Mutts in Recovery

It's been 11 months since we got our rescue pups. Each day, we learn something new about them and them about us. They've grown leaps and bounds, with many miles to go.

Today, when Bandido jumped out of my parked car and ran to the neighbor's fence (not on the itinerary but necessary in her mind), I reached to grab her after giving a stern "NO!" She slunk down and got teeny, weeny--cowering in terror.

Terror.

I looked down at her, surprised. Her brown eyes looked up at me. The pain I saw bordered on being too much to bear.

I felt horrible. She felt terrified.

Bandido hadn't done anything horrifically wrong. She had just deemed it appropriate to take a gander at the neighbor dog. Of course, she can't gallivant around the neighborhood. It's my duty to keep her safe and to teach her what's okay and what's not. It's not okay to zip across the tundra and harass the neighbor dog without permission to run.

This got me once again thinking about the life she must have had on the streets of the TexMex border. Usually, the wife and I make up hilarious stories about their life before joining our family. We laugh about their supposed antics, add to the story as we go along. We know none of it is true. What we do know is that she had puppies right before being rescued, was covered in mange and was painfully thin. Having puppies, mange and hunger was the least of it. With that in mind, I say to the person(s) who abused Bandido, our most fabulous rescue pup:

Bandido has been here almost a year. Despite being treated with nothing but love and kindness, she still cowers and slinks around--truly terrified at times. I can tell she was badly beaten, probably left for dead, certainly not cared for. I look at her spine and know that someone physically harmed her--deformed from a beating, maybe hit by a car, or god who knows what. I choose not to dwell on that.

I am so glad you were shitty enough to let her run away or to throw her on the garbage pile or leave her for dead. Because of you, we now have an amazing dog. She is incredibly smart, amazingly loyal, and ridiculously food-driven. She's a lot healthier now, not that you'd care. She doesn't have mange, her broken teeth have been removed, her confidence has grown.

I no longer set an alarm clock. Why? Because like clockwork, Bandido wakes me up every day at 4:45 AM. No matter what time she goes to bed, her internal alarm clock wakes her precisely at 4:45 AM. I love this. Thankfully, I am a morning person. She must know that. I admit I'd like to sleep in a few more minutes on the weekend, but getting up is the least I can do for this scruffy pup. Not only do I have a faithful companion, I have a clock that doesn't need its batteries replaced.

It's hard not to get angry at you when I think about what Bandido endured because of your abuse. In fact, I probably look like this crabby chihuahua when I think about you. I'd like to bite your leg. Hell, I'd like to poop in your shoes and pee on you while you are sleeping.

I know, I know--she's "just" a dog. But, in this crazy world, this "just a dog" is just what I need. She makes me laugh. She brings me joy. She keeps me on my toes. And for that, I am grateful.

So, thank you for letting Bandido go. I plan on giving her the life she most certainly deserves. I'll comfort her when she is scared. I'll feed her when she's hungry. I'll keep her safe when there is danger. Best of all, I'll love her just the way she is.

Scruffy.
Toothless.
Tentative.
Intuitive.
Ridiculous.

Perhaps I'll start a recovery for dogs abused in the border towns. I'll call it "Mutts in Recovery." Therapy, food, bully sticks and warm beds free of charge. I won't count on a donation from you.

I, for one, am confident that she will fully recover from her PTSD (post traumatic Texas disorder). I am not as confident that you will become a better person as time goes on. One can hope.

One can hope.
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