Guilt

This afternoon my sister and I were talking about how some people aren't meant to have dogs . . . in the back of my mind I was thinking that she should have some said those are the people who don't deserve dogs. To dog-lovers I don't have to explain the benefits of having a furry creature to snuggle with and to meet you at the door at the end of a long day. They are our first children and know the meaning of true, unconditional love. I feel sorry for people who have never had a dog because they can't know what they are possibly missing.

Having dogs my entire life has been such a blessing for me, and I feel so lonely if I ever come home and Spike and Ru don't meet me at the door. As a child my father was very against having an "inside dog," which was fine for me since we lived in the country and they had lots of room to roam. Spike was my first real "inside dog," and I can't believe I lived this whole time without one.

I'm not really Spike's mother. I guess I'm more like his "step-mother" since he wasn't originally mine. Clint loves to tell the story about how almost 17 years ago his family moved from the country to the big city of Batesville, so they felt a small dog was a better option than the big Labs and Goldens they had in the country. His dad and Tyler brought Spike home when Clint was in the 9th grade, and it wasn't long before Tyler's dog became Clint's.

Clint would like to think of himself as the dog whisperer. Animals really do take to him because he will get on all fours and wrestle around with them and make them howl. Spike was the perfect dog for him with his terrier spirit and quirkiness, and the family quickly made up their own special language for him. "Wantsompin to eat, Itty Bud?" I've heard so many stories about Spike Darby following Clint to school, breaking in on a church basketball game and running on the court, eating honeybuns from Clint's grandfather's store . . . the more stories I hear, the more I think Willie Morris may have derived Skip from Spike.

When I stayed the night at Clint's parents' home for the first time, I heard a strange scratch at my bedroom door in the middle of the night. I was so relieved to see it was just Spike, the strange little dog that had ignored me all afternoon. I watched as he sniffed around the bed and my things and gasped out of fright when he suddenly pounced on the bed and demanded I lift the covers for him. Clint told me that meant Spike had approved of me, which was a good thing since he usually ignored people unless they gave him treats.

So when Clint and I moved into the little bungalow on Prescott, there was no doubt Spike would be living with us. This is when I became his official step-mother and began looking after his needs. I made the vet appointments and grooming appointments. I bathed him in the shower and fed him every night. I took him on walks and made sure he always had plenty of his favorite treats . . . and in return he made sure he sat right next to me on the couch and snuggled with me during night.

About two years ago, Spike's health quickly diminished. He suddenly stopped jumping on the bed and was having a difficult time walking on the wood floors. We blamed it on the unusually cold weather and expected him to get better in the spring. Spring came and he still didn't want to jump on the bed or couch . . . or even jump off. The vet confirmed that he had arthritis and sadly we found the medication did very little to help. Clint and I had to face the fact that Spike was indeed elderly.

Spike and Ruthie have been passed back and forth between our house and his "grandparents" and Tyler over the past few weeks, and I finally got around to bathing him this morning. I stuck him in the shower with me as always and after a while I noticed rust-colored water dripping off of him. "Spike, what did you get into outside?" When I leaned over closer to him to begin his scrub-down, I noticed that it wasn't dirt -- it was dried blood. Poor Spike was COMPLETELY covered in giant fleas and they had gnawed his poor little neck and booty until his skin had bled. He also had tons of little black specks, which I had thought was just dirt but then realized it was actually flea droppings. OH. MY. GOSH. What have I done? I have completely neglected this poor little creature. Either he has been too stiff to scratch or he's too senile to have noticed. But what is my problem? This didn't just happen over the past couple of days. Fleas take weeks to make this kind of infestation. I looked at the mass of dead fleas falling off of him on the shower floor and wept . . .

I am SO sorry.

The vet was able to fit us in at the end of the day, and I hung my head in shame as we walked back to the exam room. I didn't have to admit the flea problem because they were jumping off of him onto the table and the tech's scrubs. I did have to admit to missing his heartworm meds for the past few months . . . and not trimming his nails often enough . . . and not being consistent about picking up the poop in the back yard. The tech could tell I was about to lose it and told me he'd be okay . . . but I had a hard time believing it.

I spoke with the vet about his eyes, and she confirmed he had cataracts and not much vision. The tech came in to let us know he has some parasites in his fecal test, and I had to also confess to the vet my lack of attention to his heartworm meds. I find out about his bloodwork results tomorrow and am not ready for this. Fleas may not be the worst of his trouble.

Today I am the one who does NOT deserve a dog. I don't care how busy I have been and how much is going on in my life. What about his? He doesn't complain, he doesn't make a mess, and he doesn't ask for anything. All Spike needs is a bed, some treats, and for me to make sure I get his immunizations and give him his meds. The poor guy will be 17 on July 4 but all I can think about is what kind of drapes I'll make for the new apartment. God commands us to take care of our elderly and Spike is my elderly . . . and he deserves better.