Horn Honkers, I once had a dog I named Tumbleweed.
He was a silky, puffy, ink-black wolf-Chow mix. I scooped him up by the side of the road in East Atlanta after he'd been hit by a car. I took him to a vet not knowing what would happen next but leaving him to die on a crowded city street was not an option.
The vet said his pelvis was shattered and one of his legs was splintered "like a chicken bone." He recommended a specialty surgeon.
The specialist said he was basically solid but it would take two major surgeries and some steel rods to put Tumbleweed back together again.
He also said it would take $4,000. That's $4,000 in 1995 dollars. For a young dog I found by the side of the road. For a dog I'd spent half an hour with.
I didn't have that money laying around in those years. I was in a relationship where I was the only one working. I already had a dog and a cat I had rescued.
"Have him put down," was the chorus that came from almost everyone. I heard it daily while I tried to figure out what to do next.
"It's the kindest thing to do."
"You can't afford this. He's not even your dog."
"You don't have that kind of money and if you did, you need it for yourself."
And finally, from a nice but utterly confused older woman: "Why on earth aren't you having him put down?"
"I would," I explained earnestly, "If there was anything else wrong with him. Anything. A hangnail. But there's not. The doc says he's basically solid."
"It's too expensive," she said firmly, as if I didn't understand how much money $4,000 was.
"Children are expensive," I replied, "We don't kill them because of it."
She didn't say anything else.
I was so desperate that the next day while at work at Theatrical Outfit I took my whole lunch hour to write a press release about Tumbleweed's dilemma and faxed it to every news outlet I could think of. Print media, radio stations, TV stations, even talk radio hosts.
Wonder of freaking wonders, I got three responses. One station raffled off special seats at a Tom Petty concert to benefit "Tumbleweed the Wonder Dog" as I dubbed him; a talk radio show host had me on his show (twice) and there was a write-up in a local paper. I was jazzed. This just might work.
Donations came in. One was from a veteran who lived in a rural trailer on a fixed income. He wrote that his dog was his best friend and worth more than all the money in the world. He sent Tumbleweed $100. I sat down and wept as I read the letter.
I decided to have a yard sale to benefit le wonder pooch, who I'd still not spent any time with (he was at the specialist, awaiting his fate) and people donated all sorts of items to sell. I was beyond grateful.
Tumbleweed got his surgery.
He was pinned back together and delivered to me with the whole rear half of his body shaved, wrapped, and two substantial rods sticking out of his back leg. The rods were to stay until the bones started to knit back together, then would be either clipped down or removed and the other pins would stay in. He was skinny and looked like a dog-robot hybrid.
I had to keep him in a crate lined with cardboard so his pins wouldn't catch on the bars of the crate. I moved him with a towel slung under his pelvis to help him walk.
I'd had more than 15 dogs in my lifetime at that point. He ended up being the single best dog I have ever owned.
Ever.
Tumbleweed was a top pooper. He would look for elevated places to do his business and he'd often hold it until he found the perfect perch to let fly. This likely came from the wolf DNA where, in the wild, if there's scat way up high on something, other wolves meandering through think Jesus Christ, this territory belongs to someone REALLY large perhaps I'll just leave now.
My neighbour loved Tumbles but she'd call me on occasion about this.
"Hi Therra. Tumbleweed pooped in my birdbath again."
"Yeah, okay, I'll be right over."
One time as I walked him I was stopped on the street in Birmingham by a friendly stranger and we struck up a conversation.
While I wasn't looking Tumbleweed pooped atop a bench seat at a bus stop.
I about died.
Then there was a time at a leash-free dog beach where some children built an intricate series of sand castles. They did a beautiful job then ran to get their parents to make them come view the project. The minute they left Tumbleweed strode purposefully over and shat on top of the kids kingdom.
“JOHN STOP HIM!” I yelled.
Too late.
Tumbleweed went through my whole first marriage and divorce with me. He was by my side when I got the phone call that my father died. He went through Hurricane Georges with me and seven years later, Hurricane Katrina.
I walked him through the rubble of Katrina's aftermath, my chest tight with anguish, and he pooped on top of a refrigerator lying on its side in the middle of what used to be a road. I laughed out loud amidst the worst destruction I've ever seen in my life.
When my mother died he was waiting when I walked in the door from the hospital. He was right there when I married John and he lived in an RV with us for four years post-Katrina. He insisted on riding on the dash of the RV as we traveled, which wasn't safe but he wasn't happy otherwise.
He was with us still when we moved back to Atlanta in 2009.
He lived to be 16-years old, a most fine and attentive, intelligent and discerning companion. I'd taken him to nine states and he'd pooped high in every one of 'em.
Not many of us can say that.
Then the time came to let him go and we were at the vet's office for that difficult duty.
For the first time ever, with any pet I've owned, I didn't think I could be in the room when they put him down. I always considered it part of being a good pet parent and you do it. You hold a paw. You kiss a grizzled head and whisper words of love and thanks. You are right there. It sucks mightily but you stay by their side. You know they would do it for you.
They called us in.
"I don't think I can do this," I said to John, "I can't go in there."
John looked at me evenly and said "You have to."
I did.
I swear that was the best dog I've ever had.
He was worth that $4,000 and so much more.