(A Continuing Saga)
When we bought the farm we had one dog and two cats. Our dog was named Pheebie. At least that's how we phonetically spelled it. Pheebie was a respectable, but small Boykin Spaniel who had been given to my oldest son as a birthday present. During this dog's adolescence we made several half-hearted attempts to turn her into a bird dog and quickly learned that the only thing Pheebie wanted to retrieve while on a dove field was an afternoon nap in the shade.
Chocolate brown with piercing yellow eyes, this dog just wouldn't hunt, but she became a beloved member of our family none the less. I was sure she would thrive in our newly found country environment and as predicted, Pheebie did flourish. She ran the pastures and jumped the fences. She stayed close to home and never destroyed anything. God bless this dog!
Unfortunately, when you live in the country you also assume there's plenty of room for more than one dog. I had always loved Dalmatians and had vowed to have one someday. As fate would have it, someday came about a year after we moved to Blythewood. My husband and two sons had gone shopping at the local IGA and a pet shop had just opened next to the grocery store in our new, upscale strip mall. In front of the pet shop sat a fully grown, female Dalmatian named Jasmine and the sign over Jasmine's pen read "free to a good home."
Never ones to pass up anything free, I received a telephone call from the male members of my family telling me about this dog. Beautiful Jasmine had me from the get go and in short order the dog of many spots was loaded up and on her way to our home.
Jasmine fit in from the beginning. This dog simply loved life and joyously filled her days leaping three feet into the air following butterflies or running through the fields literally swinging from the horses' tails. She would chase and be chased by the Pekin ducks who lived on the ornamental pond in our front yard. It wasn't uncommon to see Jasmine in close pursuit of Ducky Duck when suddenly the tide would turn and the proud white drake would reverse course to become the pursuer. Somehow Jasmine never harmed a feather on Ducky Duck's prominent tail and eventually tiring of the chase, duck and dog would stop to rest side by side near the water's edge.
Jasmine was a blessing with only one fault. She loved to chase cars and I knew this would be her eventual demise. Low and behold, one morning my husband burst into the bedroom yelling "where's my pistol?" Well, I wasn't exactly packing the weapon in my bathrobe pocket and since normal people don't start conversations out in this fashion, the nature of his inquiry did cause me a moment's hesitation. Noting the confused look on my face, my husband finally exclaimed, "I've hit Jasmine - she's in bad shape and I'm going to put her out of her misery."
Making a mental note of the man's crisis management skills, I reminded my husband that I too owned a gun and no one was going to shoot my dog. Rushing outside I found Jasmine lying helpless and bloody in the driveway. Still breathing, we took her to the local animal hospital, but the prognosis wasn't good. She had been run over by the front and back wheels of a Suburban. Jasmine had a crushed skull, broken ribs that had punctured her lungs, a dislocated hip, and her long spotted tail had been completely severed.
Resembling an actor in a medical drama, the vet gravely informed us that if Jasmine made it through the next forty-eight hours she might survive, but unfortunately she would never be able to have puppies. Miraculously our dog did make it through the first night and then the second. Grateful she was alive we visited her everyday while she was in the canine intensive care unit. Initially, my children and I cried as our Dalmatian suffered and then we smiled as the pain eased and she slowly recovered. Showing his softer side, my husband even shed a few tears as he watched me write the $1,800 check to the vet on the morning of Jasmine's release.
Two days after Jasmine came home from the hospital I was in the carport emptying the trash when I noticed Pheebie trotting down the driveway with what appeared to be a furry spotted stick clenched between her teeth. As if presenting evidence from a crime scene she proudly deposited the remnants of a severed tail right at my feet. Amazed that Pheebie had actually retrieved something, but realizing it was far too late to reattach the appendage, I picked up the tail and unceremoniously disposed of it in the garbage can with the rest of the trash. A few months after this Jasmine returned to her spirited pursuits and that's how we came to own the only $1,800, limping, barren, bob tailed Dalmatian in Blythewood - free to a good home.
Chocolate brown with piercing yellow eyes, this dog just wouldn't hunt, but she became a beloved member of our family none the less. I was sure she would thrive in our newly found country environment and as predicted, Pheebie did flourish. She ran the pastures and jumped the fences. She stayed close to home and never destroyed anything. God bless this dog!
Unfortunately, when you live in the country you also assume there's plenty of room for more than one dog. I had always loved Dalmatians and had vowed to have one someday. As fate would have it, someday came about a year after we moved to Blythewood. My husband and two sons had gone shopping at the local IGA and a pet shop had just opened next to the grocery store in our new, upscale strip mall. In front of the pet shop sat a fully grown, female Dalmatian named Jasmine and the sign over Jasmine's pen read "free to a good home."
Never ones to pass up anything free, I received a telephone call from the male members of my family telling me about this dog. Beautiful Jasmine had me from the get go and in short order the dog of many spots was loaded up and on her way to our home.
Jasmine fit in from the beginning. This dog simply loved life and joyously filled her days leaping three feet into the air following butterflies or running through the fields literally swinging from the horses' tails. She would chase and be chased by the Pekin ducks who lived on the ornamental pond in our front yard. It wasn't uncommon to see Jasmine in close pursuit of Ducky Duck when suddenly the tide would turn and the proud white drake would reverse course to become the pursuer. Somehow Jasmine never harmed a feather on Ducky Duck's prominent tail and eventually tiring of the chase, duck and dog would stop to rest side by side near the water's edge.
Jasmine was a blessing with only one fault. She loved to chase cars and I knew this would be her eventual demise. Low and behold, one morning my husband burst into the bedroom yelling "where's my pistol?" Well, I wasn't exactly packing the weapon in my bathrobe pocket and since normal people don't start conversations out in this fashion, the nature of his inquiry did cause me a moment's hesitation. Noting the confused look on my face, my husband finally exclaimed, "I've hit Jasmine - she's in bad shape and I'm going to put her out of her misery."
Making a mental note of the man's crisis management skills, I reminded my husband that I too owned a gun and no one was going to shoot my dog. Rushing outside I found Jasmine lying helpless and bloody in the driveway. Still breathing, we took her to the local animal hospital, but the prognosis wasn't good. She had been run over by the front and back wheels of a Suburban. Jasmine had a crushed skull, broken ribs that had punctured her lungs, a dislocated hip, and her long spotted tail had been completely severed.
Resembling an actor in a medical drama, the vet gravely informed us that if Jasmine made it through the next forty-eight hours she might survive, but unfortunately she would never be able to have puppies. Miraculously our dog did make it through the first night and then the second. Grateful she was alive we visited her everyday while she was in the canine intensive care unit. Initially, my children and I cried as our Dalmatian suffered and then we smiled as the pain eased and she slowly recovered. Showing his softer side, my husband even shed a few tears as he watched me write the $1,800 check to the vet on the morning of Jasmine's release.
Two days after Jasmine came home from the hospital I was in the carport emptying the trash when I noticed Pheebie trotting down the driveway with what appeared to be a furry spotted stick clenched between her teeth. As if presenting evidence from a crime scene she proudly deposited the remnants of a severed tail right at my feet. Amazed that Pheebie had actually retrieved something, but realizing it was far too late to reattach the appendage, I picked up the tail and unceremoniously disposed of it in the garbage can with the rest of the trash. A few months after this Jasmine returned to her spirited pursuits and that's how we came to own the only $1,800, limping, barren, bob tailed Dalmatian in Blythewood - free to a good home.
No comments:
Post a Comment