Two little pups, Luke and Layla, were brought to one of our shelter volunteers last week. Layla is all black, Luke is black with a white blaze on his face and white toes. They look like maybe Lab/Pit mixes. They're about 8 weeks old and adorable. They're puppies, of course they are adorable. But not adorable enough.
There used to be five pups. But sometime last week, their owner decided he didn't want the pups and he dumped them on a roadside. In Iowa, in January, in bitter cold weather, snow and ice and wind chills approaching 25 degrees below zero.
Imagine these 5 little puppies, babies, huddling together in the snow, whimpering for their mother, growing colder, getting hungry, scared, lost and alone. Eventually one puppy stops whimpering as he succumbs to the freezing temperatures. Another grows quiet and still. And a third one lapses into silence.
A car drives by, slows, then stops. A woman gets out to investigate. Can it be? A pile of puppies in the snow? She approaches them, three are already dead, poor little things. Two are cold, so cold, but still alive. She puts the live pups in the car, then gathers the little bodies left in the snow and puts them in her car too. It's just too sad to leave them alone and unloved in the snow.
And so two of the unfortunate family are saved, and soon will be at the shelter awaiting adoption.
Two crimes were committed, both are crimes of littering.
In the first case of littering, the owner neglected to get his dog spayed. So she mated randomly and produced a litter of puppies that the owner didn't want.
In the second case of littering, the owner dumped the pups by the side of the road, like so much trash. This is not only illegal, it is immoral, particularly when the weather is so brutally cold the puppies didn't have a chance of survival.
I wonder what this person told his family and friends when they asked, "Where are the puppies?"
Perhaps he took them to a nice farm in the country.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Jax : In Memoriam
My daughter wrote this poem.
Jax
A mist in your eyes,
You're only sleeping.
A thoughtful look on your face,
Your memory is for my keeping.
A memory is not enough,
A memory gets faded.
A memory is sad and rough,
Your memory is for my keeping.
I remember you so soft and sweet,
I remember how you cried, so lonesome.
Your memory is for my keeping.
I can see you now, white and black,
You were so slender and frail
And now all I know is I want you back...
Your memory is for my keeping.
Now you're gone, and I'm alone.
I know you aren't just sleeping.
I know you're gone and part of me is, too
Your memory is for my keeping.
((I miss you Jax))
Merry McDonald
Create Your Badge
A mist in your eyes,
You're only sleeping.
A thoughtful look on your face,
Your memory is for my keeping.
A memory is not enough,
A memory gets faded.
A memory is sad and rough,
Your memory is for my keeping.
I remember you so soft and sweet,
I remember how you cried, so lonesome.
Your memory is for my keeping.
I can see you now, white and black,
You were so slender and frail
And now all I know is I want you back...
Your memory is for my keeping.
Now you're gone, and I'm alone.
I know you aren't just sleeping.
I know you're gone and part of me is, too
Your memory is for my keeping.
((I miss you Jax))
Merry McDonald
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
And everyday will be a good day
Each morning for the past week I have awakened with dread. First I think, "my puppy is gone."
Then, "I killed my puppy. I miss my puppy." Each night before I fall asleep I think, "my puppy is gone. I miss my puppy. Did I do the right thing? Could I have done something differently? Did I do everything I could to make him better?"
I torture myself with these thoughts. Last week my husband and I made the dreadful decision to euthanize our dog. And now, afterward, our hearts are completely broken.
Jax was fear aggressive, a label which doesn't describe how delightful and joyful and wonderful he was when he was feeling safe. We adored him. Bright and beautiful and lively, scary smart, and so full of himself when he did something well. When he felt safe, he melted blissfully under our touch, stretched out on the floor and sighing deeply as we stroked his silky fur and scratched his ears. He was sweet and affectionate and completely bonded to my husband. Patrick was Jax's safe place, his sanctuary, his protector, and Jax loved him.
But when he was scared, and we never knew precisely what might scare him, he was a different animal. A touch on the wrong place (and why was it the wrong place - a small painful bruise or wound, some phantom memory of an earlier injury?), a loud noise, or successive loud noises like fireworks, a clumsy grasp on his collar - and Jax would transform into a desperate wild animal. His eyes glazed, his snout wrinkled to expose the full length of his teeth, he would dart and snap, run away, snarl, dart back, snap. Sometimes his teeth would chatter uncontrollably, sometimes he would circle around me, leaping at my hands and snapping. He missed, maybe on purpose, some sane part of him inhibiting his bite, or maybe because I kept whirling and holding my hands up high. Jax was swifter and had better reflexes than I do, so probably the former. Even in his extreme fear and wildness, he inhibited his reactions to the panic chemicals flooding his brain.
