A Life Saved

Arya Underfoot. I had named my beautiful girl after the character from Game of Thrones because she was, indeed, always underfoot. She was also deeply loyal and completely devoted to me, and while hard to befriend, once in her circle, she’d cry every time she got to see you again.

We shared a best friend. Lloyd worked for a year to gain her trust, and eventually he did just that. At first, she would walk by him, stop, huff, then walk on. By the end, her cries of happiness when he came over were ear-splitting. Lloyd was her other person.

The day Arya got sick was like any other. She wasn’t interested in a walk, though, which was very unusual for her, so Lloyd and I took her to the vet. A backyard visitor had made her sick, the vet told me, and it wasn’t looking good. Arya was a wolf/dog, so she hadn't shown that she was ill until it was too far into the progression of the disease: the Leptospirosis that invaded her body. It probably wouldn’t turn out well, they said, and offered to put her down. I chose to fight, instead. Twice a day I gave my girl subcutaneous fluids because she wouldn’t drink water. I forced soft dog food into her mouth so she’d have enough calories to fight the disease. She would be the exception to the rule. The vets didn’t know what they were talking about.

The day she crawled into my lap, I knew we were near the end. As devoted as she was, she didn’t like to cuddle. We shared my king-sized waterbed and if I accidentally touched her during the night, she’d stand up, huff at me, and walk to the other end of the bed. That day, though, she crawled right up onto my lap.

I begged her not to die.

Later that evening when I let her out to pee, she fell over midstream. She laid there on her side, still urinating. I got her back inside and picked her up and put her in the bed. By that time she had lost about 30 pounds. I went around and laid down next to her. She gathered enough strength to stand up, walk over and get within an inch of my face, and stare intently into my eyes. I again begged her not to die. She turned around, laid on the bed, and started seizing.

Had she been telling me goodbye or was she begging me for help? I’ll never know.

She wouldn’t stop seizing, so I called my daughter to take us to the emergency vet. As I waited for my daughter, I told Arya I loved her and that she was the best dog ever. We carried her into the car using the blanket she was lying on, and the vet team met us outside with a gurney—it was in the middle of the first covid lockdown, and people were not allowed inside, except for cases in which a pet was put down. I was going to be allowed inside.

My experience with the emergency vet was not a good one. Let’s just say they pretty much held Arya hostage until I handed over my credit card and decided what I wanted to do with her after they put her down. They wouldn’t even let me see her. Do you know what you want done with your best friend’s remains? Have you thought about it, arranged for it ahead of time? She was only 4!

Finally, though, I was put into a room and they wheeled her in. They had shaved hair off her leg and inserted an IV. They had given her something to stop the seizures, but she was completely unresponsive, gorked out. Her tongue was hanging out the side of her mouth, and I carefully pushed it back in. I told her I loved her and watched as they injected her with the milky white liquid that ended her suffering.

I had paid $300 to kill my best friend.

I went home, and for the first time in 4 years, there was no one waiting to greet me when I walked in the door. It wasn’t long before a pile of used tissues took residence where Arya used to lie.

About a month later, at the urging of friends, I started looking for a dog to adopt. I couldn’t imagine loving any other creature like I loved Arya, and it felt an awful lot like trying to replace her. I checked with local rescues and shelters and decided on a German Shepherd. They were pretty wolfy without being wolves, and the year’s litters of wolf cubs were long spoken for. I insisted on a male. How could I look at another furry face and say, “What a good girl!”?

I had my eye on a young male GSD from a rescue in Coos Bay, a town about 120 miles south of me. All other avenues had disappeared. I had dealt with scammers online wanting me to wire them money so they could drive a pup down to Eugene for me, or they wanted me to put half down on a pup to hold it. They almost always had 2 males and 2 females left, but I needed to hurry! The pictures they sent were adorable . . . and almost identical.

I hadn’t heard from Friends of Coos County about the male that needed adopting. So, I emailed them again about my interest. I heard back almost right away. They wanted the male to go to a home with another dog, which meant I didn’t qualify, but they did have a 2-year-old female GSD that needed to be placed immediately. I was torn. How could I betray Arya that way?

I talked it over with my son, and we decided to at least foster this dog.

