A San Francisco Chronicle readers' poll in 2000 named the book one of the 100 most important non-fiction books of the 20th century from the West.

Gerald kindly sent me the below story, that I couldn't resist publishing here. Feel free to leave your comments below. It's a heartwarming story …

Fleas on Board

I would not see my father weep again for nearly 50 years, so that day in 1941 when tears streamed down his face remains vivid. Mitzi, a deaf Boston Bull Terrier whom he adored, had died, but I just couldn't understand how my father could cry; he was, after all, a grown-up…a daddy.

Mitzi had been Pop's buddy, trained to do tricks when he gestured, yet untrained enough to sprint in circles and explode like a white bottle rocket when he returned from work each day. He would snuggle her, roughhouse a bit, talk to her in tones I rarely heard. Mom loved her, too, even allowing Mitzi to nap on the living-room couch, and I played with her daily. Then suddenly she was gone from our lives.

We would have other dogs as I grew up…most memorably Suki, a red Cocker Spaniel who was my companion from early in my grade-school years until she died while I was overseas in the Army. But my father never again bonded that deeply with a pet.

As I write this I'm 62-years-old and my own special pal, Rook, a small black Labrador Retriever whose snout and feet have long since turned white, my hiking and retrieving buddy for nearly 15 years, lies dying on her bed. Her brown eyes watch me, and when I rise she tries to join me, but her body no long works. A look merging bafflement and sadness crossed that expressive face, and I pet her, comfort her, croon to her, then she settles.

Rookers, as we often called her, has always loved and been loved by the entire family, but I have been her focus, so this time it is I who am fighting tears. In fact, two and a half wonderful pooches have livened our family's life. The half doesn't indicate a truncated pooch, but a truncated relationship: One joined us when she was eight years old and remained part of our family until her death nearly a decade later. The others joined us as puppies, and lived their entire lives–each roughly fifteen years–as part of our gang…the best part in many ways… behavior, loyalty, temperament. Principally, though, they taught us by offering uncritical love…even when it wasn't much deserved.

Cloudy, our hippie dog, was the first of those three pals. On a morning in the late 1960s, a pair of friendly flower children were sitting on the sidewalk next to a cardboard box of squirming puppies in front of the now-defunct Marin Co-Op. Our children put on the brakes and explained that cats were girls and dogs were boys, and we needed a boy. We had just obtained a kitten–labeled "Sunshine" by the kids–so Jan and I said "Why not?" How could we have argued with that logic?

I'm sure glad we didn't, because Cloudy was a perfect fit, like us a mongrel–surely part Airedale, part Shepherd, probably part Briard and, who knows, maybe part Chinese or Spanish or Irish, too. Given his appearance, anything was possible. A neighbor, after viewing Cloud's vigorously shaggy exterior, once asked, "Exactly what breed is that dog?"

"You name it," I replied, "and he's probably kin to it."

Whatever his various ingredients, they were strong: as a youngster, he once dashed into the street and was hit by a car. Cloudy leapt up and he sprinted home, then collapsed of shock. The veterinarian later said, "That's one tough dog. I think the car suffered more damage than he did." He was up and about the next day, limping a bit, and we never had to warn him away from the street again; he was a smart guy.

At slightly under 100 lbs., he was also the neighborhood's alpha male, a force indeed, but remarkably tolerant with our kids. They dressed him, rode him, wrestled him, fed him vegetables they didn't want to eat, and on occasion caused him to yelp in pain, yet he never so much as growled at one of them, or so they have told us. He was a gem, who basically trained himself.

Our older two–six and seven at the time–used him to play a variation of chicken: they would lie on the floor and allow Cloudy to lick faces until one or the other gave in and covered their mug; we always wondered why their faces were clean while the rest of them wasn't. About that time, those yellow "Baby on Board" signs were in vogue, and one or another of our tadpoles drew a crude imitation for Cloudy; it said "Fleas on Board," and it was accurate.

If other dogs came on board, though, Cloud' was aggressive and decisive and he retired undefeated, as far as I know, when a stroke finally felled him at 15. No, that's not correct: although apparently unafraid of bears, he nevertheless met his match up at Tuolumne Meadows one summer when a carpenter ant latched onto his nose; for a change we rescued him. Anyway, we buried our old buddy under a small volunteer oak in our side yard; the next year it tripled its size, as though his powerful genes had taken asserted themselves.

