a real human being who chose to do this to her.

  Seeing the actual bullet made it so much more real. On one hand, I was glad to think that this cold, hard piece of metal was no longer embedded inside Sadie’s body, but it also reminded me that the bullet and shrapnel in her back, those many pieces of cold, hard metal too numerous to count, could never be removed, and she would carry those cruel reminders of the worst day of her life inside of her forever.

  Dr. Jodie continued by explaining that the surgery on the cyst had actually been more extensive than that on her forehead since the cyst was larger and deeper than suspected. They chose not to close the incision with stitches because it would heal better if left open, and as Dr. Jodie showed me the area, I was shocked to realize that so much tissue had been removed that I could see the tendons in Sadie’s tail! How much more was this poor dog going to have to endure? I wondered.

  “You’ll need to let Sadie soak in the bathtub twice a day for twenty minutes each time, then treat and re-bandage her tail,” Dr. Jodie explained. “You’ll need to do this for at least two weeks. And no more swimming for Sadie for at least a month, until her tail is fully healed.”

  “Wait a minute—you mean put her in my tub—the one in my bathroom?” I asked incredulously. About once a week I had been giving Sadie a full bath in the kiddie pool in the yard, while at least once a day I was “spot-washing” her, especially her back end, with rags and towels and a pitcher of water. No doubt Sadie and I had grown close, but I had never placed a dog in my own bathtub before and couldn’t fathom starting now.

  “Well, yes,” Dr. Jodie replied, looking slightly annoyed as her brown eyes narrowed. “That would be the best way to do it, of course.”

  Fast-forward a few hours to that evening and there I was in my master bathroom, lifting Sadie from the floor, steadying her in my arms, and carefully lowering her into my bathtub filled with warm, soapy water. “I seriously hope you appreciate this,” I told her as I wet a washcloth and began wiping her shoulders and chest. Still groggy from her surgery, she looked at me with hazy, melted-caramel eyes, but otherwise didn’t react. I washed her gently, avoiding the stitches on her head, and once the bandage on her tail had been softened enough by the water, I cut it off with a pair of scissors and cleaned the open wound.

  After taking her out of the tub and drying her, I laid Sadie on the floor and tried not to look at the exposed tendons as I treated her tail with the ointment Dr. Jodie had prescribed, which resembled a thick red Vaseline. Then I bandaged the wound as she had taught me, first wrapping it with gauze and then finishing with the black vet wrap that was thin, snug, and highly adhesive. Sadie was an ideal patient, as always, never barking or nipping or complaining. She would just lie on her side and look up at me, doe-eyed and placid, as if biding her time until I was finished.

  So, twice a day for two weeks, I bathed Sadie in my bathtub and let her soak for twenty minutes, before and after work. This became just another element that was added to our morning and evening routine, which now included outdoor potty time on her own, diaper changes, feedings, supplements, and exercises, along with the twenty-minute baths. Sometimes I felt overwhelmed and exhausted by the sheer time and energy all this took. But in those moments, I would tell myself, Be strong and stay the course. Remember, you’re doing this for Sadie. It won’t always be this way; it won’t be like this forever. When her tail heals, when she’s stronger, when she’s better, when she’s walking again . . .

  During these intense weeks of bathing and healing, I was greatly anticipating a five-day trip to Louisville, Kentucky, to attend the national convention of the RROC—the Rolls-Royce Owners’ Club, Lake Michigan region. Cars have always been one of my passions; I’ve been a “car guy” since the age of fourteen, even before I learned to drive. I was fortunate enough to have been elected to the club’s board of directors, and was so looking forward to the national convention and the trip to Louisville, including a side trip to Churchill Downs, famous home of the Kentucky Derby.

  The trip to Kentucky had been scheduled well before I adopted Sadie, and the travel and accommodations had already been paid for. I had really hoped I could go, hoped that Sadie would be well enough that Jeff could keep her overnight and drop her off at Dr. Jodie’s during the day. I was excited about getting a break and the chance to rest and recharge my batteries, but as the days went on, it was becoming more and more evident that I couldn’t leave Sadie. Although healing, she was still in rough shape, and I knew the intense rehab schedule we’d been sticking to couldn’t be compromised or interrupted.

  So it was with a heavy heart that I called my friends from the club and told them I wouldn’t be able to make the trip to Kentucky after all because Sadie needed me too much. They were supportive and seemed to take the news well, but deep down I wondered if they thought I was crazy for canceling a trip because of my dog. My family, other than my stalwart supporter Marnette, were struggling to accept how much Sadie had taken over my life—was I at risk of losing my friends now, too?

  * * *

  It was a week after Sadie’s surgery and we were at Dr. Jodie’s for a follow-up appointment. Both incisions were healing nicely and Sadie seemed to be on the mend. But then Dr. Jodie dropped a bombshell.

  “Joal, it doesn’t look as if we’ll be able to do the amputation next month like we had hoped,” she said sadly, running her hand along Sadie’s spine. “Her right back leg is just not getting strong enough to support her.”

  My mind reeled. How was that possible? Sadie hadn’t been swimming for a week since the surgery, to allow her tail to heal, but she was receiving acupuncture once a week, intense laser treatments on her back for pain relief, essential oil baths, and deep tissue massage several times a week, along with the diet, exercise, and supplements she was getting from me at home.

  “The problem isn’t the leg itself,” Dr. Jodie continued, “it’s more likely the spinal column. She just doesn’t have enough nerve function in her lower back and legs. The damage caused by the bullet must be deeper and more extensive than we realized.”

  I felt as if my heart had stopped. “Are you telling me she’ll never walk again?” My words tumbled out in a harsh whisper. Everything I’d done for the past month and a
half, since I first found Sadie, had been focused on getting her walking again. How can we give up now?

  “I’m not necessarily saying she’ll never walk again,” Dr. Jodie continued. “Nerves can regenerate over time. The process is very slow, but it can happen. But I don’t believe amputation will ever be the solution for Sadie, because I don’t think her back right leg will ever be strong enough to support her body. But there’s still a chance that both back legs working together, even if compromised, could become strong enough to allow her to walk. So let’s make her rehab even more aggressive and then see where she is in another month.”

  “Okay,” I said softly, “if that’s what you think best.”

  I was still numb and in shock as I bundled Sadie up and took her home. After giving Sadie a potty break followed by a fresh diaper, I made one of the toughest phone calls of my life, to Joanie, the woman who’d earlier offered us her dog’s Walkin’ Wheels.

  “Hello, this is Joal Derse Dauer,” I said, trying to steady my crackling voice when Joanie answered the phone. “We spoke about a month ago, regarding your Walkin’ Wheels and my dog Sadie. I’d like to take you up on your offer, if the wheels are still available.” I paused and swallowed hard. “Looks like we’re going to be needing them after all.”

  Joanie seemed surprised but sympathetic, and we quickly arranged the details for delivery. I hung up the phone feeling an overwhelming mixture of sorrow, grief, disappointment, and, the swift current flowing steadily beneath all else, resolve. Sadie was perched patiently at my feet, looking up at me inquisitively, and I knelt down beside her, wrapping my arms around her shoulders and burying my face in her neck, letting the silky black-and-tan fur absorb my flowing tears.

  “Sadie, you are going to walk again, I promise,” I whispered into her floppy ear as she dropped her head and licked the back of my hand. “It might not be exactly the way we first imagined, but you will walk again, I just know it.”