Million-dollar dog strikes again

Linus has contracted kennel cough, a common disease among dogs that is essentially canine bronchitis. It is noisy, unpleasant, and inconvenient for the both of us (phlegmy coughs = no sleep and frequent cleanup). He's responded very well to antibiotics and doggie Sudafed, however-- even though the latter made him so dopey that he often seemed to lose track of simple things, like where he was and what he meant to do next.

This is the first real health problem Linus has had in a year, so I should count myself lucky. Though his immune system may always be weak, his recent second birthday marked the close of a happy and mostly healthy year. He has attained his final weight (45 pounds) and established an ever-widening fan club in the DC area.

Linus's birthday will always be special to me. After the first year, my family and I held a party to celebrate the achievement of his simply surviving for that difficult twelve months. This year, I am reminded how precarious his puppy days were, and how grateful I should be for the cheerful, sturdy dog he's become.

This year's birthday present was a new dog bed, as Tony firmly nixed the bringing of any of Linus's old, scavenged, ratty beds into our new apartment (new apartment! Soon! Hooray!). After a good deal of searching, I found a bed that was well-built, washable, and stuffed with recycled soda bottles to satisfy Linus's desire to be an environmentally friendly dog (not that I'm projecting or anything). Here it is, with the center cushion, arranged just the way he likes it:

A far cry from this sad specimen, no?



One reason I've never wanted to work for an animal shelter is my certain knowledge that I would want to save every animal that entered the doors, and fail, and continually be breaking my heart. It is that knowledge that makes me so grateful for the chance to have saved one unfortunate creature, even if I can't save them all.

One Puppy's Thanksgiving

Last Monday, I stayed up past midnight creating a slideshow to accompany my final presentation for class the next day. As I finally started to get ready for bed, I noticed that one of the cats was spending a lot of time in the living room window, staring and chirping at something outside. As it was a cold night, I just figured that a possum or raccoon was taking refuge against the side of the house--or that the mice living in my heating ducts were having a party.

At about three in the morning, I was awakened from homework-induced slumber by a bloodcurdling series of grunts and squeals outside the window of my basement apartment. After going outside several times and seeing nothing, I finally just stood by the door and talked coaxingly to my air-conditioning unit. Sure enough, after a minute or two a tiny, scabby, beady-eyed white head nudged round the corner of the unit. He was so dirty and emaciated that for one awful moment I didn't even realize he was a dog.

I pulled him into the bathroom, warmed some milk, spooned out some cat food, and plunked him on my lap to warm him up.

Here is what he looked like when I brought him in:

He was too weak to stand up straight, but in too much pain to lie down. After he had some water and whatever food I could find, he settled for half-draping himself across my lap. Every time I got up, he tried to wobble after me.

In the morning I took him to the vet's, where he was diagnosed with malnutrition, dematectic ("Red") mange and coccidia, an internal parasite. He stayed for three days to be cleaned inside and out.

I also checked the spot where I'd found him (much less scary in the daylight!) to see if there were any other puppies. Instead, I found a nylon dog crate in the street, the inside covered with many days' worth of sick-puppy-filth. This puppy wasn't born to a stray mother, nor did he wander away from his litter and get lost. Someone deliberately dumped him.

Sometimes I hate people.