I couldn't trust him. I loved him dearly, but each time we experienced one of these fear episodes, my fear of him increased. I couldn't handle him with confidence. It became a vicious circle - the more fear I felt, the less reliable he was, either because he intuited my fear as submission and he became more dominant, or because he felt the fear too, and that made him more fearful, and increased the liklihood of a biting episode.
I couldn't see how we could take him to the vet for regular check ups - he would be terrified of the strangers there and try to bite them. On our last few walks together, we encountered young children who saw a beautiful, cute, very appealing dog and came too close. Jax's reaction to children was frightful : vicious snarling, lunging, and snapping. I couldn't groom him - what if he had a small injury that I accidently hurt when brushing him? What if I hurt him while trying to clip his nails?
With the other dogs in the house, he became obnoxious and dominant, mounting them, getting into small very noisy quarrrels, nips and lunges. Any kind of excitement - dogs entering the house, someone at the door, threw Jax into a whirlwind of arousal, snarling, leaping - this in turn had caused fights to break out among the dogs which was terrifying.
Jax always, always, wore a leash, and generally I held the leash to take him outside. But the leash had recently worn down, and broken, so what was left was just a short tab. Trying to put a new leash on his collar had resulted in a fear episode that left us both shaking, so we were left with the short leash. Sometimes attempting to grab hold of this short leash was difficult when Jax was excited - he'd dash and dart away, protect his head and neck by ducking under my hands. And sometimes he'd snap at me. Our daily life together had become a tentative walking around each other, questioning myself, wondering if it was okay to touch his collar, lift his leash, stroke him. One morning I let him out as usual - but I didn't want to risk an attempt at reaching for his leash, so I let him out without holding onto to him. On every other morning, Jax had run to the gate and waited until we opened it so he could enter the back yard. On this morning he ran the opposite direction, toward the street, toward the sidewalk. Oh, God, I thought, he'll get hit by a car, or he'll collide with someone walking on the sidewalk and he'll bite them, or he'll just dash away to roam through the yards and how will I catch him? What if the police try to pick him up? All these fears burst through my mind in a flash, as I walked slowly to the end of the driveway toward him. He had paused in his dashing to pee on a bush. I knelt down and stretched my arms out, waiting. He watched me. When he was done with the bush, he rushed into my grateful arms. But it was a close call. It could have gone any other way. How could I risk it anymore? How could I risk someone, a child perhaps, getting bitten? How could I risk my puppy being shot by the police? Or captured, terrified, and taken to the vet clinic to be euthanized by strangers?
When I first met Jax at the shelter, he was about 6 months old, timid, submissive. At seven months he had been deemed fear aggressive, he had attempted to bite several people, had lightly bitten a couple of others. A decision to euthanize had been put into consideration. What I saw was a highly misunderstood young dog, whose spirit had been beaten down, literally, by a very rough start in life. I thought he deserved another chance, he was so young.
Later I learned from his previous owner and a person who had known him then, that he had been taken from his mother and littermates when he was just 4 weeks old - an extremely careless and uncaring decison on the part of his breeder, a stupid, ignorant decision on the part of his adoptive family. A puppy's healthy brain development and social development depends on his inclusion in his canine family until he is at least 7 weeks old - it is then that he learns that he is a DOG, it is then that he learns how to function as part of a pack, he learns canine manners and language and culture. A puppy who is deprived of this essential learning is stunted in his brain development and will almost never develop in a normal, healthy way. He may look like a dog, and smell like a dog, and behave from a human perspective like a dog - but he doesn't know he's a dog - he doesn't understand how to behave, he doesn't relate to other dogs, and he will never
reach his full potential no matter how smart he is.
THEN, his new owners for whatever reasons, decided to employ extremely harsh training with this little baby animal. I don't know the details, I know from the conversation I had with a person who witnessed it, that the behavior of the human toward the baby dog was brutal.
Jax, for the first 7 months of his life, lived in a world dominated by fear, confusion, loss, betrayal and pain.
