Farewell my sweet Hattie Mae. I'm sorry you left us so soon and were betrayed by most of the humans you knew in your short life. I will miss you forever.
B.W.
Our beloved Winnie never met a human she did not like. We were blessed to receive the honor of her company when we adopted her at Etosha in 2002. Upon her arrival at our home, Winnie immediately "adopted" our recliner which she could jump in and out of with ease, (no easy feat for a 55 lb Basset Hound). When not reclining, she would sometimes bark to gain our attention and then run around the den in circles with great excitement and enthusiasm. When on neighborhood walks with us, Winnie would insist on going up to everyone on the street to greet them.
In September of last year, Winnie became ill and we were told that with special care she could be with us for several more months. During her illness, Winnie demonstrated strengths of perseverance and endurance and enjoyed the remaining quality of life left to her. Her strengths were gifts to us, as she made the most of her remaining time as a member of our family.
We shall always hold dear the wonderful memories and legacy of Winnie.
Toto was a very handsome German Shorthair Pointer. When Etosha rescued him, he had been horribly abused by a previous owner and it took many months before he "came out of his shell" with us. When we moved to a 1/2 acre lot, he immediately thought the backyard was great - a vast land to explore and protect. Toto loved to do perimeter patrol in the back yard, morning and evening. He was kind, gentle, and protective of our small children as well as our other dogs. We lost him to cancer but took comfort in knowing we had given him a great home for 5 and 1/2 years. Janet and Greg Anderson
Louella (Lulu) was a German Shorthair Pointer - a quiet, gentle soul who was always a lady. She was always kind to everyone - two-legged and four-legged - and repeatedly "turned the other cheek" when she might have preferred to eliminate a terrier or two. As the photo shows, she loved to sit in the sun, sniff the air, and enjoy life. Lulu was always up for a good possum hunt when an unfortunate little critter ventured into the back yard. After we lost her to cancer, the house was quiet and empty without her magical presence. Lulu was the kindest, gentlest dog we ever owned. Janet and Greg Anderson
This is dedicated to the memory of Molly, a Bluetick hound who was rescued at two months of age. Molly will always be remembered as the first purebred Bluetick Hound rescued by Etosha. More importantly, thanks to Molly, certain misconceptions about hounds in general began to change. She was a breeze to house-train and was never destructive. Molly's gentle nature made her a perfect companion for the elderly and children of all ages. If she hadn't been so "vocal", Molly would have been easy to place in a good home. Her exuberant approach to life required expression, and for hounds that often means hours of baying at the top of their lungs. In fact, Molly's spirit was so strong and so unique that we never imagined she'd be taken from us at such a young age - much less from an illness that Etosha's veterinarians were unable to identify before or after her death. Those of us who knew and loved Molly will always be grateful for the joy she brought into our lives.
Macy was the result of one person's ignorance, greed, and a complete disregard for the life of an animal. At three weeks old, the "backyard" breeder who is responsible for her being born dumped her at the end of someone's driveway. He knew something was physically and mentally wrong with her and didn't want to deal with her handicaps. He bred the same pair of CBRs that produced her, though, just eight months later. He has been told that the puppies born in 2004 have various health problems (including hip dysplasia) and one has been euthanized already because of an aggressive temperament.
Please be extra careful if you see an ad in your local newspaper that offers purebred CBR puppies at a rock-bottom price. The emotional suffering you will encounter a few months down the road is not worth it, and eventually the person responsible for bringing defective puppies into the world will stop.
A reputable breeder should offer you a written health guarantee on his/her pups. He/she should have copies of OFA certificates on both the sire and dam of the litter. These certificates indicate the dogs are free of hip and/or elbow dysplasia. Steer clear of breeders who make excuses for not having these certificates or who won't give you a written health guarantee. Also, if they don't check limited registration on AKC paperwork for pet quality pups they probably aren't legitimate breeders. Macy should never have been born, but more importantly she should not have been born with a crippling disease that is so easy to prevent.
Rowdy will always be remembered as the friendliest pack member at a Ridgeback play day and a professional couch sitter at home. He was a champion running partner often averaging 20 miles per week while never pulling on the leash. Rowdy had friends big and small across the US, human and animal. On of his favorite activities was joining his horse sister for a ride through the fields. Cancer took Rowdy's life way too soon and he will be forever missed.
HOW COULD YOU?
When I was a puppy, I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh.
You called me your child, and despite a number of chewed shoes and a
couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever
I was "bad," you'd shake your finger at me and ask How could you?" --
but then you'd relent and roll me over for a bellyrub.
My housebreaking took a little longer than expected, because you were
terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights
of nuzzling you in bed and listening to your confidences and secret
dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect.
We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice
cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs" you
said), and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at
the end of the day.
Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career,
and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently,
comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided
you about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and
when you fell in love.
She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" -- still I welcomed her into
our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy
because you were happy. Then the human babies came along and I shared
your excitement.
I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to
mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and
I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate.
Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a prisoner of love." As
they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and
pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes,
investigated my ears and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything
about them and their touch -- because your touch was now so infrequent
-- and I would've defended them with my life if need be. I would sneak
into their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams, and
together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway. There
had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you
produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about
me. These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the
subject.
I had gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog," and you resented
every expenditure on my behalf. Now, you have a new career opportunity
in another city, and you and they will be moving to an apartment that
does not allow pets. You've made the right decision for your "family,"
but there was a time when I was your only family. I was excited about
the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It smelled of
dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness.
You filled out the paperwork and said "I know you will find a good
home for her." They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They
understand the realities facing a middle-aged dog, even one with
"papers." You had to pry your son's fingers loose from my collar as he
screamed "No, Daddy! Please don't let them take my dog!"
And I worried for him, and what lessons you had just taught him about
friendship and loyalty, about love and responsibility, and about
respect for all life.
You gave me a good-bye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely
refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to
meet and now I have one, too. After you left, the two nice ladies said
you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no
attempt to find me another good home. They shook their heads and
asked, "How could you?"
They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy
schedules allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days
ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front,
hoping it was you that you had changed your mind -- that this was all
a bad dream... or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone
who might save me.
When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention
of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far
corner and waited. I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end
of the day, and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room.
A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table and rubbed my
ears, and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of
what was to come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner
of love had run out of days.
As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she
bears weighs heavily on her, and I know that, the same way I knew your
every mood. She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear
ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to
comfort you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle
into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through
my body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured
"How could you?"
Perhaps because she understood my dogspeak, she said "I'm so sorry."
She hugged me, and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I
went to a better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or
abandoned, or have to fend for myself -- a place of love and light so
very different from this earthly place. And with my last bit of
energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my "How
could you?" was not directed at her.
It was directed at you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of you. I
will think of you and wait for you forever. May everyone in your life
continue to show you so much loyalty.
By Jim Willis, 2001