Dogs Save Lives

When I came home from Australia after suffering the effects of an abusive marriage there, I was struggling to continue. I had come home for a visit to America that turned into a divorce, and the loss of my darling Annabelle, a black lab mix who had a hard start to life. And I had believed I was going back home to a husband, so I had sent my other beloved pooch to Australia ahead of me. There was no way my ex was going to send my dog back to me.

When it became clear I wasn't going back, and I broke into a million pieces, torn between the leftover damage of the abuse and the ugly end to my marriage, and also the grief from losing two of my best friends forever. Tiggy, who was my cat and my version of what spiritual people call a "familiar," needed help with me.

He was not able to handle my grief on his own.

So my mom actually went out searching for a dog for me. She had asked me, "If you got a dog, any dog, what kind of dog would you want?" I thought about another Labrador for a moment, but the grief that hit me as Annabelle's face filled my mind was too much. I felt like a monster for having to put her down. She had been used as a bait dog, a dog fed to fighting dogs to train on when she was still a puppy. When she was 6 months old, the daughter of the person who used her that way secretly reached out and started giving away all the bait dogs her father had. Unfortunately, as she got older, if a dog scared her or even growled aggressively, she would become enraged and attack them. She almost killed Rocky a few times, and every time, she wouldn't eat for two days out of depression. She never meant to hurt anyone. And animal experts told me that it would only get worse.

And it did. She started going after the cats. And I was afraid one day she would attack a human child. She was attacking things more and more often. I told my mom I didn't deserve another dog. I really did feel that way after making the decision to put her down. But you know the thing about moms?

They are always right, and they always know better.

So mama looked and looked for me, and even showed me pictures of dogs, but none sparked my attention. One day, Mama ran up to me while I was on the couch, yelling my name.

"Kasey! Kasey! LOOK! LOOK AT THEM!" She showed me on her phone a Facebook post about two female pups that were about 8 months old. They'd been rescued from the bayou near Houston and had been rescued during a huge rainstorm when someone caught them clinging to a rock in the middle of a flooded area. The pups looked pitiful in the picture; they cuddled up and looked at the camera. Their eyes were sad.

And I guess the look on my face was the one that my mom was waiting for.

"I knew it. You didn't like any of the puppies that had an easy start to life. I thought maybe this would reach your heart." And it did. The post explaining their origins had tears in my eyes. They were abandoned and thrown away like they didn't matter. Just like I had been thrown away like trash.

"Do you want them?" Mama asked, and all I could do was nod. Yes. I wanted them. I wanted to make those sad eyes tell a different story. When my mom called the woman, you could hear the joy in the woman's voice through the muffled phone as my mom told her that we wanted her. That her daughter had just lost her best friend and just left her husband. I felt my burn sting as they got into a conversation, and of course, the dogs and I were the main focus.

"She barely eats. She's so sad. It was bad enough when she came home from that bastard, but now her best friend is gone. Annie was the house princess, and there is a huge hole in our family from this." She told the woman what happened with Annabelle, and I remember just sitting there, too sad to even leave the room where I didn't have to hear the conversation about my losses and failures.

Mom was sitting next to me, and I could hear the woman say on the opposite line:

"You know… I've had a really hard time finding a home for these girls. And a part of me thinks that God had a hand in that. Where are you guys located? Can we meet tomorrow to see if the girls and she connect? They have to go together."

The woman was kind enough to meet us halfway. We were a four-hour drive away, and we offered to drive the full way, but she insisted she could meet us halfway. We drove halfway to Houston, and I couldn't help but feel a little apprehensive. Did I deserve these dogs? Could they redeem me for my crime of killing my best friend? Looking back, I know those feelings were grief and trauma. The mixture of being conditioned to believe that I wasn't good enough in the first place. Despite the vet, the specialist I was working with, and my moms all reassurance. I felt like a murderer.

I don't remember her name, but I remember her blue eyes looking me up and down, and nodding in approval.

"You're the one. I know you are. They haven't accepted anyone. But I feel like God has been whispering excitedly in my ear about you." She said to me, looking me in the eyes.

