 |
If
you've read "Pigeon Pie", you'll
know how much Pauline and I love
animals - I gotta say, though, when it comes to care, devotion and
sheer self-sacrifice, it's Pauline who comes out by far and away the
strongest. Just take a look at this little "tail" (ouch!) and see for
yourself...
I was 25 years old and at the time living in West Kensington with my boyfriend, whose name was Marc. I remember Marc's birthday was approaching, and when I asked him what he wanted, he replied a Dobermann. A bloody Dobermann!!!! Now to say I had a fear of these dogs would be putting it mildly, and of all the breeds of dog in the world, a Dobermann was the last I would have wanted in my home. But that was what Marc wanted and he would not be talked out of it. So off we went to the local pet shop, where they just happened to have a whole litter of Dobermann pups in the window. Marc picked the one he wanted, a male puppy who he named Dwaine after a character in Sergeant Bilko. Dwaine, I have to admit, was a cute puppy; and it wasn't long before I had fallen head over heels in love with Marc's "Devil Dog".
Two years passed, during which Marc and I moved to Hanwell. We had been living there for about six months when we broke up after almost five years together. It was a mutual decision and we remained friends; in fact, we decided as friends to share the flat we were currently living in. I knew, however, that sooner or later one of us would meet someone else and want to move out. This prospect chilled me to the bone; my concern, however, was not with losing Marc; it was with losing Dwaine. I couldn't believe it, but it was at this point I realised just how much I loved that dog, and that I wanted one of my own. So I went to my local pet shop and picked out Zowie, a Dobermann bitch who immediately became part of the family. It was after a week, however, that I began to realise something was very wrong with this little pup. She seemed to have no interest in food; and then one day, she all of a sudden began to vomit and pass blood. I took her to a man who, in my opinion, has to be one of the best vets in London. His name is Mr Olsen and he does a lot of work for both the RSPCA and the police. I had been using his surgery for ten years, and I knew him and trusted him above all others.
This photo is of Zowie when she was on the mend.
Marc holding Zowie at the height of her illness, she was too weak to stand.
After examining her, Olsen told me that Zowie was very ill indeed. She was suffering from something called Parvo virus. Parvo-what? I had never heard of it. Parvo virus (believe it or not) was an airbourne virus that had travelled with the wind from France to England sometime in the mid 70's. Anyway, Olsen admitted Zowie immediately and put her on a drip feed as she was so dehydrated. For the next two weeks, Zowie remained at the surgery, being pumped full of antibiotics and God knows what else. I visited her every single day, as I hated being seperated from her at this early stage in our relationship. Then came the fateful day when Olsen told me that he could do no more for Zowie and that the best thing would be to put her to sleep; either that or I could take her home to die, as she was so weak her death would not be a painful one. She would just go to sleep and not wake up again. He also told me that after the event I could bring her body back for disposal. As I travelled home in a black taxi with this little bag of skin and bones on my lap, his words kept ringing in my ears; 'body back for disposal - death not a painful one - she will just not wake up again - I can do no more - she's too far gone - body back for disposal - the best thing to do - body back for disposal - she's just too weak - body back for disposal.' The tears coursed down my cheeks and Zowie's little blood-shot eyes looked up at me, and then she stretched her little face up to mine and she gently licked the tears from my face. That was when I promised her that I would do everything in my power to try and save her, no matter what it meant. Nothing would be to much for my Zowie.
The first thing I did when we arrived home was to put the kettle on and fill a hot water bottle. Zowie's bony little body was so cold, and even though it was the middle of summer, she seemed to shiver constantly. I put her into my bed and then left her. It broke my heart to do so, even for an hour, but I had to. I rushed to the shops in West Ealing, where I bought a selection of jars of baby food and baby formula and a blender. I then went to the butcher's, where I bought the best fillet steak and lamb's liver. Next stop, the chemist's again, as I had forgotten to buy protein powder and vitamin C powder. I wasn't really sure what to do, I was working on instinct and auto-pilot. When I returned home Zowie was in a deep sleep. She didn't even wake up when I got into bed beside her, but that was okay. She would need all her strength, and so I let her sleep for a couple of hours and then woke her for her first feed; a concoction of blended liver followed by baby milk. She didn't take very much; but maybe just a little, and often enough would do the trick. I got into bed next to her and there I stayed for the next ten days just trying to keep her warm.
