Family Of Rescue Dogs Collection - Books 1-4

Excerpt from Family Of Rescue Dogs Collection - Books 1-4

It had been a very cold winter already, and we weren't yet into January. It was that week between Christmas and New Year, ten Christmases ago, when the world seems a strange, surreal place as we slowly recovered from the festivities of Christmas and lumbered almost sleepily towards the revelry of New Year's Eve. Whether by coincidence or design, I really can't remember, but on the 29th day of that very cold December, with snow that had fallen a couple of days too late to call it a white Christmas lying on the ground, and with nothing better planned for the day, my wife suggested a visit to our local Dog Pound. I'd earlier bought a very large box of chocolates as a gift for the staff at the pound, from where we'd adopted a number of our family of rescue dogs in the past. It seemed the least we could do to say a small 'thank you' to the girls who worked there, doing their best to try to make their often frightened and scarred residents feel as comfortable as possible, given the circumstances in which they had to work.

The accommodations at the pound weren't luxurious by any standards, but at least the dogs held there were sheltered, fed and watered, and safe from harm, and the owners of the pound operated a strict 'no kill' policy at that time. If a dog couldn't be rehomed in a reasonable period of time, they would often contact the specific breed rescue society who would collect the dog and take it to be rehomed through their own organisations.

So, wrapped up against the cold, my wife and I, accompanied by our two girls, aged seven and eight and both in junior school, piled into the car and set off on the fourteen mile journey to the pound with our present neatly wrapped and decorated with ribbon and bow. On arriving at the pound, we parked in an almost deserted car park. Obviously, with the post-Christmas sales in full flow, looking for a rescue dog to adopt was a pretty low priority for the majority of the local population.

The girls on duty were pleased to see us as always and expressed surprise and gratitude that we'd thought to visit them with a present. One of the girls, who we knew quite well after numerous visits to the pound, informed us that since Christmas Eve, they'd received over two hundred dogs into their care, a staggering number of innocent, unwanted souls. We found it hard to believe that so many people could heartlessly 'dispose' of family pets in this way. As we were told, although some of the dogs had been handed in by their owners for various reasons, the vast majority had simply been cast out by their owners, some having been found and handed in by members of the public, with most having been picked up and delivered to the pound by the dog warden service.

Though we hadn't gone there that day with the intention of adding to our family of rescue dogs, (at that time I think we had eleven in our home), we were encouraged by our friend Lisa to take a tour of the facility. She explained that due to the numbers received, they'd had to set up 'overflow' accommodation, using outbuildings and even part of the stables that formed part of the property. So, off we went, and within a minute of leaving reception we were being assaulted by dozens of pairs of pleading eyes and wagging tails, all virtually pleading to be taken out of their pens and given a new home. Some were less active then others, lethargic and often cowering towards the back of their pens, obvious victims of cruelty or some form of abuse. It's almost impossible to resist the appeal of some of those dogs and I'll never understand how some people can visit such establishments and leave empty-handed, saying they couldn't find one they liked.

Anyway, we continued our tour, and after leaving the regular kennel accommodation behind we entered the overspill areas, the barn and stable areas, where the staff had done a great job in erecting dozens of secure but temporary living areas. We could hardly bear the heartbreaking sights of so many dogs, abandoned and unwanted over the biggest holiday period of the year.

“It's not been much of a Christmas for these poor babies has it?” I said to my wife who nodded in agreement, a lump in her throat preventing her from making a proper reply. As we entered a small extension to the stable area we saw a small pen in the corner, set slightly apart from the others. We made our way to view the inhabitant of that lonely corner but were unprepared for the sight that greeted us as we looked into it. Having already viewed terriers of all descriptions, hounds of varying sizes and colours, and many cross breeds of indeterminate parentage both my wife and I caught our breath at what we now saw.

A heat lamp hung suspended from the ceiling, positioned directly above a small, shrivelled almost hairless dog, curled tightly in a foetal position, shivering or trembling, or perhaps both. A few wisps of fur led us to think she probably originally had either a dark brown or brindle coat, but we couldn't be sure.

Juliet grabbed my arm in shock, her gesture enough to convey her thoughts, much the same as mine: How could anyone let a dog get into such a state?

Juliet found her voice and spoke softly, trying her best not to scare the little dog, who also had numerous red sores and wheals on its body, an obvious case of serious abuse. Perhaps worst of all was the bright red ligature mark round its neck, looking sore and raw. In addition, we could see virtually every bone in the dog's body. We were staring at a living skeleton!

“Hello baby,” Juliet said. “Who could have done this to you?”

The dog didn't look up, and continued to lie in its bed, curled up under the warmth of the lamp. The girls at the pound had obviously done all they could to make the dog comfortable with a bed lined with extra blankets for warmth.

“It's bloody criminal,” I said, my anger at the dog's treatment for a few seconds overriding my sympathy for its plight.

We were unable to stop our girls from peering into the pen and though they tried not to cry, I could see tears forming in their eyes as they took in the sight of this poor dog.

“Can you tell what breed it is?” Juliet asked me, quietly.

“I'm not sure. It's hard to tell, but at a guess, I'd say it's a little staffy,” I replied.

“It looks close to death's door,” my wife said, choking back her own tears at this terrible sight, this symbol of man's inhumanity towards an innocent living creature. “I want to ask Lisa about it.”

I nodded in agreement. The girls volunteered to stay with the dog to 'keep it company' as Juliet and I made our way back to the reception office.

Lisa smiled as we walked back into the warmth of reception. “Bet you've found something you like, haven't you?” she said with a knowing look in her eyes.

“Maybe,” Juliet replied. “What can you tell us about the little dog in the stables, the one under the heat lamp?”

“Oh, that one. She's a little Staffy. One of the wardens brought her in three weeks ago. If you think she looks bad now, you should have seen her then. She was in a hell of a state. We honestly thought she wouldn't make it and the vet wanted to put her to sleep, but she lifted her head and looked up at us and…well, something made us decide to do what we could to try and save her. It was coming up to Christmas after all. So, the vet did what he could to treat her injuries and her skin condition and though she's made some progress, I don't think she'll make it in the long run.”