I never had little dogs, and although I never felt any disdain towards them, I wasn't drawn to them either. I had a golden retriever named Misiu and a rottie named Sasha and I felt my canine life was complete. They had a combined weight of just under two hundred pounds.
My good friend, Debra called one day to say that her half shih tzu and half poodle had her puppies. Seven of them to be exact and did I want to come and see the new arrivals? I do love puppies and Debra is an excellent person and serves some lovely wine, so I went to visit the puppies.
They were less than twenty hours old and very very tiny. I'm certain my guinea pig had given birth to bigger babies, but they were cute and came in a wide variety of colours. The fattest, laziest one was a tan female with a matching nose, whiskey coloured eyes and white paws. Cute little girl. Cute, but what would I do with a little dog? Did I want one of the puppies? No... thanks.
Both of my big dogs were grown and had settled into the routine of a shift worker after years of training. I didn't want to face the housebreaking, chewing, vet bills and the mild embarrassment of having a little dog. Do they have to wear coats and sweaters? Is it fashion or necessity? Does everything have to be pink?
I visited the pups every few days and watched them grow into their personalities. It turns out the little tan female was very feisty and took extreme pleasure in beating her siblings. She was first for meals and last to let go. She was a big dog trapped in a small dog body.
It was finally time for the puppies to leave and I remember visiting as families came to claim their puppy and I wondered how hard it must be for my friend to let them go, she'd been present at the birth and watched them grow and it turns out that was much harder than I thought to let them go.
Debra and I shared a bottle of wine with every puppy that went off tail wagging to their forever home. One day three puppies left and we shared three bottles of wine. We called ourselves dedicated.
There were plenty of people interested in the little tan female, but my friend was holding her because she loved her "big dog" personality. I remember a late night call begging me to take the little tan female, but I held firm and resisted her pleas, and refused.
That night I dreamt of the puppy. I remembered when the puppy was only a week old and sucked on my baby finger. I remember watching her pudgy body try to keep up with her little legs. I remembered her first step, first solid food and first good fighting match with her siblings.
I woke up the next morning and a few days later my friend called again and begged me to take the tan female. She needed to know the little girl went to a good home where she could watch her grow up. With a sigh and a little kick to my pocketbook I agreed, and as I drove to pick up the tan female I wondered what I was going to do with a three pound ball of fuzz.
Would my golden and rottie trample and hurt the little girl? How would I protect her from their playing? Granted, the golden was nearing twelve with a bad back end, but the rottie was only six and full of life. How do I introduce them? Should I shelter her? How do I keep her safe?
My worrying was not necessary. I brought the feisty female home and like a bugs bunny character she went through the house with speed and a spinning fire I could barely follow. She snarled at Sasha who backed away in respect and then lost herself between Misiu's front leg and chest to have a lovely nap.
At only eight weeks old the little fuzzy ball had deemed herself queen and leader of the household. She was initially crowned the Tasmanian Devil or Taz for short, but even that name would be short lived.
It didn't take long for me to find the joy in shopping for my new puppy and buying her graphic tees, coats and pink sweaters. Overnight I had become the girl who carries a puppy in her purse. Paris Hilton, but without the massive amounts of money.
My excuse and justification: when Taz came to live with us we had been trying for a baby for about five years. Under the influence of strong fertility medications I cuddled Taz and she became my baby. I took her everywhere. She became a source of strength to help me through all the trials, ups and downs of fertility treatment.
In the end there would be no baby, the marriage would dissolve and I'd created a monster of a puppy who knew no limits. She'd demand to sit on my lap at dinnertime. She'd get me to hang up the phone to give her attention by barking. She had it all. It was time to add princess to the name, so she became Princess Taz.
At twelve weeks my little bundle of evil joy was playing with my slipper, that happened to be on my foot, while I was walking down the hallway. She grabbed the slipper with her teeth and then slide along while I walked and laughed. She didn't have a good hold when she fell.
Taz lost her toothy grip and fell off the side of my slipper, which would not be a big deal for a golden or a rottie, but for a three point six pound puppy it was devastating. Taz's tiny head bounced off the ceramic tile and she was out cold for over a minute. I was on the floor with tears in my eyes trying to remember my medical training.
Taz woke up and crawled over the corner vomited, had a brief seizure and was unresponsive again. I lost several lives that day. I couldn't help but think I must have done something horrible in my life to be denied having babies and to lose my Princess Taz. Wrapped in a soft fleecy blanket I raced to the vet's office with tears in my eyes and fear in my heart.
By the time we got to the office Taz was dazed, but looking around. I gently carried her into the examination room and placed her and the blanket on the table to be assessed. The vet wanted to give her steroids for brain swelling, anti-inflammatories and atropine to get her to stop drooling excessively. He kept her for two hours under observation.
I wandered the parking lot for a while sobbing softly to myself. I moved my teary vigil to the local mall and could barely see through the water gushing out of my eyes. Eventually, I returned to the vet's office ninety minutes later to hear the verdict. I was sent away with no word.
