"Death of a Rescue"

By Karen K Temple            August, 2002

We never knew his name.

    The lady who called me at 8:30 on a Tuesday night said that she only lived about 45 minutes north of me.  She said that 3 1/2 weeks before, she had driven by a run-down old house, and that she had seen him tied to a tree in the front yard.  No food, no water… in 95 degree, humid Indiana heat.  Most of his fur was gone from fleabites and allergies.

     She had marched up to that front door, mad, and the fat man whose shirt didn't cover his big belly said she was welcome to take him.  So she did.  She didn't think to ask what the little dog's name was.

     She kept him for those 3 1/2 weeks, bathed him, treated the allergy areas, trimmed the toenails that curled so far under his pads that he couldn't walk.  Tried to scrape a bit of the years of crud off his teeth, and finally found a canned food that he would eat.

     He didn't lift his leg, even though he was intact.  Just squatted.  Howled when she put him in a carrier, so eventually he found the bed he wanted....the one with her two year old in it.  So the two become roommates.  She meant to get him to the vet, but didn't have the time with her own five kids, two dogs and three cats.

     They were about to move halfway across the county.  Her husband was sympathetic but firm.  Even if he only did weigh 4 pounds, he just couldn't stay.

     She called someone in Connecticut with Chihuahua Rescue, and they gave her names: I was the closest.  She called and told me the story and asked if I could take him?  She could bring him and be there in an hour or so?  I thought of my new ten day old pups, and my Chihuahua girl who was about to whelp any minute...and finally said "Sure, we'll be here."

     I set up an ex-pen with papers and bed in the living room, the only room in the house that didn't already have dogs in it, it seemed.  I waited.  She arrived a bit before 10 p.m.

     He was a sweet little old man.  Definitely a Chihuahua.  She said they'd tried all sorts of names, but he seemed to like "YoQuerio" the best.  I tried not to shudder.  She talked for almost an hour, and we exchanged phone numbers and I promised to let her know where he ended up.

     His hair was beginning to grow back fairly well.  He ate like there was no tomorrow.  But mostly he lay in his covered bed with his nose hardly showing.  He snorted wetly, and I wondered about an upper respiratory infection.  I scrubbed every time after I touched him, and was afraid to cuddle him for fear of transmitting something to my dogs.  I felt badly, but figured he'd be in his new home in a few days, and they could give him lots of love.  After all, as my husband said, he was a lot better off here than he had been a month ago.

     The vet said they could see us the next day, and I left him to be examined, along with two pups who needed to be neutered.  The tech staff said they had a couple of homes that might be interested in him.  One of the young ladies in my office said her husband loved Chihuahuas, and to let me know if he was available.

     I came back that afternoon with the pregnant bitch who needed to have a c-section, figuring to take him and the two neutered boys home when we were done.  My vet, Dr. Joe, looked at me quietly and said "Are you ready to talk about the rescue?"  And I could see it in his eyes.

     Heartworms.  Lots of them.  And yes, he was an old man, with bad teeth, and a heart that wasn't all that great before the worms.  Dr. Joe shook his head and said "I think this is the first Chihuahua I've ever seen with heartworms ...we just don't get them."  He rolled his eyes and shook his head, and started to tell me about the difficulties and the expense and the prognosis, but I already knew all that, and I knew how very sick he would be, and I knew the overwhelming odds that he wasn't going to make it no matter what we did.

           And I stopped my vet and said "We're going to let him go."
           And the little man died peacefully, held and cuddled, and spoken to gently.
           And I am so very, VERY angry.
           And I now know my definition of a "good" breeder, and a "bad" breeder.

     Because I KNOW that there is no way that this poor little man was ever born at my house, or that any of my dogs were his ancestors.  And the backyard breeder who gave him away at Wal-Mart and then felt free to have more litters...because "all my pups go to good homes", or let his mama go to a puppy mill where dogs are a commodity and they are bred until they die or are used up... That breeder didn't know, and didn't care.  Or the breeder who didn't check the buyers out, and who didn't put the buy-back clause in their contract...or the pet store who wouldn't have taken him back but sure would keep your money.

     I could go on.  But either you know what I mean - or you don't.  And I know I'm not going to change this big old world.  But I am still very, very angry about it.  And now I need to go downstairs and clean up his pen and put away the final traces that he was ever here.

     But I wanted this little dog with no name to be remembered, even briefly.