When my husband and I decided to bring him home, to try to rehabilitate to him, to save him, it was perhaps not the best decision we ever made. In the end, it broke our hearts.
But it may have been the kindest decision anybody ever made for Jax. For 12 months, in our home, Jax knew love for the first time in his life. He experienced pleasure, fun, positive training, a healthy routine. He played and was petted and cared for. That he couldn't overcome the fear he had learned first was not his fault. Once the young dog brain is organized, whether it is a healthy organization, or an unhealthy one, it is nearly impossible to reorganize it. Jax may have wanted to trust us, but he couldn't, not always. We may have wanted to heal him, but we couldn't completely.
In the end we decided we would make this hard decision and have him put down by our trusted veterinarian. We would be with him in the end, he would feel our gentle hands, hear our voices. We would all be scared and haunted and horrified, but we would do this one last thing together.
We drugged him first to help him relax, then the vet drugged him so he would fall asleep. It wasn't that simple. When he felt the strange sensations he panicked, he ran and tried to hide, his legs were wobbly and he staggered. My husband, behind me, said, "oh no, oh no," and started to sob. My daughter next to me was sobbing. Jax collapsed in an awkward heap in front of me, his nose and front paws facing one way, his hind legs facing the other. I held his precious head in my hands, kissed him and whispered, "It'll be okay, it'll be okay. You'll have fields to run in forever, you can herd the sheep, there will be forest trails to explore, and squirrels to chase and streams of clear running water. You can play in the snow and pounce on the snowballs. You'll be free. And we will meet you there someday, and we'll be together again, forever. You will be brave, you'll be the Big Dog. And everyday will be a good day. I love you so much, I love you so much."
The vet administered the overdose, and our dog was gone. Our beautiful puppy was gone.
Jumping Jack Flash, my baby boy, our good little guy, was gone forever.
Then, "I killed my puppy. I miss my puppy." Each night before I fall asleep I think, "my puppy is gone. I miss my puppy. Did I do the right thing? Could I have done something differently? Did I do everything I could to make him better?"
I torture myself with these thoughts. Last week my husband and I made the dreadful decision to euthanize our dog. And now, afterward, our hearts are completely broken.
Jax was fear aggressive, a label which doesn't describe how delightful and joyful and wonderful he was when he was feeling safe. We adored him. Bright and beautiful and lively, scary smart, and so full of himself when he did something well. When he felt safe, he melted blissfully under our touch, stretched out on the floor and sighing deeply as we stroked his silky fur and scratched his ears. He was sweet and affectionate and completely bonded to my husband. Patrick was Jax's safe place, his sanctuary, his protector, and Jax loved him.
But when he was scared, and we never knew precisely what might scare him, he was a different animal. A touch on the wrong place (and why was it the wrong place - a small painful bruise or wound, some phantom memory of an earlier injury?), a loud noise, or successive loud noises like fireworks, a clumsy grasp on his collar - and Jax would transform into a desperate wild animal. His eyes glazed, his snout wrinkled to expose the full length of his teeth, he would dart and snap, run away, snarl, dart back, snap. Sometimes his teeth would chatter uncontrollably, sometimes he would circle around me, leaping at my hands and snapping. He missed, maybe on purpose, some sane part of him inhibiting his bite, or maybe because I kept whirling and holding my hands up high. Jax was swifter and had better reflexes than I do, so probably the former. Even in his extreme fear and wildness, he inhibited his reactions to the panic chemicals flooding his brain.
I couldn't trust him. I loved him dearly, but each time we experienced one of these fear episodes, my fear of him increased. I couldn't handle him with confidence. It became a vicious circle - the more fear I felt, the less reliable he was, either because he intuited my fear as submission and he became more dominant, or because he felt the fear too, and that made him more fearful, and increased the liklihood of a biting episode.
I couldn't see how we could take him to the vet for regular check ups - he would be terrified of the strangers there and try to bite them. On our last few walks together, we encountered young children who saw a beautiful, cute, very appealing dog and came too close. Jax's reaction to children was frightful : vicious snarling, lunging, and snapping. I couldn't groom him - what if he had a small injury that I accidently hurt when brushing him? What if I hurt him while trying to clip his nails?
With the other dogs in the house, he became obnoxious and dominant, mounting them, getting into small very noisy quarrrels, nips and lunges. Any kind of excitement - dogs entering the house, someone at the door, threw Jax into a whirlwind of arousal, snarling, leaping - this in turn had caused fights to break out among the dogs which was terrifying.