During the years of Cloudy's ascendancy, various of our kids worked as weekend kennel cleaners at Brandner's Veterinary Hospital in Petaluma. There they met Queenie, a Collie-Husky mix who had been rescued from the local dog pound to serve as the clinic's blood donor. Shortly after Cloud's death, the kids launched a free-Queenie campaign. We knew and like her, so Jan and I agreed to invite her into our family…except that the vet' and his staff were attached to the sweet-tempered pooch, so they resisted. After negotiations, including a promise that she'd return for regular social visits, we were granted custody, and we understood that we were in a sense on probation as far as the clinic's employees were concerned.

Queenie had lived there for nearly seven years and would live nearly another ten years with us–a long time for a large dog, but she was so mellow that her engine didn't burn out early. She was also a genuine beauty, who sashayed her hips when she strolled, and who seemed to smile much of the time. She loved to walk, but running wasn't in her repertoire. She also savored attention and received plenty. When we later brought a black bundle named Rook home, barely old enough to be weaned, it took only a few whimpers and nuzzles from the puppy to ignite the Queen's maternal instinct. That night they curled up together, Rook sleeping on Queenie's generous tail, and they would continue to sleep like that until Queenie died.

Rookers was a small, swift Lab' at 65 pounds, and an acrobat…frisbee aerialist and tennis-ball demon; I was continually astounded by her ability to change position mid-air when drafts changed a frisbee's direction. She also had both the intelligence and temperament to become a kind of sixth child in a family she entered just as the five kids were growing up and moving away. She wasn't a barker–if we ever heard her voice we knew something serious was up–but she did communicate well indeed with eyes, body, tail.

In 1987, we relocated to new house in rural Penngrove, and our neighbor there owned an aggressive male Sharpei that was rarely leashed. One day he trotted onto our yard and, without any visible provocation, attacked the aging Queenie. That was a mistake. Rook, whom we had never seen even hint at fighting, tore into him so vigorously that the Chinese fighting dog sprinted home bloody. We were stunned; it was a side of her we'd never even imagined.

Eleven years later, when she was crippled with arthritis, our dog was attacked by a pit bull-mix and a Ridgeback while I was walking her. Rook instinctively dropped flat, protecting her throat and belly. My initial (not-too-smart) response was to start punching. A few moments into the battle, I realized how futile my actions were, so I grabbed the pit's collar and began choking it, lifting it from the ground–that attacker immediately lost interest in Rook. Meanwhile I kicked at the Ridgeback until the gasping pit escaped, then I managed to choke the Ridgeback, but the pit recovered and once more assaulted my dog.

Fortunately, a neighbor heard the ruckus and sprinted to my aid and the attack was finally aborted. Rook suffered only puncture wounds in the loose skin of her neck, but there was no doubt in my mind that the two attackers would have killed her had they been able. And I'd have killed them.

A year or so later, she began stiffening and limping when we walked. Arthritis medication helped, and a tossed tennis ball or a flung frisbee would still elicit a chase, albeit in slow motion. Like most Lab's, she was a wonderful athlete, so when she began stumbling over curbs, tripping over seemingly invisible impediments, I knew problems were deepening. Soon Jan or I was lifting her so she could stand, then carrying her down the deck steps so she could relieve herself. During that decline, she never ceased to wag her tail, to communicate with those eyes, to enjoy being in the midst of the family. Her bed was in the family room, where she became the center of attention, a beloved elder.

A couple of weeks ago, Jan and I traveled to Oregon; when we returned, Rookers' head came up and she weakly wagged that ebony tail. Seeing her in such a diminished condition swooped our hearts. We both snuggled her, then I attached the leash to her harness and gently helped her to her feet. She managed to stand, and we wobbled down part of our old route–the last walk we would ever take together. I couldn't help recalling that only a couple of years before I had been the wobbly one. Rehabilitating from surgery and radiation, I had begun by simply (and quite slowly) strolling with her up and down the block, then farther and farther, miles and miles over the countryside–old black dog and old white man.

But as age and infirmities gripped her, I couldn't do anything help, and that fact ground into me. Our veterinarian discussed "putting her down" with me, but I couldn't bring myself to do that either–it would be like euthanising one of my children. We brought an I.V. unit home and hydrated her that way; we hand-fed her; we carried her into the yard to potty. Always, those eyes and that tail let us know she was with us. But when she could no longer eat or even raise her head, I put my own distress away and arranged to take her to the clinic to do what I so dreaded. As always those trusting eyes were on me as I sadly petted her good night and turned in.

I awoke after one of my worst nights, a knot in my belly, only to learn that Rook had done me one last favor: she lay motionless on her bed, her chestnut eyes open but no longer able to following me, and I was gulfed by grief. Should I have had her put down two weeks previously? Probably, but I didn't…I couldn't. Our house and our hearts suddenly felt so much emptier, but we know we did our flawed best for her; that's all we could do.