That felt like a lot of pressure. What if they didn't like me? Would I be a disappointment to her? It felt like so much pressure. Again, looking back from a position where healing and growth have occurred, I recognize this as a response to the emotional and mental abuse I had been subjected to for the last 7 years.

She led us to her van and opened the door to show the two sweet puppies, who both looked up at the same time with wide, terrified eyes. I knelt down and offered my hand. Two cold noses sniffed me cautiously. A few heavy seconds went by, and the pretty light brindle with chocolate brown eyes wagged her tail. She scooched forward, giving me the okay to pet her too. When she responded to me happily, her black and brown sister also gave me a chance.

Then I got my first kiss from the sweet, lighter-colored dog, whom I later named Latte. And that's when the dam broke. I began to sob, and the girls instinctively began to paw at me, wagging their tails and kissing my face.

"They haven't responded like that to anyone I've introduced them to. God knew, though. These three need each other. They're all yours. Don't worry about the gas money agreement." I looked back to see my mother and the woman watching with tears running down their faces.

Cut to a few years down the road.

Latte had gotten out of the yard and went for a wild run. She was lost for a week, and I relentlessly looked for her. Finally, a neighbor called me, saying, "I hear a dog in the back field. I think it's yours. It's howling." We all met, and there she was, hanging by a hind leg in a barbed wire fence, upside down and half dead.

It was a very expensive few weeks, and we thought she wouldn't make it. Her leg had to be amputated. Mocha, her sister, had been beside herself. But Latte survived another 3 years with us. She was my happy-go-lucky pupper, the one that brought the fun. Losing one of her hind legs didn't keep her down. Mocha was always more serious, and she protected her sister fiercely.

When Latte passed away, Mocha didn't move for 3 days. She wouldn't eat or drink. She didn't even get up to go to the bathroom. I held her and grieved with her, and begged her to eat. I was so desperate by the third day that I decided that I had to do something. My dog was going to die of heartbreak because her sister was gone. The sister had been born with, abandoned with, rescued with, and then finally lived happily with their entire life. I had

So I took to the internet, Facebook. And I found a post from a woman who was pleading for help. Her dog had had way too many puppies, and she wasn't able to keep up with the milk supply. She was concerned for her dog's health, afraid she would die of malnutrition. I worked as a groomer and foster mom to many babies who needed to be bottle-fed, so I was confident when I reached out, offering to take one of the puppies.

When I brought that little black and white chunky puppy home, I said a little prayer before popping him right between her paws on the bed. When he wriggled and snuffled, her head shot up, her ears were perked and she stared at the puppy between her paws.

And then she started to whimper and cry. She wrapped her paws around him and dragged him closer, standing up so she could inspect her new puppy better. There was a little tail wag, and then kisses. I remember me, my daughter who was only one and a half at this time, Mocha and this puppy, laying in a cuddle puddle for an hour on my bed. Mocha whimpered and cried as she held her new baby in her paws for almost the entire time, while Sky and I held her on either side, petting her and whispering to her how it was all okay, and that Latte was gone, but she wasn't alone, and she would never be alone.

She ate for me that night, and I cried ugly tears of relief and joy.

And the puppy did exactly what I wanted him to. He attached himself to her, followed her everywhere. And if she couldn't see him, she would get up and search for him. He was her lifeline. I aptly named him Apollo, after the Greek god of prophecy, light, and healing.

Mocha is older now. Her muzzle and face have turned grey. She walks more slowly now. But her Apollo is still by her side, every day. Their roles are switched, and he protects her now. And keeps her warm when her old bones are cold. That is his mommy, best friend, and companion.

As she grows older, I can't help but worry about the day she leaves us. We have 3 other dogs, a proper little pack now. So, I have faith that Apollo will have plenty of comfort from his humans and his packmates. But he will always be known as the puppy who healed a home of broken hearts.

Article Also published on Patreon and Medium.

**************************************************

Subscribe to my Patreon and get exclusive content!

Find my fictional fantasy book "Memoirs of the In-Between" on Amazon in paperback, eBook, and hardback.

You can also find it in the Apple Store.

Use the code J3F-HK4-I0K for a 20% discount on your purchase of my book on the Campfire Reading app.

And if you like pretty things - check out the author's merch store - where all money goes right back into advertising.

Like and Follow the Memoirs Facebook page here!