On the third night I was woken by the sound of a dog choking. Sitting up, I realised my pillow was all wet; not only my pillow, but the entire bed. The fact Zowie had wet the bed didn't bother me; no, what frightened me was what was pouring from her nose. It was the thickest snot I had ever seen. I cleaned her up and changed the bed, then I phoned Olsen who was good enough to call round later that night. After examining Zowie he informed me that she now also had Kennel Cough, which was why she was choking. Dogs can't blow their noses, nor can they sniff. The snot was so heavy and thick that it was running down the back of her throat and choking her. Now, I'm a very, very sqeamish person when it comes to bodily fluids, but all I could hear was "bring the body back for disposal"; and it was that word "DISPOSAL" that did it for me. If I wanted Zowie to have a chance - and I did - I had no option other than to suck the snot from her nose. I have never used so much mouthwash in my life. I know that this probably sickens you, but I don't care; I did what I had to. Believe me, it wasn't nice; but if I had to do it again, then honestly I would, and without a second thought.
Nine bundles of joy, just back from having their tails docked.
Just a few hours old. There are eleven puppies in this photo; two didn't make it.
As the days passed Zoe ate a little more at each feed, and gradually she got stronger and finally returned to good health. In fact only a year and a half later she gave birth to eleven lovely little Dobermann puppies, nine of which surived. Oh, and yes, Dwaine was the proud father. When Zowie was three, she became ill again; and this time there really was nothing I could do. Zowie developed a brain tumour, caused by the scar tissue which the Parvo had left on her brain. I got this news in the spring. Olsen said that it would be okay to give her one last summer; and so I packed in my job and took her and Ziggy (my second Dobermann bitch) out every single day. I have some wonderful memories from that summer. Then came Christmas, and we all had a great time; Zowie ripped open all her presents and half of Ziggy's. By February I could delay no longer. Zowie's headaches were becoming worse to the point where she was becoming violent towards other dogs, and so I had to take her to Olsen one last time. Zowie went peacefully in my arms where she belonged. I will never ever forget her. I fought so hard to keep her; and I like to think that I beat fate if only for a little while.
Dwaine, the proud Father with Iggy (one of the pups) at six months.
Ziggy and Zowie together, they were inseparable.
I was 25 years old and at the time living in West Kensington with my boyfriend, whose name was Marc. I remember Marc's birthday was approaching, and when I asked him what he wanted, he replied a Dobermann. A bloody Dobermann!!!! Now to say I had a fear of these dogs would be putting it mildly, and of all the breeds of dog in the world, a Dobermann was the last I would have wanted in my home. But that was what Marc wanted and he would not be talked out of it. So off we went to the local pet shop, where they just happened to have a whole litter of Dobermann pups in the window. Marc picked the one he wanted, a male puppy who he named Dwaine after a character in Sergeant Bilko. Dwaine, I have to admit, was a cute puppy; and it wasn't long before I had fallen head over heels in love with Marc's "Devil Dog".
Two years passed, during which Marc and I moved to Hanwell. We had been living there for about six months when we broke up after almost five years together. It was a mutual decision and we remained friends; in fact, we decided as friends to share the flat we were currently living in. I knew, however, that sooner or later one of us would meet someone else and want to move out. This prospect chilled me to the bone; my concern, however, was not with losing Marc; it was with losing Dwaine. I couldn't believe it, but it was at this point I realised just how much I loved that dog, and that I wanted one of my own. So I went to my local pet shop and picked out Zowie, a Dobermann bitch who immediately became part of the family. It was after a week, however, that I began to realise something was very wrong with this little pup. She seemed to have no interest in food; and then one day, she all of a sudden began to vomit and pass blood. I took her to a man who, in my opinion, has to be one of the best vets in London. His name is Mr Olsen and he does a lot of work for both the RSPCA and the police. I had been using his surgery for ten years, and I knew him and trusted him above all others.
This photo is of Zowie when she was on the mend.
Marc holding Zowie at the height of her illness, she was too weak to stand.