We feel incomplete now because we felt so complete when she shared our lives. Rook loved us without reservation, even when reservation would have been appropriate; fortunately, Jan and I had matured enough to love her back the same way. Rookers and our other dogs have taught us many other lessons…the acceptance of death's inevitability, for instance, as well as the healing power of gratitude for having known them.

They have also allowed me to understand why, all those years ago, I saw my tough father weep.

Gerald Haslam's website, www.geraldhaslam.com, lists sources to purchase all his books.

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1. The Doggie Door – Funny Dog Story

Ever heard of it?

Neither had I.

It almost cost me my beloved Rottweiler, Kara.

This happened back in February.  I've been too traumatized by the thought of it to write about it until now.

It was a stinking hot day – 100 degrees Fahrenheit (38 degrees Celsius) – almost unbearably hot.

I was just getting ready to go out when I noticed that Kara was stumbling around and seemed a bit disoriented.  Then she started dry retching inside the house – this was really unusual because she always runs outside to be sick.  Nothing was coming up except some frothy white foam.

I guided her outside, and she seemed pretty off color.  She was panting a lot and looked very tired.  I gave her some water but she wouldn't drink.

I was only going out for an hour or two, and I thought it was mainly the heat that was making Kara feel ill, and I almost went.

Thankfully, I decided to call the vet first and describe the symptoms, just in case it might be more serious than I thought.

I am so glad I decided to do that.  If I had gone out as I planned, Kara would not have been alive when I returned.

After describing the retching and the stumbling around, the vet asked me about Kara's stomach.  It was hard.  Kara had had a similar seeming episode of stomach hardness when fluid retention caused a large, hard stomach, several months earlier, so I wasn't all that concerned by that symptom – it was a concern, but not an urgent one. 

How wrong I was.

This time the hardness was not caused by fluid retention.

I was told to bring her down to the veterinary hospital immediately.  By this time, Kara wouldn't get up at all, and I called the vet back and said I wasn't going to be able to get her in the car.  I was advised to come and collect a stretcher for her to lift her into the car (I only live a 4 minute drive from the veterinary hospital).  I started to walk out to the car, and Kara decided to get up.  She was very unsteady on her feet, but I led her out the front door and down the driveway to the car.  My son was there and helped me lift her into the car, as she was completely unable to get in herself.

By the time we arrived at the vet (4 minutes later), Kara truly looked as if she was on her last legs.  Her whole face was drooping.  I can't explain it any other way.  I've never seen her like that, and never want to again.

My son lifted her out of the car and she just collapsed into the gutter.  He ran inside the vet and they came out with a stretcher.

They took her into the surgery and spent several minutes stablising her (I have no idea what was happening but that is what I was told).  Then I was given the option of surgery or euthanizing her.  I was advised that the prospects were "poor".  I actually interpreted this as less than 20%, but apparently that's not what poor means in veterinary terms. There was no choice to make, for me.  I signed whatever paperwork they put in front of me, to authorize them to commence the surgery.

It was explained to me that Kara had GDV which, in layman's terms, meant that her stomach had twisted over on itself.  It is a condition that creates an emergency from which surgery is the only option, and a majority of dogs die from this condition, either before, during or after surgery.

I was told that the surgery was going to take at least an hour and to go home and wait.

About an hour later, the vet called.  She said she was in the middle of the surgery, and that she had untwisted the stomach but that part of the stomach tissue was necrotic (basically was dead tissue due to the blood supply having been cut off to it for too long).  The necrotic tissue needed to be cut out, and it was not clear how much tissue was involved until they started cutting it away. Further, it was always difficult to determine whether all the necrotic tissue had been removed, and if it hadn't, then the dog would die from the effects of the dead tissue inside. The vet advised me that the prognosis had accordingly gone from just under 50% to less than 25%.  (I was surprised by this, as I had understood that "poor" at the beginning would have meant less than 20%, when in fact it meant close to 50%).

The vet asked whether I wanted her to continue with the surgery, or whether I wished to euthanize in these circumstances.  I advised her to continue.  Call it intuition, or whatever you like, but I had a premonition during that phone call that Kara would survive the surgery.

Kara was in surgery for more than 4 hours.  The stomach was also stitched to the abdominal wall, which is done as a precautionary measure to prevent GDV from occurring again.

The vets told me later that they did not expect her to last through that first night.  (Heart problems or other complications are apparently common following this type of surgery.)

But she did!

The following day, I was invited to spend as much time as I wanted with her. And the same for the next 2 days after that.

The vets told me later that they did not expect her to pull through, and thought I should have the opportunity of saying goodbye.

For three days Kara was almost non-responsive to anyone but me.  One of the vets commented on this.  I am convinced that my being there had an impact on the outcome of all of this.  I spent several hours of each of these 3 days with her.

