Doggie Love

 

I waited a long time to adopt a dog. 

Years ago, living in a small apartment in the Fenway in Boston, I longed for a canine companion.  I would gaze longingly at others who would stroll up and down Queensbury Street with their own dogs, wondering if I would ever reside in a place large enough for the type of dog I wanted (I love big and small dogs alike, but imagined myself with a larger model, perhaps having been subjected to too many Levi's commercials in which big happy canines romp through streams with rugged looking owners).  A man down the road from me was father to a Great Dane, but I couldn't imagine leaving a large dog alone in an apartment all day while I went to work to earn the money for kibble (I'm not sure if the Great Dane's person worked outside the home).  Not to mention that my life at the time wasn't stable enough for a dog; I was never sure how long I would be living at said apartment, or even in Boston, and my emotional state at that time, passing in and out of bouts of sometimes severe depression, was not conducive to good doggie parenting. 

Now, these many years later, I find myself proud mama to a white German Shepherd beast, adopted from a local breeder whose family my husband and I sought out when it was decided that a white Shepherd would be the best dog for our family.  I'd perused the shelter down the street, and much crying and sharp words passed between the husband and I when I fell in love with a huge black Shepherd named Monty who was so eager to play and to come home with me. Hub was not interested in Monty, and I was heartbroken at the prospect of having to leave the shelter without being able to save even one dog.  Those places are like doggie prisons-sad, a bit smelly and filled with the sorrow of loss and abandonment.  After we returned home and my vows to disengage myself from the dog search had given way to the more pressing need for a canine friend, I began searching breeders.  Finally, we located a family who seemed to genuinely love their dogs, a family who raises white Shepherds as an additional job, which seems to be as much a love for them as it is a vocation.  Our boy came home to us from Foxhunt Shepherds two years ago last February, and he has been a great fit for our family ever since. 

Our Shepherd was a gift from God.  Seriously. With a reddish stripe of fur running down his back, he isn't a "perfect" white shepherd, which is truly perfect for us since we tend toward being a ragamuffin bunch ourselves.  Nobody in our home is a poster person for the perfect, Happy Days/Mulberry type of all American family member.  We tend more toward the all American camper/hiker/motorcycle rider type and we love it that way.  On any given day, it's questionable whether or not my daughter will don a pair of shoes, though we would never go so far as to leave the house without wearing any.  Our homeschooling lifestyle has lead to us being a more laid back family, with chickens strutting about the back yard, attempts at vegetable gardening underway, and digging in the dirt strongly encouraged.  Last week's treasured gift was a bug collecting kit which I found for our daughter in one of those bins set up by the door at the supermarket.

Yesterday morning we woke to find our dog sporting a swollen eye.  He'd been shaking his head all night long, my husband said (usually I'm the one to wake up when such things take place-I must have been exhausted that night, however) and it was obvious he'd gotten into something in the yard the day before.  I immediately suspected a toad, since our dog suffered the same experience about a year ago, and a quick trip to the vet had revealed that a toad was the most likely suspect. Every summer when the rains begin in earnest the Bufo toads arrive (or maybe they just come out of hiding) like one of the plagues in Exodus. Big, ugly things, they emit a toxin that is capable of killing dogs and cats, and every animal parent I know detests them.  Lately, I've been spotting them everywhere, but it's impossible to keep them from our yard and I'm constantly concerned  that our dog will find one, which, apparently, he did a couple of days ago.  For reference, here is an article about the wretched things:  http://www.fondrenpetcare.com/bufo_toad.htm.

Fortunately for us, our very large dog survived the night (probably due to his size) and we were able to bring him to the vet in the morning and obtain medicine to quell the swelling and a shot to counteract the effects of the poison.  I will be monitoring our dog's nightly, pre-bed pee runs in the back yard to help prevent future toad attacks, but am concerned that this is the second time such an encounter has been had between our dog and the neighborhood toads.  This type of incident really makes me grateful for all of the people and animals in my life today who I might take a little bit for granted.  This reminder is good.  But I still dislike the toads.