Special Providence

Shakespeare’s Hamlet tells us that there is special providence in the fall of a sparrow, mirroring our Lord’s words about God’s care for His children. Since this past Saturday, every passing hour shows me that there is also special providence in finding photographs of abandoned dogs in a county animal shelter.

Mrs. Orr took Bluebelle to the vet today to get a full checkup, shots, deworming, and whatever else she needed. While she was there, the doc told my wife that he had an opening and would actually be able to spay our little dog today. She jumped at the chance, since the next opening wouldn’t be for almost a month. The doc explained that Bluebelle was in pretty shabby condition…her ears were awful. Infested with crud and bacteria and probably causing her pain. She was malnourished and had pretty much every problem except heartworms, the lack of which was remarkable, give how she’d apparently been living for a while. He told my wife this while sitting on the floor, holding Bluebelle on his lap. The little heeler was washing his face with kisses and hugging him as she does when held.

“I love this dog,” the jaded vet who sees many dogs every day said with deep emotion. The rest of the staff echoed his words. They all loved her and went to lengths to talk about how special she is.

So the veterinary staff proceeded with the surgery, and after a while, the doc came out and pulled my wife aside.

“She’s pregnant.”

He went on to explain that the puppies were only about two to three weeks along, and that compounded with some other problems that he saw, he believed the safest and wisest course of action would be to go ahead and take the little things and finish spaying Bluebelle.

Mrs. Orr told me later that the vet was looking at her closely when he told her this. We know him to be a good and competent veterinarian. and she told him to go ahead. So he did, and after a while, they let Bluebelle come home to her new home. My wife loaded her into the car and brought her back up into the mountains. Neither Bonnie nor Jinx made a sound when I carried her in from the car and placed her in a bed behind a barrier in front of the wood stove. She roused from her anesthesia hangover once to lap a bowl full of water, then later went outside on wobbly legs to pee. She ignored the bit of food we offered her (in hopes of concealing a painkiller and anti-inflammatory) and drank a bit more water, than came back inside on her noodle legs and sprawled out. I held her on my lap for a while, then gently extricated myself and covered her with a blanket and let her rest. Right now, she is deeply asleep, wrapped in her blanket, motionless except for the steady rise and fall of her prominent ribs.

It’s interesting the things you can deduce and learn when living in a small community. My wife and the vet and his staff talked quite a bit. Adding up several bits of information with a little bit of inference and outside data, we’ve been able to piece together a pretty solid idea of what happened to this little girl.

She really IS Jinx’s sister. The wretched man who dumped Jinx at our farm two years ago had told me back in the summer, when he passed Jinx and me walking on the road, that Jinx’s sister had given birth to a litter of puppies and that he had just gotten rid of (whatever that ominous phrase means) the last of them that very week. He apparently knew that she had been with another male dog sometime recently, and had dumped her in the neighborhood where she had been found and turned over to the animal shelter. With their thin resources, the shelter hadn’t known that she was pregnant. Since she had been there a month, the clock was ticking hard and Bluebelle was headed for almost certain euthanasia. Until the day that I, for reasons I still don’t understand, I who was not in any way looking for another dog, decided to look at the local animal shelter’s website to see what dogs were up for adoption. I look at Bluebelle sleeping in her little hospital bed and I see the fingerprints of my guardian angel all over her. I see the white-hot fingerprint of God on her fur. I hear the whispered prayers of Saint Francis of Assisi.

So our sweet little girl ended up abandoned like her brother, and we went and met her and brought her home with us. And if our Father spares her life now, after surgery and indignities, she will have a good life, a happy life, a safe life.

And now I’m praying that I never again see that sorry SOB on our road, weaving along the gravel lane with booze on his breath and painkillers in his veins and the knife wounds and ostomy bag that his last girlfriend gave him as a parting gift. I don’t want to drag a pathetic mouthbreathing shitbird out of his truck and stomp a mudhole in his ass and walk it dry. But I just might.

Some might sneer at me for this, but I have prayed this evening for the little puppies that Bluebelle will never know, never nurse, never fuss over. As my mother would say, it’s a hard old life.

For now, we’re tired and need to rest. I”ll be sleeping in here tonight to stay close to our little girl. Mrs. Orr will likely stretch out on the couch, too. We know what sadness looks like. We know what love looks like, too.

I thought this Miranda Lambert tune was an apt song for the evening.

Thanks to all of you who have rooted for us and for this sweet little dog during this time. Grace and peace to you, along with God’s protection and blessings.

~ S.K. Orr