At the end of the second day, she drank a little water from my hand.

Towards the end of the third day, Kara tried to get up.  She tried, and tried and tried, but she couldn't manage it.  She ate some roast chicken breast.

On the fourth day, Kara got up.

I knew she was going to be okay.

On the sixth day, we brough Kara home.  She was very weak, and had lost between 17 and 22 pounds in weight (8 to 10 kilos). She was terribly skinny, and she wasn't allowed to eat much for a couple of weeks more.

But she was oh so happy to be home, as were we!

I am thankful every single day for having her with us.

The vet is amazed that she has done so well.  It took a few months to build her up again, but she is no longer skin and bones as she was when we brought her home.  The vet tells me that Kara is sure to live to 21 now!  (And I'm taking that literally!)

For my layman's summary of GDV – including the symptoms to look out for, and how to hopefully recognize the condition early enough, click here.

Related posts:

1. GDV – Some Frightening Facts

" Last Will and Testament

I, Silverdene Emblem O'Neill (familiarly known to my family, friends and acquaintances as Blemie), because the burden of my years is heavy upon me, and I realize the end of my life is near, do hereby bury my last will and testament in the mind of my Master. He will not know it is there until I am dead. Then, remembering me in his loneliness, he will suddenly know of this testament, and I ask him then to inscribe it as a memorial to me.

I have little in the way of material things to leave. Dogs are wiser than men. They do not set great store upon things. They do not waste their time hoarding property. They do not ruin their sleep worrying about objects they have, and to obtain the objects they have not. There is nothing of value I have to bequeath except my love and my faith. These I leave to those who have loved me, to my Master and Mistress, who I know will mourn me most, to Freeman who has been so good to me, to Cyn and Roy and Willie and Naomi and – but if I should list all those who have loved me it would force my Master to write a book. Perhaps it is in vain of me to boast when I am so near death, which returns all beasts and vanities to dust, but I have always been an extremely lovable dog.

I ask my Master and Mistress to remember me always, but not to grieve for me too long. In my life I have tried to be a comfort to them in time of sorrow, and a reason for added joy in their happiness. It is painful for me to think that even in death I should cause them pain. Let them remember that while no dog has ever had a happier life (and this I owe to their love and care for me), now that I have grown blind and deaf and lame, and even my sense of smell fails me so that a rabbit could be right under my nose and I might not know, my pride has sunk to a sick, bewildered humiliation. I feel life is taunting me with having over lingered my welcome. It is time I said good-by, before I become too sick a burden on myself and on those who love me.

It will be sorrow to leave them, but not a sorrow to die. Dogs do not fear death as men do. We accept it as part of life, not as something alien and terrible which destroys life. What may come after death, who knows? I would like to believe with those of my fellow Dalmatians who are devout Mohammedans, that there is a Paradise where one is always young and full-bladdered; here all the day one dillies and dallies with an amorous multitude of houris, beautifully spotted; where jack-rabbits that run fast but not too fast (like the houris) are as the sands of the desert; where each blissful hour is mealtime; where in long evenings there are a million fireplaces with logs forever burning and one curls oneself up and blinks into the flames and nods and dreams, remembering the old brave days on earth, and the love of one's Master and Mistress.

I am afraid this is too much for even such a dog as I am to expect. But peace, at least, is certain. Peace and long rest for weary old heart and head and limbs, and eternal sleeps in the earth I have loved so well. Perhaps, after all, this is best.

One last request I earnestly make. I have heard my Mistress say, 'When Blemie dies we must never have another dog. I love him so much I could never love another one.' Now I would ask her, for love of me, to have another. It would be a poor tribute to my memory never to have a dog again. What I would like to feel is that, having once had me in the family, now she cannot live without a dog! I have never had a narrow jealous spirit. I have always held that most dogs are good (and one cat, the black one I have permitted to share the living-room rug during the evenings, whose affection I have tolerated in a kindly spirit, and in rare sentimental moods, even reciprocated a trifle). Some dogs, of course, are better than others. Dalmatians, naturally, as everyone knows, are best.

So I suggest a Dalmatian as my successor. He can hardly be as well bred, or as well mannered or as distinguished and handsome as I was in my prime. My Master and Mistress must not ask the impossible. But he will do his best, I am sure, and even his inevitable defects will help by comparison to keep my memory green. To him I bequeath my collar and leash and my overcoat and raincoat, made to order in 1929 at Hermes in Paris. He can never wear them with the distinction I did, walking around the Place Vendome, or later along Park Avenue, all eyes fixed on me in admiration; but again I am sure he will do his utmost not to appear a mere gauche provincial dog. Here on the ranch, he may prove himself quite worthy of comparison, in some respects. He will, I presume, come closer to jackrabbits than I have been able to in recent years. And, for all his faults, I hereby wish him the happiness I know will be his in my old home.