After examining her, Olsen told me that Zowie was very ill indeed. She was suffering from something called Parvo virus. Parvo-what? I had never heard of it. Parvo virus (believe it or not) was an airbourne virus that had travelled with the wind from France to England sometime in the mid 70's. Anyway, Olsen admitted Zowie immediately and put her on a drip feed as she was so dehydrated. For the next two weeks, Zowie remained at the surgery, being pumped full of antibiotics and God knows what else. I visited her every single day, as I hated being seperated from her at this early stage in our relationship. Then came the fateful day when Olsen told me that he could do no more for Zowie and that the best thing would be to put her to sleep; either that or I could take her home to die, as she was so weak her death would not be a painful one. She would just go to sleep and not wake up again. He also told me that after the event I could bring her body back for disposal. As I travelled home in a black taxi with this little bag of skin and bones on my lap, his words kept ringing in my ears; 'body back for disposal - death not a painful one - she will just not wake up again - I can do no more - she's too far gone - body back for disposal - the best thing to do - body back for disposal - she's just too weak - body back for disposal.' The tears coursed down my cheeks and Zowie's little blood-shot eyes looked up at me, and then she stretched her little face up to mine and she gently licked the tears from my face. That was when I promised her that I would do everything in my power to try and save her, no matter what it meant. Nothing would be to much for my Zowie.
The first thing I did when we arrived home was to put the kettle on and fill a hot water bottle. Zowie's bony little body was so cold, and even though it was the middle of summer, she seemed to shiver constantly. I put her into my bed and then left her. It broke my heart to do so, even for an hour, but I had to. I rushed to the shops in West Ealing, where I bought a selection of jars of baby food and baby formula and a blender. I then went to the butcher's, where I bought the best fillet steak and lamb's liver. Next stop, the chemist's again, as I had forgotten to buy protein powder and vitamin C powder. I wasn't really sure what to do, I was working on instinct and auto-pilot. When I returned home Zowie was in a deep sleep. She didn't even wake up when I got into bed beside her, but that was okay. She would need all her strength, and so I let her sleep for a couple of hours and then woke her for her first feed; a concoction of blended liver followed by baby milk. She didn't take very much; but maybe just a little, and often enough would do the trick. I got into bed next to her and there I stayed for the next ten days just trying to keep her warm.
On the third night I was woken by the sound of a dog choking. Sitting up, I realised my pillow was all wet; not only my pillow, but the entire bed. The fact Zowie had wet the bed didn't bother me; no, what frightened me was what was pouring from her nose. It was the thickest snot I had ever seen. I cleaned her up and changed the bed, then I phoned Olsen who was good enough to call round later that night. After examining Zowie he informed me that she now also had Kennel Cough, which was why she was choking. Dogs can't blow their noses, nor can they sniff. The snot was so heavy and thick that it was running down the back of her throat and choking her. Now, I'm a very, very sqeamish person when it comes to bodily fluids, but all I could hear was "bring the body back for disposal"; and it was that word "DISPOSAL" that did it for me. If I wanted Zowie to have a chance - and I did - I had no option other than to suck the snot from her nose. I have never used so much mouthwash in my life. I know that this probably sickens you, but I don't care; I did what I had to. Believe me, it wasn't nice; but if I had to do it again, then honestly I would, and without a second thought.
Nine bundles of joy, just back from having their tails docked.
Just a few hours old. There are eleven puppies in this photo; two didn't make it.
As the days passed Zoe ate a little more at each feed, and gradually she got stronger and finally returned to good health. In fact only a year and a half later she gave birth to eleven lovely little Dobermann puppies, nine of which surived. Oh, and yes, Dwaine was the proud father. When Zowie was three, she became ill again; and this time there really was nothing I could do. Zowie developed a brain tumour, caused by the scar tissue which the Parvo had left on her brain. I got this news in the spring. Olsen said that it would be okay to give her one last summer; and so I packed in my job and took her and Ziggy (my second Dobermann bitch) out every single day. I have some wonderful memories from that summer. Then came Christmas, and we all had a great time; Zowie ripped open all her presents and half of Ziggy's. By February I could delay no longer. Zowie's headaches were becoming worse to the point where she was becoming violent towards other dogs, and so I had to take her to Olsen one last time. Zowie went peacefully in my arms where she belonged. I will never ever forget her. I fought so hard to keep her; and I like to think that I beat fate if only for a little while.
Dwaine, the proud Father with Iggy (one of the pups) at six months.
Ziggy and Zowie together, they were inseparable.