Our Broken Collie

Once upon a time, a long time ago, I stood at the door of a dilapidated shack and looked in at what seemed like a million wriggling puppies. I had unknowingly happened upon a puppy mill and in some of the worst conditions I had ever seen.

Earlier in the week I had seen an ad offering Rat Terrier puppies for $60. I was in the market for a smallish terrier type dog so I made the call. I could not hide my disgust when looking in at the writhing mass of black, white, and brown. Puppies were frantically trying to get out. Out of the feces covering the floor, out of the urine soaking their paws, out of the stench of too many little bodies and the bite of the fleas. She sat in the back with her little black nose in the air. Reaching for fresh air I am sure but not trying to get out. I stepped over the rest and reached for her.

She was the same size as everyone else but seemed different. Sad. She hardly reacted when I lifted her from the filth. I later learned she was from a previous litter. A runt they were going to breed from.  She had been in that horrid place for 8 full weeks. Way too long and she had obviously given up. It was no wonder she was despondent.

The deal was made and she rode home in my lap wrapped in a blanket. Sleeping as soundly as I am sure she had done in an eternity. Before arriving at home, I made a quick stop at a payphone (pre-cell phone era). I read sometime later of the discovery of a puppy mill in southern Nebraska. Apparently an anonymous caller had reported them and upon investigation, they had been shut down. All those puppies had been confiscated, vetted, and offered for adoption from a no kill shelter.

My Princess lived for a happy 14 years.

When we had healed enough to look into filling the gaping hole she left, we knew we wanted to adopt.

We found the Collies at a working dog rescue in Colorado. We were calving at the time and the husband could not make the visit. I met my Tucker first and knew he was it. He’s a beautiful little black and white collie and his eagerness to please was unmatched by any other dog. I knew I was adopting him right then and there. He had baggage though. He was to be adopted out with his supposed half-brother Shep. Shep was a 50lb brute whom had never been taught a lick of manners. No leash training, no house training, nothing! He had also been expected to live in a duplex where his previous owner had worked 10 or 12 hours a day and poor Shep was expected to be happy to hang out at home all day. That poor dog must have destroyed the guys house. Obviously someone with no collie experience. Maybe no dog experience, period. I don’t know but when I looked into those big brown eyes and seen…..what did I see? Distrust? Doubt? Fear? Or maybe I saw his soul. He was on the edge of being a really bad dog, or a really good dog. I wasn’t yet 100% sure of his path but I knew he needed a person. Someone who understood collies, someone with compassion, someone who needed a dog of their own.

“He’ll make you a good dog.” I reported to my husband.

“Bring him home then, I trust you.” He answered.

I brought home both dogs and we changed Sheps name to Jack to give him a new start and the journey began.

It took a few weeks for him to realize we were not going to beat on him for every little thing, that we liked to play fetch, tennis balls were his new best friend, and these new people provided things like chewies and didn’t mind if he slept on the bed. He wasn’t too thrilled with my need to brush his long beautiful fur or to insist he potty outside but we came to an understanding. I brushed only when he really needed it and he would not pee on my floor. I would not throw my slipper at him and he would not chew them up.  It all came eventually. The mutual respect he needed. He and Peter bonded like no other and they were inseparable.

Then he broke his leg.

After falling from the back of the pick-up somewhere on the way to work, we finally found him. We picked him up from the ditch and that poor dog, with his already rough start in life, laid on that leg all the way to the vet. The x-rays revealed a broken femur and surgery was scheduled. I brought him home a few days later and the healing had begun. Physical healing anyway. While he relied on me almost 100% however the pain and the pain drugs made him forget all the trust he and my husband had forged and the teeth came barred again. He had reverted to the dog he once was. Un-trusting. Untrustworthy. Afraid. I could work with him but Peter was at a loss. I could pick up his back end and help him lay down but he could not trust Peter enough to even let him outside.

He was really and truly broken this time. Would he come back to us? Would he come back to Peter? Watching my husband grieve broke my heart. He had found a dog of his own at last but now it seemed like that special bond was gone.

In one of the vet visits the nurse had to muzzle him his attitude was that bad.  In the next vet visit the nurse pulled out the muzzle and Jack pulled out his fangs. Then he turned to me with a look, pleading with me, “Anything but that Mom, Please!” I told the nurse I would hold him and if he bit me, it was my own fault. Not one fang was shown as Jack laid on the exam table as still as a stone. Vet did his palpitating and flexing thing, which I’m sure hurt, but Jack still didn’t move a muscle. Ok, maybe he still had some trust in there. Things were looking up.

He ended up needing a second surgery to remove the plate and screws, which required more recovery. I learned a lot about this dog during this time. He thinks, problem solves, and once he figured out the house rules, started tattling on wrong doers. Tucker getting on the coffee table? Woof, woof, whimper, and whine. I go check and sure enough. Naughtiness. Is Fitty on the counter? More woofs and whimper whines. We started making a joke out of it “What’s the matter Lassie? Is Timmy in the well?” and laugh it off. Until he alerted me of my sons bike wreck. I actually asked him if Timmy was in the well and he glared at me. Ever seen a dog glare? He drug me outside by my shirt tail and there was Ryan, in a bleeding pile under his bike.

He came home one afternoon a couple years later and was doing his “Timmy’s in the well” routine. I jumped in the truck and followed him. Cows were out and getting in the hay yard. Some were chewing on a bale that had been left and the rest were making their way onto the road. He gave me a look that I am sure meant “I told you so” and I laughed. We put the cows back where they belonged and I made sure to tell him what a good dog he was. I tend to believe him these days.

Day by day as his leg healed, the trust healed as well. The bond took a bit longer to come back but I knew it was going to be ok the day I figured out Jack could tell time. Husband would come home from work about 5:00, 4:30 rolls around to find Jack in our bedroom, watching down the driveway. Watching for his person whom, even during this setback, was nice to him. Who would talk to him in a soft voice and tell him it would all be OK. Reassure him that he was a good boy. Their special bond is back now and stronger than ever. Although, to this day I am still the only one who can handle him for the vet. I suppose even big dogs need a Mommy sometimes.

In the long run this broken collie is turning out to be a really good dog. I knew it all along, or at least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Barbara <3