One last word of farewell, Dear Master and Mistress. Whenever you visit my grave, say to yourselves with regret but also with happiness in your hearts at the remembrance of my long happy life with you: 'here lies one who loved us and whom we loved.' No matter how deep my sleep I shall hear you, and not all the power of death can keep my spirit from wagging a grateful tail. "

That's just so beautiful, don't you think?

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We have a small family of 2 adults and 2 female sister Labradors. They are 2 on Christmas eve.

We originally had a sharpei female who unfortunately passed away just under 2 years ago aged 4 from an inherited disease. Although we missed her very much, my partner wanted to get another dog – he missed having one around and Hannah was his first ever dog. We had only had her for 2 years as we inherited her off a family member who could no longer keep her.

Phill (my partner) went to the local RSPCA and found these 2 x 13 week old Labrador pups who had been handed in. They were both gorgeous and we could not agree on which one to get so, after discussing it with some breeders, we decided to get both of them. Up until the last two weeks we have rarely had any problems with them. They hate being separated, they adore one another and generally get on. Bella (who is the larger of the 2) seems to know that she is mum’s dog and Izzie just adores her dad.

We have brought them up to be inside dogs and they are very well behaved in the house. They know the pack order: Phill, myself and then there is the two of them. We don’t favour any particular dog, we have both tried very hard to show each dog they are loved and treated equally.

You may have picked up on the comment – up until the last two weeks. For some reason Bella has become very aggressive at dinner time. She eats and growls at the same time and will actually lunge aggressively at Izzie while they are eating. We have had to resort to standing between them while they eat to stop any fights – and they have had a few. This has come out of the blue – we aren’t sure whether it’s  Bella trying to assert herself or whether she’s just greedy and wants all of the food. They fought tonight again, but 5 minutes later they were licking their plates together – it’s a contradiction! This has come as a shock to us because up until this we could have fed them in the same bowl (we never did though). We are beside ourselves – these are 2 dogs who are exercised every day, sleep together, play together, groom each other and hate being apart. They even panic if they can’t find the other one.

Is it something we are doing inadvertently? Or is it something more sinister. Any ideas you could give us would be most helpful. We don’t like our girls fighting – it is very upsetting and we start to wonder are they going to fight when we’re not there.

Please help us. We’re going to keep a good eye on Izzie and make sure that she’s not doing anything to set Bella off. But apart from that – we’re stumped.

Hoping you may be able to help. I’ve attached a photo of the girls for you.

Yours Sincerely,
Sherein and Phill Barrass "

Hi Sherein, 

I'm really not sure I can offer any suggestions.  My own dogs do have this same pattern to a certain degree.

My dogs are not biological sisters (or even breed mates!), but they are inseparable.  I got them both as puppies, only a couple of weeks apart.  My Rottweiler, Kara, is first of the two in the heirachy, although my Staffordshire Bull Terrier, Jet, could hold her own if she wanted to, I think. 

I don't often have a problem with feeding my dogs, but from time to time Kara decides she wants to assert herself at mealtimes.  Sometimes it's just a one off with one meal.  Other times it's a behavior that can go on for weeks at a time. 

Kara will growl and really go for Jet and not allow Jet to eat until Kara has had hers (if I don't step in).  She will grab food out of Jet's mouth sometimes, too, in quite an aggressive way.  I don't know why this happens, as at all other times they are the best of friends, and inseparable.  Kara often grooms Jet – licking her ears endlessly, as well as other parts of her body.  She's like a mother to her, really.  And they can both get distressed if they are ever separated.

I just yell at Kara when she exhibits this behavior, and I do what you are doing – stand in between the dogs while they eat so Jet can eat in peace, or sometimes I'll separate them entirely and feed Kara outside and Jet inside. 

With my dogs these phases don't last forever, so it has not been much of an issue in the long term.

Hopefully you will find this with your dogs.  If not, I'd recommend that you see an animal behavioral expert for some advice.

Regards,
Brigitte Smith

P.S.  If anyone has any thoughts on this, please feel free to leave your comments below!

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WE moved to Sydney, Australia, to live 9 months ago now and brought our dog Sandy, a Jack Russell cross terrier with us.

People back home in Ireland thought we were nuts , as it costs a lot to bring her, but no way were we leaving her behind, she is like our child and we love her to bits.

She is so funny and is settling in well in Oz.

Sandy loves chasing the little lizards out our back up the wall , she spends hours. She used to bother with cockroches but now she finds them boring, just walks up has a sniff and walks away.

