She's a Brave Little Toaster

I made an analogy a few days ago to one of my favorite cartoon movies, "The Brave Little Toaster," in which a group of outdated appliances are left in a remote cabin by their owner. They get lonely and decide it's time to go find him. It's really a story of bravery, loyalty and courage – and friendship.

The analogy I made was to my youngest little dog companion, Violette. I have five dogs. Two of them had a former caretaker, my daughter, who could no longer keep them because of a rental agreement, and when I married my husband (should I say current? I get married a lot), he came with an old spaniel mix who was a Christmas present for his son, over 12 years ago, who quickly decided "dog life" was not for him. So, yes, five dogs, whom I would never abandon.

Long story short, or at least semi-short, is that Violette has gone mysteriously and rather suddenly, blind. Not sure why, and can't really afford to have a series of very expensive tests and vet visits to determine the cause, because the outcome is still the same. She cannot see. It doesn't appear to be cataracts, as her lenses are clear. They're just, for want of a better word, vacant.

My hubby's dog is blind as well, and cannot hear, either. But, she's well into her teens, the oldest at about 16, and has been this way for at least two years. She's a pro at being blind. She sleeps mostly. You don't have to see to sleep.

But this little dog, the smallest of all my Scottish terriers, was just about the most ferocious little rat-killer on the planet. She lived to chase vermin, whether they had scales, fur or feathers. Nothing escaped her rattlesnake-like aim when it came to disposing of Other Creatures In The Yard. She and her siblings would hunt in a pack, one scaring the ne'er-do-wells out of hiding, one chasing it right into Violette's path, and of  course, that was certain doom. My hubby took to calling her "Pineapple," because she was so snappy and fierce, but could be the biggest mush when you scratched her ears just right. Violette had been sold to a retired couple in Cincinnati when she was 9 weeks old, but they didn't know how to deal with a puppy this lively, so they gave her back to me at 13 weeks of age. She was a mess for a while, having been caged for all of those horrendous 4 weeks, not allowed to interact, no playtime, and very little human contact - or dog contact. She proceeded to hide under the sofa for a month, refusing to come out, not sure of what had happened or where she was, not to mention four other curious dogs who thought they smelled her before...

I would gently slide a plate of food and a bowl of water under the sofa, and within an hour the plate and bowl were empty. She sneaked out at night to use a pee-pee pad (my former husband and I lived in a building and no yard) and she just wasn't ready to endear herself to any human, much less her dog-pimp mama. Finally, after many days of coaxing, putting her food closer to the outside of the established Violette-Zone, she started to soften and became the glorious rat-killer and barky-thing we grew to know and love. She stopped snapping at her siblings, started to actually enjoy playing with them and was finally able to interact, which included being the best little dog on a leash ever.

She stayed this way most of her nine years. Until about three months ago. Literally, overnight, this dog could not see. And, she has developed a large lump, which the vet said was most likely mammary cancer, and would require surgery and treatments, to which an estimate of well over $5,000 was snootily given by the woman, who eyed me up as not only a dog hoarder (they were all in for annuals and rabies), but as an uncaring and obviously unfit human mother for the little thing. So, as she is not in pain (I have that written down on a piece of paper by the aforementioned arrogant vet, along with a sour recommendation that I have her euthanized), I am sadly letting Violette be one of the statistics of People Who Cannot Afford Her Own Insurance Much Less That of Her Treasured Pets.

Violette went back into hiding for a while, unsure of what was going on, and took up semi-permanent residence under a huge bamboo armoire in the living room. She did come stumbling out for her daily walkies, and she always got extra attention, always being paired up for walkies with her lifelong sibling and litter-mate, Calypso.

She started to walk into furniture, walls, people, car tires, trees and the miscellaneous objects that she probably never took note of when she was a seeing-eye dog (puts a whole new perspective on that moniker, doesn't it?). Once she started to get her bearings, though, she started to shine, however dimly compared to her previous luminescence.

She walks very slowly, not out of pain, but out of necessity, in the house and yard. She only time she resembles her old self is when she trots down the middle of the road on her walkies like a champ, because she senses there are no obstacles to maneuver around. She adores this time of her day. She instinctively pulls me over to relieve herself on the grass, and then goes right back to center lane, jauntily prancing about like nobody's business. And, this is where my heart breaks, every single evening.

She has taught me what true bravery is all about. She has no hesitation in finding her way, although she has lost partial hearing, too (that was a while back, because of an ear infection, and yes, it was vet-treated). She investigates and goes under, over and through, without an iota of where she is or what she is getting in to. When you call her, she sweeps the area with her eyes, moving her ears, trying to eco-locate. She inevitably turns the wrong way, not sure where the sound is coming from. She runs into things, she underestimates depths and sometimes just stands, unsure of her whereabouts, searching for clues. She learns how to navigate with the feeling of wood deck, stone, grass and asphalt under her feet, and trudges bravely on, to find her path. At night, she is no longer crated, but comes in to the bedroom after I make my way to sleep and jumps on the bed, cleans her paws, scratches here and there, and finally, as I have settled in, she jumps back down and makes her way to Under The Armoire, where she prefers to spend the rest of her evening.

She does all her usual dog things. Barks when the others bark, cleans the food bowl like a champ and occasionally lets me love on her a bit, returning it by licking my face and putting her head close to my chest. I still treat her like I always did, letting her stumble a bit sometimes, waiting until she determines what is in her way, and watching her move around it, slowly, but very surely. She doesn't jump on any furniture anymore (the studio chair was always her territory) but sometimes, I put her up there, thinking that's where she wants to be. She jumps down, preferring to be on the floor, where she has familiarity.

Her quality of life appears to be normal, if but a bit arrested. It's my quality of life that has changed. I now have a heart more full of love for this previously annoying little critter, who barked and barked and barked and barked some more. This dog, who was always getting under bushes chasing God knows what, and digging at the fence line like a crazed inmate at Alcatraz nearing the point of freedom. This dog, who was constantly killing cute little furry rats, which I had to cry a bit over and bury in stone-covered burial plots because she would then try to dig up her quarry again for double-measure. This dog.

Sometimes, in the midst of hardship, we should all look to the lessons that life is teaching us, no matter in what form it takes. This little mess, this little problem child, this little annoyingly loud and irritating creature...has taught me what bravery and courage and will to live is all about.

I am well and truly humbled.