Holidays

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Once Lost, Then Found

By

Toni Dennis

I had gotten up early - before my husband - to get ready for our yearly trip to spend Christmas week with our youngest daughter and her family. There it was - my Christmas surprise! A pitiful lump of thinning matted fur. No bigger than a large cat, huddled in a cardboard box in a corner of my family room.

The lump lifted her head to look at me but made no other attempt to get up. I petted her and removed a twig from the fur under her chin. A few minutes later she waddled over to our dog’s water dish, took a long drink, returned to her bed, rolled up into a ball, and fell asleep, as if she was very, very tired.

My daughter, a police officer, had been working night shift Christmas Eve 2000. A kindly person had found my gift lost, and limping across a street at a main intersection, and brought her to police sub-station. My daughter did not have the heart to deliver her to the pound for “disposition."

When my husband and I returned from visiting family my gift had been bathed, brushed and looked good. As good as she could for a very old dog with warts, cataracts, thinning fur, sore joints, and probably deaf. She limped around, stiff like I am when she got up, and overweight …like me. Getting old is the pits we learn to make the best of it.

During the next three weeks we made efforts to find her owner: flyers in nearby stores and on utility poles, “found dog” ads, Internet notices, and information at the animal pound. No one claimed her. Because she was too old for adoption, the animal control officer told us they would put her to sleep.

I became guardian of a geriatric dog of unknown background, who snored…loudly.

With Sherlock Holmes observation I deduced that she had been a man’s companion...she preferred males. She fell in love with my husband, sleeping on a pad under his desk or on his lap. Where he went, she went. Except when food was being prepared or served. Then she was the cook’s friend. She didn’t eat food. She inhaled it. At first she would not eat anything, but upon settling in her tastes became more refined…not just crackers, please; but crackers with cheese, if you please.

We determined from our AKC book that she may have been a cross between a Norwich terrier and a small poodle. She had very short light brown legs, gray hindquarter with curly, soft fur, and a mixed black-gray head with poodle ears.


My little dog was housebroken to a fault. Even waking me at night to go out. Our four-year old male Wire Haired Terrier deferred to her age and was very respectful. Though I think secretly a little jealous. Our cat tolerated her, as cats will, although she occasionally tapped her in the face with claws withdrawn. Our cat, “sweet pea”, does not normally have a sweet disposition.

My gift learned not to jump off the bed or sofa front-feet first. After she sprained her leg she began doing a sort of cross between a four point landing and a body flop. I did mention her weight problem, didn’t I? Her head was small, with a sweet face and large, innocent eyes. But her torso, shaped like an overstuffed polish sausage, prevented her from getting up on sofas, beds and chairs by herself. So we did a ballerina lift, the ballerina being “Little Dog.” She did try to help, but her arthritis got in the way. She enjoyed walks, trotting much faster than I ever thought possible, little legs stiffly pumping like a cartoon animation.

I named her “Little Dog.” I don’t have much imagination when it comes to naming pets. And, after all, she was a little dog, but with a big terrier spirit. She could not run with the bigger or younger dogs, but at least she growled at them.

Little Dog, once lost then found, lived her old-age surrounded by love and companionship in my home for nearly two years. She passed to doggie heaven on December 20, 2002. Just in time to be a Christmas gift for baby Jesus.

Her little body is buried in my garden.

We miss you Little Dog. See you later. Lord Willing.

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