Jax always, always, wore a leash, and generally I held the leash to take him outside. But the leash had recently worn down, and broken, so what was left was just a short tab. Trying to put a new leash on his collar had resulted in a fear episode that left us both shaking, so we were left with the short leash. Sometimes attempting to grab hold of this short leash was difficult when Jax was excited - he'd dash and dart away, protect his head and neck by ducking under my hands. And sometimes he'd snap at me. Our daily life together had become a tentative walking around each other, questioning myself, wondering if it was okay to touch his collar, lift his leash, stroke him. One morning I let him out as usual - but I didn't want to risk an attempt at reaching for his leash, so I let him out without holding onto to him. On every other morning, Jax had run to the gate and waited until we opened it so he could enter the back yard. On this morning he ran the opposite direction, toward the street, toward the sidewalk. Oh, God, I thought, he'll get hit by a car, or he'll collide with someone walking on the sidewalk and he'll bite them, or he'll just dash away to roam through the yards and how will I catch him? What if the police try to pick him up? All these fears burst through my mind in a flash, as I walked slowly to the end of the driveway toward him. He had paused in his dashing to pee on a bush. I knelt down and stretched my arms out, waiting. He watched me. When he was done with the bush, he rushed into my grateful arms. But it was a close call. It could have gone any other way. How could I risk it anymore? How could I risk someone, a child perhaps, getting bitten? How could I risk my puppy being shot by the police? Or captured, terrified, and taken to the vet clinic to be euthanized by strangers?
When I first met Jax at the shelter, he was about 6 months old, timid, submissive. At seven months he had been deemed fear aggressive, he had attempted to bite several people, had lightly bitten a couple of others. A decision to euthanize had been put into consideration. What I saw was a highly misunderstood young dog, whose spirit had been beaten down, literally, by a very rough start in life. I thought he deserved another chance, he was so young.
Later I learned from his previous owner and a person who had known him then, that he had been taken from his mother and littermates when he was just 4 weeks old - an extremely careless and uncaring decison on the part of his breeder, a stupid, ignorant decision on the part of his adoptive family. A puppy's healthy brain development and social development depends on his inclusion in his canine family until he is at least 7 weeks old - it is then that he learns that he is a DOG, it is then that he learns how to function as part of a pack, he learns canine manners and language and culture. A puppy who is deprived of this essential learning is stunted in his brain development and will almost never develop in a normal, healthy way. He may look like a dog, and smell like a dog, and behave from a human perspective like a dog - but he doesn't know he's a dog - he doesn't understand how to behave, he doesn't relate to other dogs, and he will never
reach his full potential no matter how smart he is.
THEN, his new owners for whatever reasons, decided to employ extremely harsh training with this little baby animal. I don't know the details, I know from the conversation I had with a person who witnessed it, that the behavior of the human toward the baby dog was brutal.
Jax, for the first 7 months of his life, lived in a world dominated by fear, confusion, loss, betrayal and pain.
When my husband and I decided to bring him home, to try to rehabilitate to him, to save him, it was perhaps not the best decision we ever made. In the end, it broke our hearts.
But it may have been the kindest decision anybody ever made for Jax. For 12 months, in our home, Jax knew love for the first time in his life. He experienced pleasure, fun, positive training, a healthy routine. He played and was petted and cared for. That he couldn't overcome the fear he had learned first was not his fault. Once the young dog brain is organized, whether it is a healthy organization, or an unhealthy one, it is nearly impossible to reorganize it. Jax may have wanted to trust us, but he couldn't, not always. We may have wanted to heal him, but we couldn't completely.
In the end we decided we would make this hard decision and have him put down by our trusted veterinarian. We would be with him in the end, he would feel our gentle hands, hear our voices. We would all be scared and haunted and horrified, but we would do this one last thing together.
We drugged him first to help him relax, then the vet drugged him so he would fall asleep. It wasn't that simple. When he felt the strange sensations he panicked, he ran and tried to hide, his legs were wobbly and he staggered. My husband, behind me, said, "oh no, oh no," and started to sob. My daughter next to me was sobbing. Jax collapsed in an awkward heap in front of me, his nose and front paws facing one way, his hind legs facing the other. I held his precious head in my hands, kissed him and whispered, "It'll be okay, it'll be okay. You'll have fields to run in forever, you can herd the sheep, there will be forest trails to explore, and squirrels to chase and streams of clear running water. You can play in the snow and pounce on the snowballs. You'll be free. And we will meet you there someday, and we'll be together again, forever. You will be brave, you'll be the Big Dog. And everyday will be a good day. I love you so much, I love you so much."
