Meet Precious Zoobie Zoo

"Receive with simplicity everything that happens to you." - Rashi

I hesitate to write another animal column because it feels like I've written quite a few lately. But, short of the fired up pieces about local politics I occasionally generate, the columns about animals seem to be among my readers' favorites. Folks will cross a room or send a note letting me know how much they enjoyed reading about my pets. The last animal column I wrote was after my beloved, rescue Rottweiller Roland died. Every condolence, hug, email, tear or tender story you shared about your furry friends on the heels of that meant a lot to me. I was devastated and it was comforting to know there are so many others who understand that kind of love for an animal.   

Some years ago, when my previous beloved, rescue Rottie died, I was equally devastated. So, the first thing I did was rush out and get not one, but two new dogs. I did it the day after Pru passed - didn't even try to "sit with my pain," as a therapist I once had would say. The dogs were rescues, half-grown female pups; sweet enough, but nothing special, just little Heinz 57 mutts. They are Rosie and Ducky, still with us today.      

A while after getting those  two, I was at the animal shelter for some reason (not to get a dog) and I encountered the most pitiful thing I've ever seen. It was an ancient, blind, Poodle mix who had just been surrendered. She was sitting there, shaking in her cage with a look of sheer terror on her face. I couldn't leave her there; just couldn't do it. So, "Blind Dog" (the only name that ever stuck) came home with me and lived for several more years.

She was small, with a front leg that had been broken and healed bent off to the side. I liked to imagine she was a circus dog who fell during her act and that's what broke her leg. The circus then abandoned her to a serious of bad homes and sad situations. Her cataracts were large and bright; they made her look like she could shine laser beams out of her eyes. And, she didn't smell good. But, we took good care of her and over time, she wiggled her way into our hearts.   

I carried "Blind Dog" around in a backpack at times because she couldn't keep up with the other dogs on walks and was often at risk for being trampled in the house. We took her on outings and she'd ride along in that backpack, sporting a scarf or a little shirt, smiling her big blind smile. She looked like she felt like the Queen of the World as people petted her and told her how cute she was.  

Ending up with "Blind Dog" was a surprise, as I've never been fond of small dogs. But, when she died, she left a surprisingly large hole in our hearts, so we buried her in the back yard, planted a rose bush nearby and got her a  little stone.  As much as I missed her, though, I was never tempted to get another small dog...and then Roland died.

This time I forced myself to "sit with" my pain and grief, so rushing out to get another dog wasn't an option. Pulling weeds ended up being my most soothing and productive grief activity and since our yard had not been weeded for a couple of years, there was plenty of weeds to pull. Last week, I weeded my way to "Blind Dog's" grave, which was badly overgrown and covered by the rose bush we'd put there. It took a while to get the area back in shape and while I worked, I reminisced about "Blind Dog," chatted with her some and told her how I still miss her at times.  

The next day, while taking my Pets of the Week photos for the paper, I encountered another near blind Poodle mix. She was younger than "Blind Dog," much smaller, with no broken leg. She was just as pitiful looking, though, sitting there shaking in her cage. She had been found a badly matted, sick stray, wandering around a parking lot unable to see because of a nasty eye infection. When I met her, she was freshly shaved and bathed, but still looked like a mess. The rescue folks named her "Precious" and it was obvious there was something pretty precious in there, behind all that sadness and fear.

"Precious" looked like my "Blind Dog" in so many ways. I suspected it was more than a coincidence she showed up the day after I'd spent so much time communing with "Blind Dog" at her grave. I told Mr. Clark about her, in passing, and was relieved to hear she'd been placed in a foster home that very day. Then, that night (admittedly with a couple of glasses of wine on board) I swear, I heard the voice of "Blind Dog" in my heart, telling me to go get that dog, which, of course, I did.  

"Precious" is now sleeping contentedly at my feet in her new dog bed. She is wearing one of "Blind Dog's" shirts, a little purple one that had been my favorite, so I kept it after "Blind Dog" died. "Zoobie," as we've started calling her, is on a bunch of medicines, special food, and has to have medicated baths, but, as Mr. Clark says, "at least she can see." She's a tiny thing, still tentative and insecure, but you can tell she has a lot of love to give and she's getting more comfortable all the time.

Officially we're only fostering "Precious Zoobie" until her forever home can be found, but I've already bought her a backpack and I think we all know how this story will end...