I went to my Debra's house and told her the tale while taking solace in her generously offered bottle of wine. She comforted and offered words of hope. An hour later I called the vet and he said to come to the office. Just come to the office.
It was the longest ten minute drive of my life.
I sat in the waiting room listening to people complain about their bill and mentally promised never to complain about a vet bill as long as my Princess Taz was okay. Please. Please. Please. Let her be okay.
The vet called me into the empty exam room and looked at me solemnly. I don't think I took a breath the entire time. I was standing in an empty room terrified that a puppy I never wanted was dying. I remember thinking please god let me keep this little tan female.
The vet touched my arm and I was taunt and ready to explode, "I think your puppy is going to be fine." Kinder words have never been spoken. Perhaps it was the fertility drugs running my emotions, but I hugged that vet. I hugged him like he told me he'd cured my disease.
The vet tech brought out my little puppy who looked thin and exhausted. The dried vomit and drool was stuck to her face and baby blanket. Her eyes were weeping and her nose full of snot, but my baby girl was going to be okay.
"There might be some stunting of growth due to the steroids, but I think she'll be fine." The vet informed me as I nuzzled my stinky, sticky puppy not caring about anything... I could only hear that my baby was okay.
This was not the end of journey with medical problems, but only just the beginning. I have always remembered my promise to never complain about a vet bill and you might catch me gasping, but I will never complain as long as my baby will be okay.
I don't know if it was the medication or the stress or the head injury, but Taz suddenly stopped eating and started vomiting. I tried everything to get her to eat. Freshly cooked chicken and brown rice. Expensive dog foods, prescription dog foods and treats. Nothing.
I took her to the vet and they gave her puppy antacids and sent me home. In a few days she dropped from three pounds to two point three pounds. My puppy was wasting away and I could not persuade her to eat.
The vomiting and diarrhea continued and I returned with a lethargic emaciated puppy to the vet. He gave her intravenous fluids and vitamins. He checked her blood sugar and gave her more antacids. He sent her home with special food and my own prayer. A diagnosis of gastroenteritis was given and anti-diarrhea and anti-emesis medications were prescribed.
Stop feeding for twelve hours and then give small meals every two hours. Make sure to give this medication two hours before you feed or she'll vomit.
I spent hours on the floor trying to persuade the puppy to eat. I made boiled chicken, grilled chicken, BBQed chicken and fried chicken. Nothing. She dropped to two pounds. A thirteen week old shih poo puppy who weighted less than many new born puppies.
Perhaps I was destine for heartache. Perhaps I would lose my puppy after all. I cried myself to sleep one night with Taz, now a bag of bones, curled under my right arm. What could I do? How many times did I have to pay for my mistakes in life? Why so much heartache?
I worried. Lost sleep. Lost time and was terrified I'd lose my puppy, but her saviour came in the paws of her big brother Misiu. I'd always fed the dogs in the same room, but a few feet from each other. Taz would sit and watch the other dogs eat and I'd pick up her food before they could eat it. One day I didn't get a chance to grab her dish before Misiu dashed over to scarf back the extra meal of tasty chicken. Taz ignored me picking up her food, but it was unacceptable for Misiu to eat it and she snapped at him before gulping back the chicken with an evil sideways glance at Misiu.
I'd found the cure. Food aggression would save my puppy. Taz began to eat when Misiu would try to steal her food.
She still has bouts of gastritis that sends us to the vet four times a year for a miracle shot that helps with the cramping and diarreha, but we managed to work through it. At two years old Taz is just shy of eight pounds, ribby and super thin, but mostly healthy and super energetic. The wee pup gained her third name: Super.
It was June 2008 when Misiu died. He simply couldn't get up anymore and we respectfully sent him to find peace. The bond that Misiu and Taz shared would devastate the young puppy and send her back into a tail spin of anorexia and gastroenteritis.
We waited until Fall of 2008 to start looking for a friend for Taz and we were afraid that time wouldn't pass quickly enough... Taz had stopped eating and by the end of September she was dropping weight fast. We found Gizmo on http://www.petfinder.com/ and started the rescue process.
It took over a month to pick up our Gizmo, who was horribly sick and we thought we might lose him too. It occurred to me as I looked at my two sick puppies in October 2008 that I was blessed, not cursed for having to care for these two sad creatures. I can help them. I have the love and can provide the medical care they need to survive. All this time I thought I was being punished, when really it as my reward. I was their saviour.
I happily nursed my puppies back to health and today they are a delightful pair of mostly healthy little dogs. Gizmo came through some barbaric eye surgery this past week and we were able to come up with the funds to help him keep his eye sight. Taz is eating morning and night as long as Gizmo continues to try and steal her food. Gizmo loves, loves, loves his food. Any food, it could be your food, or Taz's food or my food. Food is Gizmo's favorite thing.
My Super Tazil Puppy dog still gets gastroenteritis about three times a year, but it's usually her fondness for eating partial decomposed anything. She's pushing nine pounds and is still very thin, but lives up to the "Super" part of her name.
Ironic that a puppy who hates to eat is paired up with puppy who loves to eat? Maybe karma is on my side.