Sandy was a rescued dog. My husband Barry got her for me for Christmas 5 years ago now. God you should have seen the state she was in. I nursed her back to health even  Syd, our vet, did nt think she would make it.

With a  lot of tender loving care she got fit and well and has never looked back.

I love the way her head goes from side to side when I talk to her, which I do a lot.  I love the way she tells me she wants water.

Sandy  will be 6 on Dec 28th. So glad she came into our lives. Sandy brightens up every day ye never no what she will get up to. Now she is living on the other side of the world with us. She even has her own passport.

Hope you like this story.

Marian

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Here's a funny story for you – although not for us at 2.30 am!

Our little rescue dog Tilde has come along in leaps and bounds, she is the healthiest happiest bounciest dog I know (I'm biased of course) However, there was one thing she could not master – the doggie door! She could get in easily but never attempted to go out through it. I tried luring her with everything but she just would not budge. It was starting to get a bit annoying considering we had spent quite a bit of money to get it installed yet were still having to open the big door for her. Also, she was never too pleased about going out when it was wet – I could see that she would 'hang on' til the very last minute before going for a toilet break.

A few weeks ago at 2.30 am during pouring rain we heard Tilde barking in the kitchen she NEVER barks) and thumping and banging – my immediate thought was an intruder so I stayed in bed! David went to investigate and I could hear him saying – stop, come here, no no, give me that – I could hear the bathroom cupboard door opening and thought I could hear the mop being used, I was intrigued to say the least.

In the middle of a raining night for a reason only another dog would understand Tilde had woken up and gone OUT the doggie door in the pouring rain, dug up a filthy old bone and dragged it back into the kitchen soaked to the skin. She then proceeded to play throw and chase! There was mud everywhere and Tilde took some persuading to give up the bone and be dried off – then the floor had to be mopped. We are still scratching our heads but Tilde now uses her door for in AND out.

Related posts:

1. Fleas on Board – A Story
2. A Dog as an Antidote to Depression
3. GDV

For many years Gillian had worked with dogs, until she realized that there were many feral cats in dire straits, so for the last 8 years Gillian's life has been dedicated to them – feeding, coaxing, and taming them to be rehomed.

This is Gillian's story in relation to one of those cats, a border collie puppy, and a wexie cross staffie puppy that Gilian adopted as well, and the effect those animals had on each other and on Gillian's family:

"My last feral Tomcat was a challenge indeed. He was the Alpha male of a small colony…un-neutured…excessively big…and by far the most aggressive Tom it has ever been my pleasure to meet.

Having taken in two myself previously,I knew he would be the third. The fiery eyes held many a threat, and after 7 weeks of trying to reverse his misfortune, I was no nearer to bringing him in, but I could see something beyond the hatred, and so I carried on. I took a week's leave…thinking the Tom would be fine, but upon my return, I found the Tom in distress. His coat was matted…his ear torn, and he'd shed many a pound, although the fire still burned brightly in his eyes. His last defiance was to snarl quietly, as I scooped him into my arms and took him home. But for many months he remained aloof…making no commitment, frightening everyone with those "evil eyes". I named him Storm.

On February 14th, our daughter presented us with a 7 week old border collie pup, much to our dismay. The pup was weak, very frightened, and ran from the slightest sound. Our concern was for her safety…having brought in the Tom only a few months previously. We knew not whether he had any encounter with dogs, but we agreed to keep the pup for a few days. Getting her to eat was nightmare, and we eventually ended up spoon-feeding her with Sherley's Lactol…just to keep her alive. She would not touch anything that we produced…from tin, packet or dried, and we had resigned ourselves to her inevitable passing.

For three nights she cried for her mum, and on the fourth night, at 2:15am….the crying stopped.

With a heavy heart, I crept downstairs, and approached her basket. It was a sight I knew I would never see again. The Tom's body enveloped the sleeping pup, and both were in the land of dreams. Storm had made his first real commitment….to a dying pup! The following morning, as I opened the back door, Storm proudly entered with a token he was to bestow on Skye (so-named because of her china blue eys).

She scrambled out of the basket and pawed the large offering (a newly dispatched rat) but found it not to her liking. The unlucky animal was banished to the garden, but several minutes later, Storm returned. He proceeded to relinquish most of his breakfast onto the kitchen floor. Seconds later, the pup having picked up the scent, proceeded to demolish it, and was ready for more!! Felix catfood was to become her favorite food.

The bond that developed between them, was wonderful to watch, and from that day Skye never looked back. The Tom taught her many things, and protected her from harm, being by her side from dawn till dusk, but another bond was developing, which was even more amazing.

