Love the
broken. Those words keep spinning around
my head, but I don’t believe they are coming from me. Even more difficult, love the broken
unconditionally. I think this command is
why a broken and misunderstood dog named Freddy found his way into my life.
By the time
an email arrived asking to surrender this dog, I had been rescuing vizslas long
enough that I knew not to ask why they were giving him away. If they were asking to do so, the best thing
was to accept the animal fast, because what you could offer, even if temporary,
was better than not being wanted, So, in
November 2013, Freddy came home.
While I did
not look back, I did look sideways, knowing a rescue coordinator could not keep
all the abandoned and that there were many good people that give cast-aside
dogs amazing second lives. However, once Freddy was at my place for just a few
days, I knew I couldn’t look sideways either.
If I did, he would become the often returned dog, the dog left in my
kennel without explanation, the dog that was just too much to handle. Doing that once to an animal is hard
enough. Many times over? It leaves a
mark worse than the first surrender ever could.
I’m making
him sound like a monster. He wasn’t. His
goofy grin and extended paw were enough to combat his eating everything in
sight, his wounded nature, and the aggression he showed, so rarely, but
sometimes, when tested.
I won’t lie.
My marriage almost ended over Freddy. At
many points I felt I had to choose between him or Richard. Thankfully, Richard always softened knowing that what
others could do was impossible for me.
You see,
with Freddy, I finally figured out what all my years of dog rescue was
about. Though I loved these animals and
wanted to find them homes, over and over again, with each animal taken in, I
wasn’t rescuing them. I was rescuing me
and not in this dog saved my life kind of way.
I was rescuing the me who knew what if felt like to unloved and, even
worse, the me who was deservedly unloved.
I was rescuing the forgotten me, the-cast-aside me, the I-am-not-good-enough
me. Every dog that I rescued or every
animal abuser I prosecuted, I did at least in part in a misguided effort to
prove I really was worthy. I’m sorry about
that. I’m sorry the rescues weren’t all
about them. I’m sorry I was so ignorantly selfish.
Wait. Love the broken. There’s still hope. By the time Freddy was in
my life for a year or so, I had done the work. I realized I did not have to do
that anymore. Freddy would be my last rescue, because, with age, learning, and self-reflection,
I finally figured out I no longer needed rescuing. I was enough. And with that
knowledge, my unconditional love for Freddy, a broken dog in need of that love,
just expanded.
This is not
to gloat or self aggrandize, but with Freddy, I learned to care for him and not
for an injured version of myself. Love
the broken unconditionally came the command. So, when Freddy acted out, I stood
by him. Destroyed couches, walls, doors, and fences, eaten hooks and nails, too
many surgeries to count to remove said hooks and nails, pancreatitis,
splenectomy, exocrine pancreatic sufficiency disorder, anxiety, hypothyroidism,
Cushings, irritable bowel syndrome – we handled them, often through many long
nights, together.
Freddy could
have been a veterinarian’s worst nightmare, a constant presence under the need of constant
care. But the refrain, “what did he eat now?” when I brought him to the vet’s
office was supplanted over time by everyone-- especially veterinarians Kellie and Sarah – smiling and warmly calling, "Freddy" when he walked through the door. He
moved from a dog they once feared to the one who gently rested against their
leg. The one who they desperately, but so scientifically, wished to cure.
So how could
this broken, diseased animal do this? Turn the afraid into those who lavished
affection? If you had the opportunity to love Freddy, you would have figured
out it was easy. It was his eyes. It was his own knowledge, reflected in his
gaze, that he knew he tested us. And
that act that could have caused distress was always healed by that extended paw
afterward. It was his grip on you. It was that goofy dog that could come out and
did come out with time and treatment.
The one who would smile and howl on a trail run with excitement. The
forever ball chaser, but always ball returner. The dog he was meant to be.
In the last
three months of his life, Freddy went from weighing 71 pounds to 47 pounds.
During that last three months, I tried everything to turn it around. Even yesterday, I was at the vet, because I
was trying to turn it around. Then came
the last diagnosis -- diabetes -- which explained
his symptoms over his last three days. Diabetes alone is treatable, but with every
possible disorder of the digestive tract he had, it could only be potentially
treatable through three weeks of experimentation. When you hear that, when your vets are crying with
you, when you look at the animal you have and still would do anything for, the
answer becomes clear. No more
suffering. It even had Freddy’s
endorsement the night before. While he was lying on the floor and I was next to
him, he took his paw and held it to my cheek and looked directly into my eyes
with the look that pet owners know. You
have loved me well, and I will miss you, but it’s time.
Over the
course of my life I have had to take this last act -- just like many of you -- many, many times.
Each different from the other, but equally painful. That is why I want to share
one last thing with you. When Freddy was
on his dog bed and I was at his side, when Kellie introduced the pentobarbital,
and that strong beating heart stopped beating, I immediately felt Freddy’s
happiness. I felt his freedom, and I
felt his love. A medical person in the room with us, who paused first before
saying this, and only shared it because she knew I would understand, said she felt them there in the room with us. Walter, O’Malley, even the dogs this person
did not know, Cletus, Emma, Willow, Spot, Buck, Kirby. They were there, and they took Freddy to his
forever, forever home.
Even though
I grieve now, wondering how I can ever eat ice cream alone without those big
eyes and grasping paws by my side, I know -- more than I have ever known before - that Freddy is happy and his journey continues.
I still feel
his thanks. I still feel his love. I still
feel his presence, even through these unending tears.
This part
sounds mean and maybe petty, and not worth saying, but I keep thinking it. I am
so grateful for the people who cast Freddy aside. I am so glad he was too much for them. I am
so glad their love was conditional, because he became mine. And I never want a life that was any other
way.
My final
words are to him. Good-bye, friend.
Angels carry you. Until we meet again, know, you are forever loved.
