Last Thursday, I got a call from
Doxie while she was at work. She works at an emergency vet clinic, and some very kind people had just brought in a 'bad back' Dachshund. This little dude was barely able to use his rear legs, and because of that he had some very obviously old wounds and other associated problems. He was found in a not so great part of town on a very busy road, and
Doxie and I both decided we were going to take this more than likely massive responsibility on ourselves, because she loves Dachshunds more than fat kids love ice cream, and I am a sucker for any dog, especially one in need.
So we have this little crippled dog. He's gorgeous, red and black long haired, and just about the sweetest little thing I've ever met. We have no idea what his medical history is, and we are assuming the worst (ie, his owners suck and neglected him, blah blah blah), so we are keeping him on pretty constant crate rest. But whenever I take him out, he and I hang out for a bit, and I try to give him as much attention as I can.
I give him the name Conan, the Littlest Barbarian, and I don't know why. It just fit. We've accepted that we are going to do everything we can for him, and yes, take on yet ANOTHER dog into this house. He would have made 7. We plan everything out, and start getting the ball rolling on his treatment.
Then, it happens. An owner presents herself. We have to make a call after I have given in and just started loving this damn dog with all I have. It's probably the hardest call I've ever been a part of, even though I didn't say a word. We were both prepared for the worst, knowing we had no right to keep this dog, even if his owners were a bunch of baby-raping Glen Beck worshipers. But we have to do it.
Well, she isn't a baby-raping Glen Beck worshiper. She's a single mom with a kid in college and a young daughter who has been taking care of this dog for 6 months after whatever caused his injury in the first place. She's nice, she's kind, and she loves this dog. Apparently, when it first happened, he had no use of his rear limbs. He's now wobbling around on them, doing his best, all because she stuck it out and did the hard work of physical therapy, because she couldn't afford the multiple thousand dollar surgery that might have helped him then.
So, as of tonight, he's back with his family. I miss him incredibly, but I'm glad. Sometimes I get so used to the bullshit and nastiness of life that I always assume the worst. But in this case, I was wrong. I'm sad he's not here, but I am more happy that he is back with the people he knows and care for him. I'm gonna miss him.
