The next day I called a vet. By now it was early evening, after working hours. I finally reached her at home. “Bring the dog in first thing in the morning,” she said, then added, “if she makes it that long.”
The kids and I stayed with her throughout the night, working in two-hour shifts. We kept trying to feed her. No luck. When it was my turn, I laid on my back and let her sleep on my chest. I could feel her tiny body rise and fall with each shallow breath. It reminded me of when my own children had been newborns, so utterly helpless, so completely dependent upon me. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to care for someone who needed me so much.
In the morning I wrapped the pup in a hand towel, laid her on my lap and drove to the animal clinic. The vet wasn’t optimistic. “If she lives, she’ll only be able to get around by dragging herself on her belly,” she said. “Eventually, she’ll rub a hole in her chest. Besides that, her throat and voice box are damaged. Normally, people put dogs like this to sleep.”
I carried her back to the car. Maybe the vet’s right, I thought. Maybe the kindest thing would be to put her down. But how would I tell the kids? They’d never understand. Besides, something in the way the dog had hung in moved me. Was God showing me that I’d be okay too, if I just hung in there?
The vet suggested we try feeding her a special pet formula through an infant’s eyedropper. She lapped it up. The kids and I continued our round-the-clock feedings. We could tell she was getting stronger. “Let’s call her Faith,” Laura suggested. Faith, I thought. That’s perfect. Soon she was eating mashed-up Puppy Chow off the floor and scooting around the house on her belly.
I went on the Internet and found a company that makes wheelchairs for dogs without rear legs. But nothing for an animal missing its front legs. One day I tried strapping Faith to a miniature skateboard. But as soon as I let her go, she wriggled free. Faith hated to be tied down.
I phoned the vet, desperate for help. “Maybe you can teach her to hop like a rabbit,” she suggested.
Yeah, right. I sat in the living room, circling possible job leads. It seemed so hopeless. I glanced at Faith, trying her darndest to get around. Okay, maybe helping her would help me get the energy to keep looking. Hop like a rabbit? Well, why not!
I spent the next days, in between phone calls, putting one hand under Faith’s belly, then sitting her upright with my other hand bracing her back. “Come on, you can do it,” I urged.
But she couldn’t. Each time she tumbled forward onto her chin, but she never stopped trying. Her chest hair had almost worn off, but she would do anything I asked.
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