When Skye was 5 months old, my husband was diagnosed with acute Emphysema, and life was now a burden to him. Skye seemed to sense this and would sit beside him for hours, with her head in his lap. One evening, feeling rather unwell with migraine, my husband declared that he would supervise Skye's last walk of the night. They were away for several hours and I began to worry. I was waiting with growing concern until they arrived home and declared what a wonderful walk it had been.

As Skye grew, they enjoyed many more wonderful walks and she gave my husband back his life.

But at 10mths, Skye's life was to change dramatically. Storm collapsed on the bedroom floor and we rushed him to the veterinary surgery. Sadly, Storm died in my arms 20 minutes later….he had suffered a massive heart-attack. The vet informed me that Storm was at least 14 years old.

Our household mourned that night for a cat who had given us so much joy, but none more than Skye. For hours she paced the floor…waiting…hoping that he would appear in the doorway. Although we tried to console her, her grief was immense, and she remained depressed, alone,and refused to eat. This went on for 10 days, and Skye's depression was getting worse.

One morning, my husband threw Skye's favorite ball across the living room floor. She took a dive at it, and within minutes she was gasping for breath. The ball had lodged itself in her windpipe. Luckily, the ball contained a bell, placed there with a direct tiny hole that went through each side. As we tried desperatly to remove the ball, it moved direction, but still remained firmly lodged. I knew there was a chance that she would not make it to the vet, as it was the school run traffic and the vet's surgery was 4 miles away.

Grabbing my mobile phone in one hand, and with the help of our granddaughter rushing Skye to the car, I phoned the surgery. Immediately they were on standby, and my husband drove like a madman…through traffic lights and over kerbs, all the time knowing that every minute counted. By the time Skye arrived, both her tongue and gums were a bright blue, and her eyes glazed. I knew Skye was only seconds from death.

We waited what seemed like an eternity, until we were ushered into the surgery. It seemed that three things had saved Skye's life. The ball had turned to allow a little air through the hole, my husband,s driving skills, and the fact that she was a very healthy dog, but of course we know that the veterinarian's skill of removing the ball within a 45 second time gap, before her heart stopped for good, had made all the difference.

Skye has recovered, although it has left her with epilepsy, and went on to save the life of a 4 week old pup, who lost his mum. With her tender loving care, he is now a year old and a happy healthy dog (a Westie cross Staffie) who dotes on her. They are a team, and it is like having one dog.

So you see, we owe Skye a lot. She gives us her complete trust, her unconditional love, and above all knowing that she would defend us with her life. Although they are both terribly spoiled, it is little in return for the love they bestow on us.

Just for the record…we named the new pup Storm!"

Gillian has written a novel based on her experiences with looking after these and other animals, called "The Ninth Life".

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I whole heartily agree with you about the reasons for having a dog.

My spouse had commented a few times about having a dog but we both agreed it wasn't time because of our work schedules and the fact we have 4 cats ( total of 5 in the winter time since we babysit her for those months ). They are all indoor cats and seems like each one of them wants to be the "boss"!!

But last June we were visiting his parents in upstate New York when a neighbor down the dirt road approached me in the driveway asking if anyone was looking for a lost dog. He had found her walking in the busy highway by his house! I looked in the truck and there she was "cowered" by the gas peddles looking so pathetic. So I thought maybe this was a "set up" between my spouse and neighbor because coincidentally we were just talking about a dog the night before with his parents! But it wasn't .

The neighbor already had 2 dogs of his own and certainly didn't want this one so I thought if we brought her back to Vt. I could find a good home for her.

Before we left we had posted a picture of her in the area and left our telephone number. When we got home I also posted her on a site for lost and found animals to which I only got 2 calls. 2 months had gone by with no luck and we had ourselves attached to her so she's been with us since!

The vet feels she might be as old as 10yrs. She has a sight and hearing problem and is often incontinent so we buy the puppy pads.

One of the cats uses it as well at times. This cat has been peeing about a year on the floors and scatter rugs!!! She's been treated twice for UTI, and I have invested a lot of money into "products" to deter and clean cat urine!!! I don't have the heart to put her down . I think it has now become a behavioral problem and we are continuing to solve it.

So back to the dog. She has a good life with us even though we've discovered her bad temperament at times and will bite if front paws are touched or try to groom her!! She doesn't mind a bath and seems to enjoy having the blow dryer on her and runs like a puppy all over the house when we're done with her!! That's the only time she's playful.

She has her own "log bed" that my spouse made and a comfy bed downstairs. She's very fussy with the food. Lots of trials and errors!!! Not to mention money. It has altered our life a bit with walks and taking responsibilities that goes with having a dog so we "adjust " our lives around hers so to speak.

We're giving it our best shot!!!

