In The Wink of an Eye

I had been out on an errand when he was dropped off at the shelter. As soon as I came in the door, Kerri the receptionist pulled me aside. Kerri wanted me to take a look at the dog and get a breed identification on him. I am quite a stickler for breed ID and all my staff knew it was best to ask for verification if there was any question on a dog's heritage. Our owner redemption was statistically higher than the national average, and I gave a lot of that credit to a strict breed, and color, identification program.

Kerri had called the dog a Shih Tzu and Pekingese mix. His name was Cuddles, and he was a 3 year old intact male. His crime had been one too many urination trips to the corner of the couch. I am sure that Kerri's explanation of the problem and her possible solutions had fallen on deaf ears, but we always make an attempt to educate.

I walked up to the kennels to view our newest ward. As I approached the kennel, the wee fellow seemed undaunted by his less than luxurious surroundings. A terminal bundle of joy whose attitude likened him to an adolescent puppy, certainly not a regal and dignified 3 year old. As soon as I saw him, my heart skipped a beat. I quickly opened the kennel, and was met with a snuffly face that insisted on giving kisses.

The one breed I have always promised myself was a Brussels Griffon. Until that moment, I had considered it another one of my unfulfilled dreams. The chances of me ever being in need of a dog (and not having one in need of me) was slim to none. I knew that to acquire a Brussels would take an assertive move on my part, and truthfully, there was always a needy dog close at hand to fill any empty spot that might be available. "Cuddles" appeared to be a Brussels, and I was sure the God's must have been smiling on me to land him in my lap that day.

I contacted our local Brussels professionals, and within two days they visited our shelter to see if the dog we had was one or not. They left undecided. Cuddles was unkempt, and loaded with fleas. What coat he did have had been trashed from his chewing and scratching at the pesky irritants. Bathing was first on the 'honey do' list for this little guy. I left him at the shelter for two weeks, for I knew I would feel 'guilty' if I were to snatch this dog up. It may sound insane, but I usually reserve what few spots I have in my own home for those dogs deemed 'unadoptable' due to age or behavioral problems. After two weeks, Cuddles issue of urine marking proved to be enough of a deterrent for potential adopters, and I claimed my somewhat scruffy prize.

Cuddles was renamed Winky (due to his charming habit of marking) and was transported immediately to the vet for neutering and to repair his umbilical hernia. I also had the vet check for luxating patellas, heartworm, and give him a full series of vaccinations. An extra dose of frontline topspot, and it was time for my Winky to meet the rest of the family. My crew of dogs currently at the house were all geriatrics. Suzie, the standard Poodle was 14, Joey the Australian Cattle Dog was 13, and Tristan the miniature Poodle was 9. Winky must have seemed like a baby to them. It was October 1999 and life was good. Even the somewhat intolerant husband seemed OK with this little belching, snoring canine.

The transition at home went well. Winky was either crated or leashed to me until his testosterone levels dropped and he became trustworthy to not anoint every vertical object in the house. He had been clipped in classic Brussels style, and even if he wasn't a Brussels, he was closer to my dream than I had ever thought I would get. He was great with the kids, and brought new life to my old pack. The cats hated him, but heck, nobody's perfect! <grin>

I lost Suzie in January 2000 and then Joey in May. I was at an all time low in my dog numbers with just Winky and Tristan at the house. I refuse to disclose how many dogs I claim to be mine at the shelter on the grounds that my husband may read this and realize how much my vet makes off of me! But I was content to bide my time until the next needy dog fell into my lap.

Winky could not be considered a perfect dog, although he was endearing. He was my first venture into 'brachycephalic' land, and it was one filled with awe, wonder, and more than a little aggravation. He was bold, assertive, and demanding. He insisted on sleeping on the pillows, regardless if your head was there first or not. He was also a pig and a garbage hound. No trashcan was safe from rummaging unless it was barricaded or placed on a counter top. And beg! He could talk anyone out of the most tempting morsels with those big brown eyes and a quiver of his little moustache! And on the day I came home to discover one very depressed Winky and a torn open garbage bag, the worst of my thoughts was that I was in for a very large vet bill.

It was August 2000. I made an appointment for my overindulgent Winky to see the vet after his last episode of gluttony. He was depressed and vomiting bile. After an initial physical, the vet recommended X-rays, as he and I were both suspicious of an intestinal blockage. I transported Winky to the other clinic for the radiographs. The picture indeed showed a large mass, but the cause of it was not conclusive. Surgical investigation was the only resort, and I left my beloved snort monster with the vet to cure whatever ailed him. I had shelter animals to deliver to other vet clinics before they closed and had to be on my way.

I had delivered the last of the shelter pets when Kerri called me on my mobile radio. It was about 6:30 in the evening, and Kerri said the vet wanted me to call him. I wrote the number down on a note pad and started looking for a phone. My gut was in turmoil. My vet's clinic had closed at 5:30, and even though I knew they were taking Winky into surgery when I left, there was only one reason for him to be requesting that I call. Good news seldom travels this quickly. Finding a phone was the scariest moment of my life. My hand trembled as I dialed the number. Doc picked up on the first ring.
"Hi, it's Lori. I got a message to call."
"Hi Lori. I have bad news. Winky has a tumor. That's what the mass is. It's attached to his aorta and intestines, so we can't remove it. It's pushing on his spleen and stomach, that is why he is so sick."
It was instant devastation. My blood pounded in my ears. I had prepared my statement to the vet. "Whatever it takes," I would have said, "Cost doesn't matter." But those words seemed selfish and desperate now. My little friend could not be made better; no matter how much money I was willing to spend. I tried to muster my bravest, no-nonsense voice, and I know I failed miserably.
"Is he…is he still under anesthesia?" I stammered.
"Yes", Doc replied.
"Then just…(I can't believe this is happening, my brain screamed). Then just let him go, OK?"
"OK", Doc said. "I'm so sorry, Lori."
"Thanks for everything, Doc. I'll give you a call tomorrow."

10 months he had been a part of my life. Such a short time. I usually acquire the older dogs (8-10 years old), so I steel myself to the fact that I may lose them in a few short years. Winky was a loss that I had no time to prepare for. I wonder if someone upstairs already knew that this pup's time was short, and maybe that is why he ended up at my door. Maybe in the sense of 'fairness', it was determined that I was best suited to deal with the loss. I would not trade a moment of the time he spent as my dog, and his brief spell with me brought my own words to mind. Whenever a potential adopter is looking for a dog, and they are concerned about getting an older pet "because it might not live that long", my response to them is:
"Nobody ever knows how long the story is going to be. Just as long as the story is good, nothing else really matters."