A few weeks ago I concluded my series on “Lessons You Can Learn From Animals.”

I finished the series mainly because I didn’t want to bore my readers with endless
narratives about animals (of which I have quite a few).  However, at the risk of boring
you, I have decided to produce yet another animal-themed column.

The reason for this decision is simple: I got a dog.

Until about two weeks ago, I was a happy prairie-dog and cat owner.  Sure, I planned to get a real dog eventually, but right now our home is much too small and our schedules far too busy to bring a canine into the mix.  Once my husband and I got our careers settled and moved into a larger home, then we’d go to a shelter and pick out a nice mixed-breed dog or puppy in need of a good home.

So I thought.  But as it happened, I didn’t pick out a dog at all.  The dog picked me.

My husband and I were at a lakehouse in the ultimate middle-of-nowhere location, the mountains of Alabama.  Barely an hour into our first day there, a subtle whining came from outside the window.

“Did you hear that?” I said.

“Yeah,” said my husband.

“Was that a dog?” I asked.

My husband shrugged.  “I dunno,” he said.

When I stepped outside, there she was: a largish-breed puppy with white fur and brown spots, wagging her tail and gazing up at me with her big brown eyes.

We thought she must have wandered off from her family; yet, her ribs were showing through, and her appearance was worse for wear – she had cuts on her snout and chest, and about six ticks on her belly and ears.  We cleaned her up and removed the ticks, and found some hot dogs to feed her.  We didn’t want her to go hungry; after all, her family would be looking for her soon.

So I thought.

We were at the lakehouse for four days.  In that time, the puppy (who my husband began to call Lucy), followed us everywhere.  She lay beside us on the dock, rode with us in the paddleboat, and sat beside us on the porch.  In spite of the lack of fence and the abundance of woods to explore, she never wandered off.  During the day, she trotted behind us or sat beside us, and when we went inside for the night, she slept just outside the door, waiting to greet us the next morning.

The few other people we found in the lonely hills of Alabama said alternately that they had never seen the dog before, or that they’d seen her before and fed her, but she wasn’t theirs.  It seemed that the friendly puppy had been abandoned.

My husband and I decided we couldn’t leave her at the lakehouse to starve; we would either keep her, or take her to a shelter.  We called the local animal shelter to make sure no one had been looking for her.  They hadn’t.

And so, our dog chose us.  By persistent gentle affection she won us over, and Lucy went from “the lakehouse dog” to “our dog”.

We took her back into town with us, where we were staying with some friends, and made an appointment to have her checked over by the veterinarian and to get her vaccinations.

Two hours before her appointment, she started acting strangely.  She was panting heavily, and swaying slightly when she walked.  A few minutes later she began staggering, then her back legs went limp and she sunk to the ground, unable to get up.  Within seconds, she was having seizures.

The ride to the animal hospital took only ten minutes, but it felt like a lifetime.  My husband drove while I sat in the backseat with Lucy, her 30-pound frame convulsing, stiffening, foam coming out of her mouth.  I stroked her face and body and held her head as the convulsions threatened to twist her neck against the back of the seat; all the while, those big brown eyes looked up at me, terrified.  She never once barked or growled at me.  The look in her eyes was panic, but a pleading one, as though begging for help.  I had only known the dog for a few days, but watching her suffer like that was torturous.

We got her to the animal hospital in time.  The seizures had been caused by a toxin – a potent weed-killer residue on a kudzu plant she had eaten – but the veterinarian was able to stop her seizures and flush her system before the toxins did any permanent damage. 

The entire experience took me off guard.  I have always hated to see animals suffer, but it has been years since I’ve seen something that intense.  Those moments with Lucy took me back to when I volunteered in an animal clinic.  In my time there, no more than a couple months, I saw a Golden Retriever die of a gunshot wound, a Chihuahua die from an overdose of flea medication, a Rottweiler die from cancer, and a cat moaning in pain following a surgery on his front paws.

Yet in my time there, I also saw some amazing things – an injured bobcat brought in by a caring stranger, numerous animals aided by delicate procedures accomplished with laser technology, and a blood donor dog whose blood saved the lives of others.

Sometimes I ask myself why I decided not to pursue my childhood intentions of becoming a veterinarian, but moments like those in the backseat with Lucy remind me of my reasons.  Doctors – for animals and for people – have a very difficult profession.  The best doctors, the ones who truly care, bear the pain and stress of the suffering of others with absolute empathy.  They put everything on the line – time, energy, effort, emotion – for the sake of helping others, often sacrificing time for themselves and time with their families for people (or animals) they barely know. 

The veterinarian I volunteered for once said that witnessing suffering and death is as painful after twenty years of work as it is the very first day.  He told me that the doctors who care never really become calloused; they never become numb; they just keep doing what they need to do in order to save lives, no matter how difficult it might be.

I chose not to become a veterinarian because, as much as I love animals, I just didn’t know if I had the courage to face that kind of pain on a daily basis.  But there are those who do, who choose to, who build their lives around selflessly helping others – and that, to me, is amazing.

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