The next morning, I drove down to Coos Bay and met Ada for the first time at a local vet’s clinic. FOCCAS wanted to make sure the dog had all her shots and had been looked over by a vet before I got her, so I witnessed the family surrendering her say their goodbyes. They were moving, I was told, and the new place didn’t allow dogs. I later found out I was her 4th rehoming in her very short life.

She, sadly, came readily with me. Obviously, she was used to going with whoever took a hold of her leash. The FOCCAS person I was working with took her in for her rabies shot (I insisted on a Lepto shot, as well). I waited until they came out. Ada was loaded into my car, as were all her belongings. This dog came fully equipped. She had her kennel, tons of toys, some food, brushes, clippers and nail cutters. It turns out she’s allergic to chicken, which I didn’t know as I fed her rotisserie chicken on the long drive home in an effort to win her over. It was unnecessary. This dog was full of love to give.

When we got to the house, she made herself right at home, another indication she was willing to go anywhere. She took her favorite ball from out of her basket, checked out the kennel, and sat waiting for further orders. As I looked over her vet report, I noted that she was 65 pounds, was caught up on her shots, and was scheduled to get spayed. I thought it odd she was only 65 pounds, as her paws were massive, but I knew the vets had checked her weight, and it was indeed 65 pounds.

Ada made herself at home from day one. She was polite, didn’t jump on the furniture, and had to be coaxed up onto the bed. I thought about letting her sleep in her kennel but wanted her to think of this place as home, not that home was wherever her kennel happened to be. It wasn’t long before the kennel was moved out front for the cats to use. Ada didn’t need it anymore.

I could not for the life of me figure out why this dog was rehomed so many times. She was gentle, sweet, loving, thought she was a lap dog, and never got into the trash or any food left unattended. She was the perfect dog from the very first day. Yeah, she barks at the mysterious things at the other side of the fence, and watching her charge the length of the yard is pretty intimidating, but she's all bark. She looks and sounds like a freight train. She isn’t aggressive, though…. Just exuberant. I know, because she charged straight through the fence like it wasn’t even there to get at the neighbor’s prize sled dog. She didn’t attack, though. She just wanted to say hello. Hard. She ended up getting nipped by the dog next door, and she never did it again.

A few weeks into our trial rehoming, the FOCCAS people needed to come and pick Ada up to be spayed. We tried to get her an appointment in Eugene, but with covid, it was impossible. They came in the afternoon, and Ada calmly walked obediently away with them. In her mind, it was just another move, another family, another rejection.

The next day I was back in Coos Bay to pick Ada up from the vet’s office. The assistant led her out to me. Ada’s head drooped almost all the way to the ground and she looked defeated. I got to my knees and said, “Baby girl!” (my pet name for her) Her head snapped up and the look of happiness I saw in her face was not my imagination. It tore me up. I believe she really thought she was abandoned once again, and I know she was wondering what she had done wrong. The answer is nothing. She has done nothing wrong.

I signed her adoption papers that day.

Four months later, my purebred German Shepherd seemed to actually be a King Shepherd. Feeding her 2/3 of the suggested amount of food – a very special salmon and vegetable diet because of her allergies – she had gained over 40 pounds. This girl is now a 100-pound lap dog, and that’s no joke. She’s actually probably bigger. I haven’t weighed her in a while. She’s too big to pick up.

I went from a fiercely loyal, but aloof, best friend, to a giant baby. Ada loves to play and loves to chase and be chased. She has a stuffed hedgehog that she puts in her food bowl so it can eat. At night, though, she has her favorite routine. As soon as I turn the overhead light off and the fan on, Ada dives into the bed, trying to beat me to my spot. She has to touch me at night, and every morning wakes up and cuddles.

May 21st, the first anniversary of Arya’s death is coming closer. It’s also my son’s and my father’s birthday. When my father was killed in a traffic collision, my son lost interest in his birthday for a while. When he heard Arya had died, he assumed it had also been on his birthday. “No,” I said. “I waited until after midnight so she wouldn’t die on your birthday.” I lied, of course.

It’s going to be a very rough day.

My heart breaks every time I think of Arya. There’s no getting over a pain like that, but I am very, very grateful that Ada came along and saved me. I can’t imagine the depths I would have sank to had she not been here to lift me up.

I can never replace Arya, and I can never replace Ada. I wish I could have had them both at the same time. Next year Ada will get a new baby brother. I’ve already placed a hold on another wolf/dog; a male this time. I think I’ll name him Roland.