STORY AND PHOTOS BY: Nancy Gallimore
It was a good morning. I was up and out the door on time. Everything was perfectly on track. And then I saw her.
At first, she was no more than a tiny shadow slipping in and out between the rays of sun peeking through the roadside trees. As I slowed my Jeep, I wasn’t really sure what I was seeing. A feral cat? A scrawny little raccoon? I finally got a clear look. It was an emaciated little dog.
She trotted along the side of the road at a mechanical, steady clip. Her eyes darting furtively my way were the only sign that she even noticed the vehicle alongside her. This was a dog on her last leg. She needed help, and, suddenly, “on time” that morning meant that I was already at the right place at the right time instead of headed toward my goal of being on time for work.
I grabbed my stash of dog treats and the slip lead I always have at the ready, stopped the car and hopped out to walk beside the dark little figure to see if I could forge a quick friendship. She, however, had no interest in getting to know me and quickly darted toward the ditch that led into an easement area thick with brush and trees. If she escaped into that cover, my chances of finding her again would be slim and meant certain demise for this poor creature. Failure was just not an option.
It was time for plan B. I backed away until she felt secure in her determined path forward on the road once again. I hopped in my Jeep and drove about 50 feet ahead of her. Then I started placing a trail of dog food in her path, leading to my position behind my vehicle.
Desperate hunger won out over her concern about the human sitting at the end of her traveling feast. Once she drew near to me, I placed a small pile of food between us and let her eat with no further pressure from me.
I gave her another small pile. And another. Soon she was looking to me, hoping I would replenish her roadside picnic.
I offered another course but this time held it in my hand—the one with my leash casually looped over my wrist. As she stretched her thin neck forward to reach the offered food, I quickly slipped the noose of my lead from my wrist over her head. My little traveler balked in surprise, but she quickly returned to gobble the kibble that had spilled on the ground.
Once I had her secured, I could finally get a good look at my new friend. The dog I initially believed to be a small mixed breed was, in fact, a tiny Australian Cattle Dog, also known as a Blue Heeler. Her thin skin and rough, filthy coat stretched over nothing but
bones. She had no muscle mass, no fat. Where she should have had a firm little belly, it felt like a deflated balloon. Her condition was so extreme that I honestly couldn’t tell if she was a puppy or a small senior. I have rarely seen a dog this depleted still able to walk, let alone trot down the road.
With quick roadside assistance from my partner, Jim Thomason, I was able to get a crate and load the now trembling dog into the back of my Jeep. I immediately put in a call to the vet as I headed toward Tulsa. This dog needed help, and she needed it right away.
My friends at Hammond Animal Hospital immediately agreed to take the dog for an exam and observation. Because we had no idea if she might be ill or if she had ever had vaccinations, she needed a safe place where she could be isolated from other dogs. She settled into her quiet quarantine area with seeming relief, finally succumbing to the exhaustion that had likely plagued her for months, maybe years.
The dog was covered in fleas. The effects of starvation and parasites, both internal and external, had left her extremely anemic. We honestly weren’t even sure if the dog’s system could rally from such prolonged and extreme neglect, but we had one thing working in our favor. The little cow dog’s appetite was voracious though her stomach was struggling to adjust to this sudden wealth of food.
The care team at Hammond gave the dog four to five small meals a day as her system adapted to regular nutrition. They gave her a thorough bath to rid her of the torturous army of fleas. They gave her medication to rid her system of intestinal parasites. They gave her all the support she needed. From that point, we just had to hope that her multiple issues and challenges would resolve over time with good food, clean water and lots of love.
My tiny Cattle Dog remained in the hospital for five days. Each morning, I admittedly held my breath as I called to see if our patient had made it through another night. And each morning, I was greeted with good news. Gradually, the dog’s condition was improving, and her appetite never wavered. Finally, on the afternoon of the sixth day, my newfound foster friend was released to come home.
I GRABBED MY STASH OF DOG TREATS AND THE SLIP LEAD I ALWAYS HAVE AT THE READY, STOPPED THE CAR AND HOPPED OUT TO WALK BESIDE THE DARK LITTLE FIGURE TO SEE IF I COULD FORGE A QUICK FRIENDSHIP
The best medicine going forward was just to let the dog settle into our home and destress physically and mentally from her ordeal as a stray. Initially, she was very shy of me and Jim, scooting away from our approach, avoiding our company by hiding in her safe place—a crate inside a puppy pen.
We gave her the space she needed. We decided to just let her find her way around our home. Our clever new friend soon followed the example of the other dogs and used the dog door to gain access to our large fenced yard. She inspected the entire perimeter with the same robotic determination that led her down our road on the day I found her.
She didn’t seem to connect to anyone or anything in our home in the beginning. She was still just a shadow, trying to be invisible. Then, gradually, her drive for anything edible pushed her a bit out of her shell as she scurried forward with bright eyes and alert ears to accept any proffered bit of food. With our other dogs serving as role models, she also discovered that human companionship and petting wasn’t such a bad thing.
Three months post-rescue, our little friend is still very much a work in progress, but progress within our home is now her friend instead of something to fear. From her initial weight of 15 pounds, she is up to a healthy 30 pounds. The frame once so frail is filling out and gaining muscle tone. The deflated belly is now consistently plump.
She knows to go outside to potty. Her tail wags. Her determined path around the perimeter of our yard has been replaced by relaxed naps in the shade. She’s found her surprisingly loud voice. Her quirky little personality emerges a bit more each day. And yes, her bright eyes seek us out for not only food treats but also attention.
I have no idea how a dog can become so neglected. I often wish I could know her back-story, but then I realize her past doesn’t matter now. We only need to look forward to the possibilities in her future. Possibilities that may include an adoptive home when she’s completely recovered though she is welcome to stay with us as long as she needs to.
I realize I have neglected to tell you what name our little friend earned. She had such amazing support from so many caring people, and we are grateful for every donation, from food and supplies to financial support for her vet bills. Our friends, Steve and Marla Bradshaw, have championed this dog from the moment they first saw a photo of her, so we gave them the job of giving her a name.
Appropriately, they selected a name that is also a word I have used repeatedly in telling her rescue tale. Our little Australian Cattle Dog is named Hope.
Hope. It’s the gift we gave her when we plucked her off the side of the road. And now, hope is the gift she is giving back to us tenfold during a time when it’s really nice to latch onto a story with a happy ending. But really, this is a story with a happy new beginning for Hope, a once lost dog who is finally finding her way home.
