In His Hands Small Animal Rescue | Wendy Welch: Books, Yarn, Cats, Opioids

Today our friends Joe and Elissa are waking up without their little buddy Brian. As dachshund rescuers, the couple are accustomed to loss. But this one was sudden.

Brian, for those who did not know him, was best described as a lump of dough left that wee bit too long in the bowl. He was blue/grey/white to the untrained eye (apparently this is a common doxie color) and he liked to, well, lounge.

I met Brian at Elissa’s house one fine summer’s afternoon, when I mistook him for a couch cushion and sat on him. Brian gave a slight yawn and a small movement with one paw, to indicate perhaps I could shift the tiniest bit so as to avoid smothering him. Not many things reached emergency range with Brian. He was a low-energy performance artist.

Not that Brian didn’t get exercise, oh no. I personally witnessed the little–ehm, the lad–slither down from the couch, legs extended in something akin to an alpine descent until he reached the point where gravity took over and his bum landed with a resounding WHUMP. At this point he would waddle to the food dish in the kitchen, have a strengthening snack and some water, and then make the long arduous journey back to the couch. Ascent is more difficult, so when possible he used human elevators. He had this look that would make you do anything for him, a slight head tilt, a softening of the eyes, a radiation of a vibe that said, “I know you are a kind and compassionate person…”

The first time I attempted lifting him, he remained on the floor. Elissa had to help me.

Besides these sprints for snacks, Brian’s main form of exercise was pursuing turtles. He never caught one, but he liked the thrill of the chase. Elissa has a small hillock in her back garden where turtles burrow, a kind of low-rise condo for the discerning shelled buyer. Brian never achieved his goal to eat one, but he pursued turtles with, if not vigor, at least, well no not determination either. Mostly if he saw a turtle he started toward the hill and the turtle shot him a look of condescending pity and ambled away. But we always cheered for him; it is important to have ambitions in life.

On a cold Wednesday morning, Brian arose from his fleecy bed and appeared at Elissa’s side. This was not unusual; he liked to sleep on her head the last hour or two before dawn. But when she placed him on the pillow as her dachshund crown, Brian suddenly went into cardiac arrest. And was gone. Just like that, lying on the soft warm pillow that had been his to claim for the last decade.

It was the way Brian would have wanted to go.

Now Brian will cross the Rainbow Bridge and join his siblings Nellie (aka the Nelligator, a dog to be feared and obeyed) and Black Jack, the neutered stud who was the face of spay-and-neuter campaigns among purebred beauties everywhere. (Brian was neutered, of course, but the idea that he would have exerted energy on a sexual campaign prompted behind-the-hands giggling among rescuers.)

We hope the struts on the Bridge were reinforced in preparation for Brian’s arrival. His rotund, actual-sausage-shaped body was a dense weight on four small balancing points that tended to shake structures wherever he walked. Brian will cross the bridge wearing the slight smile he adopted after Joe and Elissa adopted him. (Once Brian knew he was safe, he cut loose and lived his best life with gusto–on a couch cushion, burrowed under a blanket, watching the cooking channel.) And the Bridge will sound like thump-whomp ssssss, the rhythm of his four paws making contact while his tummy drags along.

Fare three well Brian. I believe you knew that you were my favorite of Joe and Elissa’s herd. We figure it will take you about fifteen minutes to cross the Bridge. They will bring you a cushion halfway, don’t worry. And once you reach the other side, your heated couch-on-wheels will be waiting, with a driver to park you where you can watch the activities at the fishing pond, the play fighting park, or the rabbit chase run. You can also have them take you straight to the Bark-b-que joint or the Perpetual Puppy Charcuterie restaurant. Your table will be waiting, dear heart.

In a move that surprised me after 18 years of marriage, Jack agreed to go on TWO hikes with me yesterday. First we did a gentle loop around Sylvan Lake, where I intend to swim tomorrow if the temperatures reach their predicted 100. The lake is gorgeous and you can swim out and touch these rocks.

But then he said yes to CATHEDRAL SPIRES, a trail marked as “strenuous but worth it” by most reviewers.

Off we set, me carrying the frozen bottle of water, camera, trail map, and Jack’s fortified cokes, Jack wearing his sunglasses and looking very much like a doomed man the night before his execution.

We hadn’t gone a quarter of a mile before we found that 1) we were in over our fitness level and 2) shady spots on the trail were prime real estate. People would stop and rest in these, and fairly often you’d find someone who had been abandoned by their walking comrades, who were headed up while the person waited patiently on a rock. Looking winded and somewhat crestfallen.

At an early shade stop, we chanced upon a young couple with dachshunds. My friend Elissa is a dachshund rescuer and whenever we travel, I take photos of any we see and send them to her. I asked the couple of they’d mind me photographing their dogs, and they said no, but why?

When I told them about Elissa, the lady said, “These are rescue dachshunds. Bug is the spotted one and Penny is the black and tan. What’s your friend’s rescue’s name?”

I explained that Pam Lucas ran In His Hands Small Animal Rescue and Elissa was CEO of the Dachshund Division. The woman’s face crinkled.

“I’ve liked their rescue on Facebook,” she said. “I keep up with them.”

I laughed, then said I’d tell them so. “What’s your name?”

“Erica Spicer,” she replied with a friendly nod.

Well, Erica was the person who promoted my spay and neuter kitty afghans via her rescue, and became my Facebook friend, more than a year ago. We shook hands and made remarks to the effect that it is a small world after all, and off Jack and I went. Little doxie legs need longer to climb a “strenuous but worth it” trail.

With many stops, Jack and I finally summited the Spires – but not before also meeting a woman from Dingwall, Scotland, and holding a brief Brexit argument with some folk at another shading hole. At the top we chatted with two people whose daughter had married a Scotsman from Aberdeen. And I took pictures of Jack enjoying his Coke. It’s amazing the places you can get a Coke these days.

As we started back down, we met Team Erica just reaching the home stretch of the trail. I only snapped a picture of her back because by the time I thought to ask to take one, they were moving forward, and that part of the trail was not a psychologically good place to stop. The Catherdral Spires are about a mile and a half more or less straight up, then back down, with a few easier stretches along the way. The point where we met Erica was just after you have to basically hand over hand climb a stretch of rock, and the trail bends sharply. So you can’t see that you are in fact at the home stretch, the Spires are just in front of you up a gentle incline, and you’re there. On the way up, Jack had said to me in the very same spot, “If this isn’t the top, it’s the top for me. I’ll wait for you.”

Yeah yeah, insert life metaphor about not giving up two feet from gold. Anyway, Erica had just puffed her way through those rocks and I wasn’t about to stop her head of steam that close to the glorious view. So here’s her backside, and Penny and Bug’s and her husband’s. Penny was pretty much towing at this point, looking quite pleased with herself.