If you’d told me a year ago I’d be writing this post, I would’ve told you to check your head. Every rescue story I record here is special to me for one reason or another, but this one really changed the way I view the world in its entirety.
Sweetie is an old lady pit bull who was tragically abandoned at a boarding facility a year ago this spring. Riddled in pain from years of puppy-machining, neglect, and a life spent confined to a concrete dog run, the poor girl seemed as if she’d lost hope. When we met, Sweetie was covered in large callouses, flies that’d laid eggs in her fur, and grossly infected teats. She snarled. She snapped. She lunged, and I’ll be frank: I believed her quality of life was likely to only improve through the kindness of death. (I wrote about Sweetie’s long suffering here.)
While the boarders journeyed through the tedious process of gaining legal custody of Sweetie, we brought her bones and treats in an attempt to occupy her and earn her trust. None of it was easy; her health deteriorated further, but she began to approach us more and more — still growling, still hating on us, but with cautious desire to interact. Admittedly, I’d never dealt with an animal so full of aggression. We were flying by the seats of our pants, really — hoping she would understand we weren’t like the other humans she’d known, taking each step slowly by allowing her to lead the way.
After months of having only food and water slid to her through a chain-linked fence by workers and receiving whatever treats we had to offer, Sweetie finally stood close enough to the gate for us to touch her one day. She groaned a little, but switched sides allowing me to stroke her fur again through the fence. It was like touching cardboard. Broke my heart, numbed my brain. How could someone treat a creature so terribly? When my fingers connected with her fur that first time, her suffering was tangible, and I felt it in my soul. Can’t explain it, really, but I knew her spirit was still alive. She was trying.
The facility won custodianship by mid-summer, and I arrived to jailbreak Sweetie on behalf of DFW Rescue Me for her well-deserved trip to the vet. Later that day, I drove her to my home to recover, but had little faith I’d be able to safely foster her with my other animals. After all, I’m no dog trainer, and I’ve always told folks I’m a cat person at the end of the day. All the same, I considered Sweetie’s spirit and her progress. Maybe, just maybe things could work, I thought.
That first month we kept Sweetie in a room alone. She wanted to eat the cats and other dogs. The next month, she wanted to eat the cats and other dogs less. We took her on walks and supervised play time in the yard, and, remarkably, she decided to befriend our little Italian Greyhound foster guy. We moved Sweetie into a large crate by our patio door so she’d have a better view and also be able to spend more time observing the offending cats, whom she became slightly less dead set upon devouring. Slightly. By the end of the third month, she’d made friends with our cat Mr. Bob Dobalina, a grey tabby tom dude with titanium tolerance. Like a helicopter mom, I began leading Sweetie around the house on her leash so she could hang out in general population. I could tell she wanted to please us and was grateful; she just needed to take her time.
In the evenings, we sat in the hammock in the backyard and stared at the sky together. Sweetie would close her eyes, lean into me sighing and kissing my cheek. Her teats weren’t swollen anymore. Her fur felt like…fur. She was content. And beautiful now. Sometimes I’d gawk at her in complete disbelief that she was the raggedy old hag who used to spit and cuss at me just months earlier. I’d hold her and tell her everything was going to be ok, but I knew we still had a haul ahead of us.
Even though Sweetie was improving, her thyroid wonked out. Rats. Here I was with a pit bull burdened by a sordid past [strike] who was old [strike] with a condition that required medication twice a day for life [strike]. She wasn’t receiving boatloads of adoption applications, let me tell ya. I wished she could only get along with my little dog, Nova Party Pants, who was still pretty irritated Sweetie was crashing at her pad. Rock and a hard place, but with a little wiggle room for hope.
A couple months ago, Sweetie was snoring on the couch when Nova slumped up next to her. Burrowing into the fatty folds of Sweetie’s belly, Nova passed out. Everything really was going to be ok, I realized. Nova just needed time, too. There they were: Four cats and my beloved gal pal Nova…and Sweetie. Victory.
Because Sweetie’s progress was so significant, I began socializing her on Main Street. Then we started going around in the car more. Last week, I’m honored and proud to say she completed her fourth appearance as a Voices for Justice dog, which is an educational program our rescue presents to local elementary schools and children’s groups within our DFW communities. (She was even on the news because she’s a superstar like that.)
On Wednesday, like almost a thousand people before me, I completed an online application to adopt through our group. All of our dogs deserve the best homes possible, but certainly Sweetie’s was a lifetime coming. I closed my laptop after sending the app and told Sweetie, “So you’re staying. Forever.” Then, for the the first time ever, she tore apart my kitchen trash. Stinker. Pfft.
In the past year, I thought I was working on Sweetie, but, truly, she was working on me. I was the one with trust issues. I was the one who needed to believe the unimaginable was possible. I was the one who underestimated myself and my ability to let the world unfold instead of forcing that which only time often reveals. When those flies were laying eggs in her cardboard fur, she could’ve given up…but she didn’t. There was spunk buried inside her will to live. She chose to become a better dog when new people showed her a light, and because of that, I’d be a fool to not become a better person through her lessons.
As I type, Sweetie is snoring with her pokey out-y tongue hanging out and drooling on my bed. She’s shedding and smells like hell, but I don’t care. Like the rest of my clan, I love her without end.
And I’m humbled she calls this place “home.”
Welcome home, Sweetie. This is our sweet hereafter, old girl.
Thank you, thank you, thank you to Toothacres, Jim Wenger, and the great volunteers at DFW Rescue Me who created a bridge for Sweetie’s recovery as well as an outlet for her to share her story to educate others. Most of all, thanks to Russell for saying “yes” over and over again, even when saying “no” would have often been easier. <3
six days at the fair 