Judy Moscatello

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I would like to share with you a funny story about Linus, my maltese cross poodle.

Even though he was diagnosed with a heart murmer, it does not stop him from being so frisky and playful.

He would go into his bedroom and bring back his stuffed teddy bear and place it on my feet. As he backs away, he would like me to throw it for him.

Doctor’s order, we can’t get him too excited because of his condition. I would just throw it in the air and then he will catch it and hold it in his mouth and lay down with it and make baby sounds.

When I try to take it away from him, the bear is all soppy with his saliva and insists on me throwing it again down the hall so he can play fetch. If I ignore him, then he will walk away and pout in a corner somewhere. I will go look for him, and apologize to him for not playing.

What can I do? I want him to play, but due to his heart condition, Linus is extremely active and wants to play…play….and more play and then he will go and rest. What can I do for him?

This morning, Linus brought out his other favourite stuffed shoe toe with puckered red lips and walk around with it. I wonder if dogs think that these stuffed toys are their security blankets?

Even though Linus is our life for the last eleven years, I want him to enjoy the remaining few he has left! He has won many contests for the best looking dog and still win more because he is our sunshine that came into our lives!!

Tony & Ginger

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This is the first time I'm writing to you. I've been enjoying your mails and I feel that it's good time to write because in your latest mail you wanted to know about how my dog has changed my life.

I am motivated to share my story because I feel that I am one of those who has been blessed with such a wonderful being. I said "being" for the fact that dogs actually have so much personality; it's something I've never realized before!

Well, my husband and I first decided to get a dog after I was diagnosed with major depression. I have always loved dogs – puppies in particular, but had never seriously thought of getting one. During our research, we read that pets can help people with depression. Since I am alone at home sometimes (all my family members and relatives are in another country; my mom comes and goes), he felt a dog could keep me company when I felt lonely.

We then got a puppy as I've always wanted – it's a white Toy Poodle, 10 weeks old then. We call him Dee. Truth be told, it took me some weeks to get adjusted to looking after and training a puppy everything from scratch. It did get annoying initially, especially with his endless pee and poo as a puppy, and the times he felt sick. Even now that he's 10 months old, it still takes certain amount of time feeding him (he gets fussy sometimes), training him, playing and spending time with him every day (particularly when you're sick or when you feel that you just want to be alone but he's in a cuddly mood), the weekly bathing and grooming, the daily brushing, etc… It is, like you said, a responsibility.

But the one thing that I can never deny, is how he always makes us laugh, or smile at the very least. And that's so important to me to keep my mood elevated and to keep me from feeling depressed all the time. There are always things to laugh about when he's around – the way he runs like rabbit, the way he jumps like a lamb, the way his both hind legs rise when he suddenly stops while running at high speed, the way he sleeps, the way he curls up, the way he yawns, the funny noises he makes… everything!! Everything about him is just so cute and it brings excitement to my life. He never fails to put a smile on my face, even on my worst days, he somehow can still make me smile one way or another.

And I haven't even talked about how loyal he is. He literally follows me E-V-E-R-Y-W-H-E-R-E I go. That way even when my husband's at work and my mom's not here with me, I'm never alone. He's ALWAYS THERE wherever I am. If I'm taking a shower or brushing my teeth, he'll wait for me right outside the bathroom door. When I come out, he'll go into the room with me and wait while I change. Tell me who would do that for me?? He sleeps on or under the bed at night, and every time I go out to the kitchen to have a glass of water, he'll come out with me, wait till I'm done, and go back into the bedroom with me. And I've never seen anyone that's more excited than him E-V-E-R-Y-T-I-M-E I come home! All that tail-wagging and jumping around… while my husband's stuck to his couch and TV!

He has definitely changed my life in the sense that I find a new perspective to look at life. I had never thought that a pet can bring you so much joy. He helps keep my mood up because I'm "forced" to smile and laugh everyday at the silly, mischievous things he does. He forces me to exercise when playing with him and walking him. And exercise is so important for a depressed person.

It's so touching to find him greeting me every morning with his licks and jumps (and a belly-rub afterwards). Sometimes I feel it's so ironic that a dog teaches us humans the true meaning of companionship and loyalty. And it's equally ironic that the one most loyal to you is your dog…(by no means undermining my lovely family and friends).

Having him has certainly touched a part of me I never knew existed and has definitely helped me on the road of recovery from depression. There's never a single day I regret my decision on getting a dog. Whatever time, energy or finances I have to sacrifice, I feel it's well worth it in return for the smiles and the laughs, the joy and the excitement he brings to the house each day.

A dog IS indeed a man's best friend.

Regards,

Christaline Watson,
Penang, Malaysia

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