Of Dogs and Donations

There's a photo from our trip to India a few years ago that's not spectacular, and yet, I can't bring myself to delete it because of the story and the memory behind it. Here it is:



That's our vehicle the dog is next to. We'd just driven out of the city for the first time since we'd arrived because we wanted to visit a waterfall in the jungle. The jungle entrance had closed early due to issues with elephants (some habitat encroachments are more equal than others) and so we were standing around, talking about what to do next. Being inclined to take photos at all times, I started snapping away and shot the one above.

And then my husband Mowgli (not his real name) became mildly agitated and told me to back away from the dog. I recall being unimpressed by it -- as you can see, it's pretty small and a bit on the thin side. Also, we have two dogs that, combined, outweigh me, and since I've fed, bathed and walked them for 10 years, I'm pretty comfortable around canines.

But I took my husband's word for it and backed up instead of trying for a shot of the dog's face, which was reasonably cute. As I moved away, I recalled him telling me more than once that dogs in India are not to be touched or even looked at because most of them are street dogs and therefore dangerously aggressive. It's not just his opinion -- the Mumbai high court ruled 2-1 earlier this year that "nuisance" dogs can be killed. Which might sound less awful once you know that 25,000 Mumbai residents a year are bitten by one of the 70,000 feral dogs who also live there.

By contrast to the photo above, here is one of my dogs, Georgie, recovering from knee surgery:



Even as I think "aw, the poor thing," I think, "she has it better than the vast majority of dogs, and maybe people, in the developing world." And that's when the guilt kicks in and I start to think about donating to an organization that helps the poor. I think I'll use Gori Girl's excellent "how to help the poor" guide to figure out which one to give to.

Even Dogs Play Favorites

We have two dogs, both mutts, both delightful in their own ways. Georgie is a Rottweiler mix, aloof and protective, and so densely built that strangers assume she's a male. She once barked at clothes that were hanging on the back of a door; I suppose they looked ominous to her, and to be fair, they had appeared without warning. When I walk her alone at night and Mowgli calls out, "be safe," I giggle.

And then we have Jim, the pretty sweetie-pie of the house whose most dangerous feature is the stench of his breath. He loves human contact so much that he will let you rock him back and forth when he is standing. I once compared him, fairly, to Inspector Clouseau.

Jim is Mowgli's favorite dog. He has proclaimed this loudly, in front of both dogs, on numerous occasions, so at this point, every creature in the house is aware of his canine preferences.

My morning routine is to feed and walk the dogs, and then work on writing projects, with the dogs cruising by for pats and scratches. Sometimes I ask their opinion of this or that sentence, but they're generally reluctant to comment beyond a yawn. This goes on for an hour or so, and then I go upstairs to get ready for work. When I come down, Jim is inevitably waiting as you see him above, tucked into that corner between a speaker and an overstuffed chair.

This is his view:

He doesn't budge when I come down to gather my things. Why would he? He's waiting for his favorite human.

The Canine Inspector Clouseau

I ran into the 1964 classic "A Shot in the Dark" on TV yesterday, and realized as I sat there that our dog Jim is like Inspector Clouseau in several striking ways:

1. He is stunningly clumsy; he has a particular talent for getting tangled in cords and falling over his own feet on the stairs.

2. He is not terribly bright; he often turns around to see where his own fart noise came from. This is apparently terribly confusing for him.

3. He is excellent at fending off Kato. Once when Mowgli was walking him and they were charged by a leashless German Shepherd, our meek, mild Jim put himself between the dog and Mowgli and got down to doggy business.

4. He makes us laugh.

5. Chicks dig him.

Georgie is Fine

Based on the record number of comments (4!) on the post about Georgie’s surgery, I now believe the writing truism that nothing pleases the reading public more than stories about animals and children. Thank you, dear readers, for taking the time to read, comment, and e-mail. I appreciate all of it, and if Georgie could read, so would she.

And now, an update.

She came through surgery like the tank she is, but getting her home was nervewracking. It is not fun to wrestle 95 pounds of semi-liquid dog into and out of the backseat of a Honda Civic, especially when you’re trying to avoid disturbing a whole-ham-sized rear leg. But less than 24 hours later, she is getting up on her own, eating, moaning a bit, and hopefully enjoying the narcotics they sent her home with.

I spent last night on the couch next to her empire of old blankets, and my awesome boss let me work from home today so I could monitor her incision and make sure she didn’t drown in her water bowl. She's already figured out how to deal with the non-functioning leg, and now we just have to keep her quiet enough for the bones to heal and the screws to set. This, to me, is the easy part.

Mowgli, on the other hand, watched the entire procedure in all its gory glory without any problem, but has been very worried about her post-operative well-being. He cringes and starts walking funny when she tripods her way around.

Tonight, it’s couch duty again for me; Mowgli offered to take a shift, but I feel an obligation to her, since I made the decision that got her into this mess. Also, I know it would stress him out if she he couldn’t calm her. She seems to have reserved a particularly keening whine for him; we suspect it’s because she remembers that he delivered her to the vet yesterday morning.

Gone to the Dogs

That's Jim on the left, Georgie on the right.


I really shouldn’t ever say “never” – that word always catches up with me, yanks me out of whatever I’m doing, and proves me wrong. This time, it’s a dog situation.

We had a lovely few days in New York and New Jersey, visiting family and friends, eating ourselves silly and me gleefully behaving like a tourist. There will be at least one post about the trip later, but right now I only mention the journey because less than five minutes after we were back home, Georgie, our girl dog, let out a sound I’ve heard her make only once before. I knew exactly what it meant: She snapped the major ligament in her left rear knee, putting her in pain and making her instantly lame.

Because this also happened four years ago, we knew what the choices would be: surgery to repair the knee; medication, which would guarantee a life of pain and deterioration; or put her down.

Mowgli instantly knew what he wanted to do, but I struggled for three awful days. She is not young. She has another, fairly benign health issue that might or might not indicate something serious. We don’t know how long she has left, with or without putting her through major surgery. The procedure is not cheap, and even though she’s in really good shape for her age, her recovery will be harder this time. And my love and esteem for her aside, she is a dog, and we’re in the middle of a recession for crying out loud.

Here’s the masala part: the man from India, where street dogs are a serious problem and most pet dogs live outside, wanted to do the surgery, arguing that the dogs trust us to take care of them, so we should do everything we can for them. Me, the American who raised the dog from a 10-week-old, wasn’t sure if surgery would be worth it, because of the cost of the surgery and the age of the dog.

We discussed it for days, but the final call was mine because technically, she is my dog. His position struck me as emotionally based, whereas I spent a lot of time trying to work the problem like a math equation, attempting and failing to solve for more than one “X.”

And here’s the “never” part: I said I’d never put her through major surgery at her age. But on Tuesday night, I looked at her and realized I simply couldn’t bear either of the other choices. It’s not logical, I’m still conflicted about spending the money, and yet, my decision came in the blink of an eye.

The surgery will take place on Monday.