The vet administered the overdose, and our dog was gone. Our beautiful puppy was gone.
Jumping Jack Flash, my baby boy, our good little guy, was gone forever.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Jax: a dangerous stranger
A few nights ago I came home and let Jax out of his crate. This is usually a joyful reunion for us. His brushy tail wags, he prances out with his head down and presses himself against my knees. I caress him and he melts under my touch and we spend a few sweet minutes greeting each other before I take him outside.
But a few nights ago - he came slowly out of his crate, let me rub his ears, then looked up in shock at my face and ran back into his crate. I was astonished at first, it was such strange behavior for him. I talked to him but then thought, "well, it's late, maybe he's tired." I sat at my desk for awhile, and Jax watched me from his crate - like he had to keep his eyes on me in case, in case, I don't know, in case I decided to hurt him?
The next morning I released him from his crate and he pranced out like normal. I rubbed his ears. He came to me and let me caress him, then suddenly he bit my hand and his teeth started chattering. His eyes were wild. He ran back to his crate and stared at me. When I approached the crate, talking to him, he scrunched himself up against the back wall of the crate, lifted his nose high in the air and stared at me, eyes rolling. Then he slid down onto his back and lifted his leg, exposing his belly.
I asked my husband for help. He brought Jax out of the crate and Jax behaved normally, pushing his nose against my husband's hand, asking for a pet. Then Jax wandered over to me, put his front paws on my lap and let me rub his ears. Suddenly, his head shot up and he started snapping at me again, his eyes wild. He ran back to my husband and pressed himself against Patrick's legs, staring back at me as if I were a dangerous stranger.
Patrick and I tried to reason through this weird behavior. It was the 4th of July, maybe the sounds of firecrackers and fireworkers had scared the dog?
This morning Jax came quietly out of his crate, and has been avoiding me most of the day. Once or twice he has solicited my attention, but quickly reverts to his wild, terrified behavior, snapping the air repeatedly around me, then slinking away to watch me warily from a corner of the room.
Patrick gets down on the floor and plays with Jax - throwing a ball, playing tug with a rag, roughhousing, and Jax loves it. If I call his name, he doesn't even look at me.
It sounds weird, but my feelings are so hurt by his behavior. I love this dog. For nearly a year now, I have lived with this dog, walked this dog, trained this dog, played with him, massaged him, cuddled with him, watched him learn and grow and change. He was so placid and trusting with me, he would lay on the floor while I massaged his whole body. I could play with his toes, and tussle with him, pull him along the tile by his back feet and roll him around. He would often press his face into my lap and sigh with pleasure while I rubbed his silky ears and stroked his fur and massaged his scrawny little body. If I took my hands off him, he'd prod my hands with his nose.
Now he thinks I'm a dangerous stranger, and he has become a dangerous stranger to me.
I think of him, as an innocent 4 week old puppy, stolen from his mother and siblings, taken to a home where he was hurt and isolated and scared. He didn't have to be damaged this way. I don't think he was born damaged. People made him that way. Because of this damage he can't live with people. Because of this damage he probably cannot live with me anymore. And there is no place else for him. There is only one way out, and it's breaking my heart.
postscript July 11 - After 4 days of almost constant firecrackers and fireworks in the neighborhood and town, we believe Jax was terrified out of his mind. He didn't feel safe, and when he tried to hide, and I tried to connect with him, he snapped at me to tell me to leave him alone. Once the holiday weekend was over, and the noises stopped, Jax became his normal self. "Normal" being sweet with the members of our family and fearful of everyone outside the family. I am so relieved to have my sweet dog back, even though I know he's still damaged and a risk. To have him prance daintily up to me and slide down on the floor while I rub his ears does both of our hearts good.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Jax : Healing the broken dog
When Jax first came to live with us in August, taking him for a walk was a telling experience. I had to drag him outside. Sometimes he scrambled back toward the house. Finally outdoors, his whole body tensed up and he walked straight ahead with his head down and his eyes focused on the sidewalk under his nose. Squirrels, rabbits, birds, other dogs went unnoticed. He was like a demoralized prisoner on a death march. He had given up, there was no joy in him.
