The Broken Ones

This was how Thomas looked when he arrived at Upland Animal Shelter in 2013.

For my thirty-seventh birthday, my daughter gave me a kitten. A scrawny little squalling thing with huge ears and a feisty attitude.

“The lady said she was the runt, so I picked her because I knew that’s the one you would want.”

My daughter was still a teenager, but already she knew me so well. Yep, I’m betting that is the one I would have chosen. Calpurnia (named for the beloved housekeeper in To Kill a Mockingbird) grew into a beautiful little cat who lived a long life and was a great companion.

When Cal died, I sought out a rescue group in Upland, and the nice volunteer introduced me to many a pretty kitty, torties and tigers and the like.

“Do you have any black cats?” I asked. Cal was black, my young cat, Boo Radley was black, and by then I knew that black cats, like black dogs, have a harder time finding forever homes.

“Well, we have one,” she told me. “She’s very small, and she’s missing half her tail.”

“I’ll take her,” I said. The volunteer insisted that I “meet” her, so she let “Sugar Plum” (I know; I cringed at the name, too) out of her cage. She jumped to the floor, strolled purposefully across the room to the bench where I was sitting, and, jumping up, hunkered down next to me.

So that was that.

(I told Sug on the way home as she rode silently in the cat carrier, “I’m sorry, but Sugar Plum is a terrible name for a cat. Don’t worry. We’ll think of a new, cool name for you.” Ha ha ha. That never happened, and for a dozen years with me, she was Sug, Sugie, Sugie-Pie-Honey-Bunch—and Sugar Plumpkin, the very fitting name my daughter gave her.)

Despite her rough beginning in life (she was not born with that stump of a tail; someone took the rest of it, and I don’t like to imagine how), Sug was absolutely the best little friend, a great mouser, terrific bed warmer, and, in her last years with me, my sweet little comfort at night as she developed the habit of placing her head in my palm as we drifted off to sleep.

Of course, I have blogged here on several occasions about my good boy, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, the feral dog sheltered by the Friends of Upland Animal Shelter, good folks who refused to deem him “unadoptable,” despite how absolutely terrified and shut down he was. Thomas was so, so broken in his spirit, he would not respond to humans, would not even make eye contact.

“He just needs someone to take him home and give him a safe place in their yard to live out his days,” one of the volunteers told me. Thomas had languished in the shelter for six months, she said. No one wants the dog who isn’t tail-waggin’ friendly.

Except me, I guess. Because I brought him home—even though he turned his head away every time I looked at him, and I had to corner him in the garage every time I wanted to put a collar on him, and he flinched every time I touched him. (He still does, mostly, unless I warn him a touch is coming.)

At first, everything about him was challenging. He wouldn’t eat or drink or relieve himself in daylight. He walked on a leash but was so terrified of people walking by or motorcycles starting up (even if they were blocks away) or cars driving past that I had to always keep a tight grip on the lead because I never knew when he would suddenly bolt in the opposite direction, straining all the muscles in my left arm. He’s blind in his right eye, so I have to remember to hand him treats with my right hand on his left side.

Oh. Treats. He wouldn’t eat them at first. Then he developed the habit of showing up when I made toast in the morning. I started setting pieces of the crust on the floor near him. If I ignored him, he would creep up and grab his piece and run off with it to eat it. After months and months and months of this morning ritual, he finally, one day, accepted a piece of toast from my hand, turning and running away as soon as he’d secured it. Now he knows the command “take nice,” which means he has to very gently remove his highly expensive, low fat, human food grade peanut butter treats from my fingers.

Another new trick he has learned is getting into the truck for his daily ride by walking up a ramp. We began this process after I learned of the arthritis in Thom’s shoulder. No more jumping. I bought a sturdy pet ramp (after reading several reviews), then started training him (with his peanut butter treats) to stand on it while it was level, then walk on it level, then walk on it when it was slightly raised. The last step confused him. He didn’t understand why I wanted him to walk on the ramp and also get in the truck. His look said it all: “Can’t I just jump in, Mom?” But he’s a patient old guy now, and he humored me, walking up the ramp as I led him on the leash. Now as soon as it is placed, he walks right up it and into the truck, no lead required.

Who says you can’t teach on old dog new tricks?

Thomas last night, waiting patiently for me to peel his favorite dessert: A raw carrot.

Sadly, the one trick I can’t teach him is how to reverse the aging process.

Three weeks ago, Thomas had a seizure.

Thank goodness I was there to see it, to know what happened, to stroke his back and comfort him. I called Dr. Lebovic, the “Home Vet” and best veterinarian I’ve ever had. He validated what I suspected; while this could be “a one-time thing,” chances are Thom will seize again eventually as his body slowly breaks down. “When we need to” we will talk again of “next steps,” Lebovic said.

In the meantime, Thomas is taking a vitamin-rich food supplement and also a CBD supplement (again, human food grade) that helps with his arthritis and his anxiety.

I will do whatever it takes to keep him happy and comfortable. Because my point here is, as broken as he was when I brought him home, he didn’t stay that way. And he has been the best, best buddy. We have logged hundreds of miles walking and hiking together, and hundreds more driving around so Thomas could view the world from the safety and security of the extra cab of my Ford Ranger. His anxiety and fear of humans was completely justified and understandable to me, and he was worth all the extra effort it took to bring him around to being “almost a real dog,” as I like to tease him.

There have been those, even among my family members, who have criticized me for taking on a dog with “too many issues.” Let me tell you if you’ve never experienced it, the joy and triumph I felt when that sweet boy finally, after two years, trusted me enough to roll over onto his back and let me pet his belly was so overwhelming it brought me to tears. And I cannot count the number of times—especially in this past year—that I have been ever so grateful to be able to lie down next to him and stroke his fur until the tears stopped flowing or my heartbeat slowed to normal.

Thank you, dear, faithful Reader, for allowing me to reminisce for a bit, and for reading once again about how much I adore this big, fluffy, teddy bear of a dog.

All of that, really, is just preface to say this:

Six weeks before Thomas had his seizure, I met a dog that was described by the rescue group as “shy” and “three years old.” In reality, she is six (at least) and absolutely terrified of people—just as Thomas was. I had to visit her four times before I felt I would be able to manage her if I brought her home—which I did, having committed to her adoption the day before Thom’s episode.

So yep, here we go, another broken one. But ya know what? Thomas has taught me so much about how to help a broken dog heal, this one should be a piece of cake.

Okay, I’m joking. Seriously, I laughed out loud when I wrote that.

But stay tuned. For the most part, Miss Maya Angelou Murphy is spending her time either curled in a tight ball or hiding under furniture. But she’s home. And I will definitely keep you posted about her progress.

See what I mean?