Twyla the wonder dog BRAT. from Dru Blood @ Dru Blood - I believe in the inherent goodness of all beings 18 Aug 2008 7:25 am
This is Twyla:
I rescued Twyla from the pound almost exactly 8 years ago. My pit/hound dog mix (Yes, that was quite an interesting combination...all the charm of a pitbull, all the laziness and stink of a hound dog...and I loved her to death) Cash had just died of cancer while I was pregnant, and I had to fill the emptiness with another difficult damn dog.
I found Twyla on my first trip to the pound. She was curled up in a silent little ball in the corner of her pen. The sign on the door said "I'm deaf." She didn't look up when I walked by. She just went right on sleeping. On my way out, though, she was standing at the door of her pen, wagging her stump of a tail and displaying what I came to recognize as her usual sort of hyperactive, yet vaguely confused expression. I fell in love with her, of course, as I do with all difficult things.
Twyla's arrival in our household marked the demise of my marriage. My ex was none too pleased at the prospect of bringing a hyperactive, deaf dog into the household. He marveled at the fact that I always did things the most difficult way possible. It kind of amazes me that the people who are most annoyed at my flaws are the ones who most benefit from them.
She behaved herself, at first. She was a sweet, demure little lady. The dog trainer I spoke to about her had told me that she would be extra super sweet the first 10 days after I brought her home, but then her bad habits would come to light. It was for that reason she wouldn't even make an appointment with me before she had been with me for 2 weeks.
When I did bring her to the dog trainer, she was still on her best behavior. The trainer was impressed with her elegance and grace, but told me that she didn't know how to posture or communicate with other dogs...most likely due to the fact that she was deaf. The dog trainer taught me a few hand signals to work on, and sent me on my way to enjoy life with my new deaf dog.
Shortly after that, the demure sweetness broke down. Twyla became anxious. She had separation anxiety, and would crap and pee all over my bed if left alone in the house. I had to buy a crate to put her in while I was away. This cured the problem, but the whole ordeal and being pregnant, separated from my husband, and working two jobs made it difficult for me to bond with Twyla. I was resentful of the fact that I had to deal with this other animal's needs. Maybe it was a mistake for me to have gotten a new dog so quickly. I wasn't really feeling the love for this dog that I had felt for my dear departed Cashy.
When the baby arrived, I went to Chicago to stay with relatives for 3 months, and Twyla went to live with a kind and generous co-worker who fostered greyhounds. I never even checked in on her, and I'm sure my co-worker thought I would never return to claim her...but I did. Life resumed upon my return, but I still did not bond with the dog. There was new motherhood and new singlehood, and new jobhood to deal with, and I just didn't have time to connect with another demanding, needy creature. I thought I might never bond with her. I'm not really sure I cared.
I won't describe the ensuing years. There were other dogs who came and went. Strays and castoffs, housemates' dogs. It seemed the days of me even caring about an animal in my home were long gone. Pets served a function. A dog was there to take on walks, and to provide a degree of protection from home invasion. Twyla was a challenge to walk, because she was so strong and so unwilling to leave other dogs alone. And, although she looked intimidating, it's difficult to say whether or not she would provide much protection against home invasion, because in addition to being deaf, she's about the sweetest animal you would ever meet. I find it hard to imagine she would defend the house against someone who might scratch her itchy spot.
Still, she stuck with us. And, I guess, I stuck with her. Over the years, she started to grow on me. In spite of all of the stolen sticks of butter and loaves of bread that she would swipe off of the high counter and eat off of the floor, I kind of developed an appreciation for her sweet, simple personality. And even though it annoyed me that she always "followed me in front of me" throughout the house, and would lay on my bed and pull down my windowshade to watch for me if I left the door open in my room...I appreciated that she did seem to be attached to me, ever so subtly more than any other ass scratcher.
But I never realized how much I loved that damn dog until we discovered a bleeding lump of something in her chest. Some mysterious thing. Something yucky that, as the vet said "had to come out." One day, she was running around joyfully in the back yard...the next she was doing her best to act like she wasn't wincing in pain. But she *was* wincing in pain. So it had to come out.
The vet had to make "relief incisions" because the tumor was so large and Twyla's skin is so taught that he couldn't sew her up properly. He told me not to worry about them. He also told me that when he opened her up to remove the larger-than-a-fist-sized tumor...he found another one, which he also removed...but which might mean the problem was not an infection, as we had hoped. That, he told me, we might have to worry about.
When I first got Twyla, I had read a lot about boxers. How they stay puppified throughout their entire lives, but how their lives are usually short (9-11 years). Twyla is now 9, and even though she acts like a puppy, she is not a puppy. She's an old girl.
But she's a tough old girl. She made it through the surgery and we had to FORCE her to lay down in the little bed we made for her when she came home. Within a day she was romping around like her old self, frankenstein stitches and all. Within 2 days, she was swiping butter off the counter like old times.
On the 4th day, she slipped out of an open gate and took herself for a romp around the neighborhood, which is something she hasn't done in quite awhile. I spent that entire day scouring the neighborhood, crying, anxietying, FREAKING OUT...until I found her listed on the web page of the animal shelter. FOUND. Fifteen minutes after the animal shelter had closed.
Of course, I drove down there, with her meds in hand, to see if there was anything I could do. I was worried she would be scared. I was worried she would be in pain. In tears and panic, I implored the ladies who were just getting off work to please just let me give her her pain medication. They were nice enough to let me in to talk to the vet who had attended to her. They knew exactly which dog I was talking about. I have a feeling they would have known even if she DIDN'T have stitches all up and down her chest. Twyla is just that kind of dog. She's memorable. She's a character.
The vet was glad to see me. I guess they were worried that someone had spent a sizable amount of money to have a dog stitched up and then just abandoned her? hahaha. (and believe me when I tell you that the way my luck has been lately, I was totally worried that she had been run over by a car to add to the tragic irony.) Since it was after closing, and everything was locked up, they could not let me take her home (I think the vet would have just released her to me, but the cashier who was on his way home said it was too much trouble to open the cash box or turn on the credit card machine. I told him I didn't want to get him in trouble, I just wanted to make sure Twyla was comfortable and not in pain...but secretly I thought he was a real prick, and I think the vet did, too.) but they did take me back to see her. The vet did, anyway. She told me she wouldn't let them put her in an outdoor pen, and I thanked her for that. She flipped the light on in the exam room, and Twyla looked up at us. She had knocked over her food dish, and spilled kibble all over the inside of her pen. The vet told me they gave her an antibiotic, but she was so amped up and happy, they didn't think she needed any pain medication. We both looked at her, looking up at us amidst the spilled kibble with that "uh-oh...I'm in trouble" look on her face, then looked at each other.
"She's such a brat!" I exclaimed, lovingly, through my tears.
"Yes. She certainly is." The vet responded. She rubbed my back, assured me that she was going to be ok, and that I could come back in the morning to pick her up.
We turned out the lights, and closed the door...I drove home.
(Sorry if that was disjointed. It was a rough, rough week over here. I really hope this week is better.)
p.s. Read more about white boxers here. I totally recommend the breed, and absolutely recommend that if you are looking for a fun-loving, playful, good-natured companion animal, you should rescue a white boxer.