After about a month, I rejoiced one day when he stopped to sniff at a tuft of grass, and shortly after that his ears perked up when he saw a rabbit.
Today, Jax loves walks. He bounds gaily toward the front door, and quivers with excitement until he is given permission to pass through to the yard.
Some days he walks brightly and politely next to me on a loose leash. I have to remind him occasionally to stay with me. At curbs he sits and waits until he has permission to cross the street. (On leash - I wouldn't trust him not to run into the street off leash. We'll attempt that training soon.)
Other days, like this morning, he is so excited about the great big wonderful world of smells and sounds, he cannot contain himself. He bounds and leaps on the end of the leash. He is interested in everything. When corrected, he will come back to my side, but in the next instant he sees something he just has to investigate and off he flies.
He is learning and he is healing. We still have some major behavior issues to cope with, but his future looks better, and we are hopeful that he will someday be the loving, trustworthy, smart and joyful dog he was born to be.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
A Lost Dog Network
We came home from the animal shelter last night, pulled into the driveway and saw a small dog peering into our backyard. He skittered away as we got out of the car, but came right back when we smooched and sweet-talked him. He was drenched - it had been raining all evening. He was a cute little thing, a spaniel mix we guessed, and he was wearing a really cute blue polka-dot collar. The collar told me somebody loved him.
Since it was late we decided to keep him overnight and look for his owners in the morning.
Sunday morning I called the police station to report that I'd found a dog. My husband took the dog out for a potty break and showed him to our neighbor Gailanne. Then I took the dog for a walk around the block, hoping he'd recognize his house and show me where he lived, better than that, I was hoping we'd encounter his owners who might be out looking for him.
During the walk, some fellow shelter volunteers passed by me. We discussed the dog, then went our own ways. I took him to my friend Michelle's house and asked her if she recognized him. Nope.
When I got home the phone rang. It was one of the volunteers I'd met during the walk, Jessa. She told me the dog belonged to her friend, Callie, who had just posted a comment on Facebook about her lost dog. The dog's name is Scamp, Jessa said, and they just adopted him a couple of days ago. Callie's phone number wasn't listed, but Jessa said she'd try to contact Callie through Facebook. So I waited for Callie's family to contact us...
Meanwhile, Callie's family was at church, and they asked for prayers to help find their lost dog. Our neighbor, Gailanne, is a member of the same church, and she
immediately answered their prayer by saying, "I know where your dog is!"
Hallelujah!
Callie's family had also called the police department, and the officer there gave them our phone number. My husband answered the phone when they called, and said, "Are you Scamp's owners?"
Callie's mom said, "How do you know his name?"
"We know all," Patrick replied in a deep voice.
And so the family came over, and with many smiles and tail wags, the dog and the family were reunited.
Don't you love happy endings?
Since it was late we decided to keep him overnight and look for his owners in the morning.
Sunday morning I called the police station to report that I'd found a dog. My husband took the dog out for a potty break and showed him to our neighbor Gailanne. Then I took the dog for a walk around the block, hoping he'd recognize his house and show me where he lived, better than that, I was hoping we'd encounter his owners who might be out looking for him.
During the walk, some fellow shelter volunteers passed by me. We discussed the dog, then went our own ways. I took him to my friend Michelle's house and asked her if she recognized him. Nope.
When I got home the phone rang. It was one of the volunteers I'd met during the walk, Jessa. She told me the dog belonged to her friend, Callie, who had just posted a comment on Facebook about her lost dog. The dog's name is Scamp, Jessa said, and they just adopted him a couple of days ago. Callie's phone number wasn't listed, but Jessa said she'd try to contact Callie through Facebook. So I waited for Callie's family to contact us...
Meanwhile, Callie's family was at church, and they asked for prayers to help find their lost dog. Our neighbor, Gailanne, is a member of the same church, and she
immediately answered their prayer by saying, "I know where your dog is!"
Hallelujah!
Callie's family had also called the police department, and the officer there gave them our phone number. My husband answered the phone when they called, and said, "Are you Scamp's owners?"
Callie's mom said, "How do you know his name?"
"We know all," Patrick replied in a deep voice.
And so the family came over, and with many smiles and tail wags, the dog and the family were reunited.
Don't you love happy endings?
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