Mine

If you look really closely at the right side of my nose (my right) I have a scar. It's from a dog bite I got when I was three. My mom said I wouldn't leave the stitches alone, and you can see where they were thirty three years later. And yet, I always loved that dog. I cried when he died. I've cried when every dog we've ever had died.

But I am not what you would consider an animal lover. I don't love their poop, or when they get fleas, or pee on the carpet, or their barking. Most of all, I don't believe dogs (and definitely not cats) should live in the house. I do not hold it against you if we disagree on this matter as I know plenty of my friends sleep in the same bed with their dogs. But for me, a pet should be outside. Or at least in the garage.

I swore that I would never, ever have an inside dog.

And then Husband went to vet school. I don't think I'm generalizing when I say that every veterinary student feels like they must own a pet. You're not cool if you don't. Husband fell prey to this mentality. I fought him on it for a long time. Like a year. I didn't need an extra 'kid' to take care of and after the last dog we had that chewed everything and dug up my mother's flowers, causing a huge rift, I didn't want to go there again.

Husband has these eyes though. They kind of curve down on the edges and have the natural tendency to look a little sad. When I know he really, really wants something (which isn't very often)...I'm a sucker. So I gave in and we got Daisy.

Daisy is a standard poodle that used to belong to a girl in our ward. She moved to a complex that didn't allow pets. And we ended up with her dog.

It is no secret that I felt no love in my heart for Daisy. It's not because she's a bad dog. On the contrary--she is the best natured dog I've ever seen. Literally-she sits in a corner all day and sleeps or stares at you motionless, like a statue.  She doesn't jump up on you, or lick all over your arms, or shed hair or bark in the middle of the night. Someone de-barked her.

Nope. I didn't like Daisy because she was an inside dog. She was on my turf, up in my space, breathing my air. I told Husband from the get-go that she was his dog and that he could take care of her because for pete's sake, I don't have the time or energy to worry about one more living creature.

This is true. I am really busy.

Also, we found out a year after we got her that Daisy has Addison's disease. Yet, another reason I didn't like her. Her medication is expensive and we are poor. I can't recite for you what this disease means. Just know that she's very lethargic and lacking in energy, for the most part. She is the most weak-willed soul I've ever beheld. Also, in the past six months, Daisy has developed some kind of abscess in her mouth or throat. (We are not sure.) Thus, causing her to bleed all over, out of her nose and mouth and so we kicked her outside for the summer. It is mild here and our yard is fenced in, so it worked out fine.

And then last week happened.

So I don't know about everyone else, but here in Virginia we got a lot of rain last week. I almost thought we'd been transported to Seattle or that our house might start sliding down the street. And Daisy was out in it. I tried to bring her inside and she tromped black mulchy-mud all over my carpet, and walked to her spot behind the couch and shook. There were mud flecks everywhere. On the coach, on the wall, the trim, the piano. Back outside she went. She was under the deck, so I knew she'd be okay, Miserable, but okay. And Husband told me to leave her there. Once the rain stopped he was going to bathe her, cut her hair and figure out that abscess so she could come back in. He kept his word and by the next night she was clean shaven. He let her inside and then put her out before bed to eat and go pee.

And then he forgot her.

The next morning when I woke up to get O.S. ready for middle school (middle school! I know. Mind-blowing.) I asked Husband where Daisy was, when I didn't see her in the bathroom. That's when he realized he'd left her outside. No biggie.

Except he'd shaved her and so she had no coat to keep her warm.

I was busy being a good mom, making waffles. And the next thing I know Husband tells O.S. that he has to blow dry Daisy--NOW!-- as he shoots out the door to his vet truck. O.S. came out of the bathroom and said, "Mom? Something's wrong with Daisy. She's biting herself." He sounded freaked out. When I went in the bathroom it was terrible. She was convulsing. Husband came back in then and told me she had gone into hypothermia--which is crazy. It wasn't even that cold. Maybe in the mid fifties. Maybe. We hooked up an IV, put the blow dryer on high, shot her full of sugar, and some other drugs. We covered her with the heat pad, a blanket, plugged in a mini-heater and then we prayed. Her temperature was so low the thermometer didn't even read the number. It just said LOW, which means it was in the eighties somewhere. A dog's temperature--like a human's--should be in the high nineties. Over the next two hours we worked on her, taking turns blowing her dry in a bathroom that had to be verging on a hundred degrees. Oldest Daughter took a forty minute turn--her cheeks were so red, I was getting worried. Every ten minutes we took Daisy's temp. All the while, she was out. Cold.

I cancelled everything I was supposed to do that day and stayed home with the dog instead, checking on her every so often and calling Husband with an update. The kids prayed off and on all day at school. That night she was still hanging in there. But Husband told O.S. that Daisy was on death's door and that she had a ninety percent chance of dying that night. I was mad. After all we'd done, how could he say that? And then I peeked in to see for myself and I realized he was right. She wasn't doing very well. She'd barely opened her eyes all day. Had barely moved or eaten anything. He kept giving her drugs and force-feeding her, but I'll admit--I was worried. He was afraid if she did make it, she had brain damage. And I could see he might be right about that too. When we talked to her, she wouldn't respond or look us in the eye. You could clap right by her ear and she didn't even flinch.

How could we tell our kids in the morning that their sweet dog had died? They were praying for her and O.S. told me that night before he went to bed, not to fix him breakfast. He was fasting. I woke up at three a.m. and shook husband. I was too anxious to check myself. He came back and said she was still hanging tough. The next morning when O.S. went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, Daisy stood up. She was loopy and swaying, but she stood, walked outside, ate some food and came back in. We prayed for her more. I pet her (and let me tell you, I never do that because I'm so allergic). I cried when no one was looking. The kids left stuffed animals piled around her (she hoards them, typically) to give her comfort.

By that night she was a different dog.

Here's the thing--and this might make me sound like a horrible person--but this dog that I thought I wouldn't care much to see go--led me to an epiphany. I love her. Maybe not so much for what she is, though she is a lovely animal, as for the good she brings out in my family. The good she could bring out in me. The saying is true--you love those you serve. Even a dog.

So today, she is not that extra burden that sits in the corner adding nothing to my life. Today I am grateful for her. Grateful that she is here to keep me company. That she taught my kids about prayer and fasting and responsibility.

Today, she is mine.