How it Happened

I was a regular Irish Wolfhound, a pup, full of play when my owner took me home.  I ran, tried to climb, fell a bit, and loved to eat things that belong to his wife, but never did I do anything to him.   I chased the other dogs, cats and even people, but I never did anything to my owner.  Then my owner’s father moved in with the family.  It seemed the more I played with everyone, let them pet me when I rubbed against them, accepted bones from the, the more this old wheelchair bound fellow would not be my friend.  I even tried drinking from the water dish and laying my lap on him, but all he could muster were some bad words expressed about me.  I don’t remember hearing any good comments from the guy until it all went down.

I continued to grow.  I experienced pano in my front left leg, then it traveled to my right front, then my back right side.  Man, it hurt and it took a lot of patience from my owner and his wife.  My owner’s mom spends a lot of time with me and she started taking a special interest in me as well.  So now I have my owner, his dear wife and his wonderful grandmother doing it all for me.  And you would think I was in heaven, but remember the guy in the wheelchair?  He wanted my family to take away my quilts, my toys, my mattress, and move my water bowl.  He never seemed happy with me.  But my owner and his family, all of his friends and especially the vet and his helpers promised me that all would be fair one day.  I waited patiently and when I felt well, I ran in the back yard and I was taken for walks.  When I did, I got to meet the kids in the neighborhood. I became the Billy Madison of dogs in our area.  Everyone seemed to want to be by me and that was fine because I so dearly wanted to be by them, hugging, rubbing and sitting when they told me to do so.  I enjoyed my evening fetch games with my owner.  He threw my squeaky so many times down the hall and I knew he looked forward to it, so I appeased him as best I could.  I did not even get mad when he knocked a few things off the shelf with the squeaky.  It was my favorite toy.  Man, life was grand and I was only five months with them, almost ten months old, then it happened.

My owner and his wife decided to go eat dinner one Friday with a former student of my owner and a friend of his wife’s daughter who enlisted in the Marines..(and yes, she bawked at me dirtying her clothes when I rubbed, but she loved me too).  They were gone for almost two hours and when the returned, all they heard were my yelps for help.  The owner’s father was in his room and I really cannot say out of loyalty to all, or maybe because of the trauma what happened, but my owner and the family all say it was the guy in the wheelchair that did it.  They believed the old fart rolled over my right rear leg.  He said he didn’t even hear me yelp or cry for help and blamed it on my quilt.  Yea, right. I bet.

My owner took me to the vet early the next morning and it was a break.  Originally there was to be a plate or rod put in, but since I was still growing, they feared the plate would eventually do harm, so the opted for the pins and rod outside my leg.  I champed it, man!  I blew them away and got up and walked my butt out of there two days later, but when I went back for a checkup, I managed to somehow fracture the leg again, under the last pin, so now I am in damned trouble.

The vet did not give up on me and neither did my owner.  He cried.  I have never seen a man cry like that.  Over what? A broken leg?  I was determined to walk again and that damn cast did not stop me.  Man, I had so much artillery on me: the pins, the rods, the cast, and I still managed to make that man happy by walking out again.  Then old faithful owner discovered I was walking with the leg pointing outward, sores from pressure marks were on  my left shoulder and elbows and it was causing me to lose weight.  Man, I was in pain, and this man was going to see me walk, even if it took every bit of energy I could muster.

On Monday, my doctor told my owner it was over.  I had lost blood flow to my leg, the hip socket was messed up due to the weight and the battle was over and his choice was to amputate or make sure I was at rest forever.  That man that cried before now cried so much more this time.  He had an army of friends crying with him.  His wife and mother-in-law were in tears as well, but the old fart in the wheelchair wanted me out of his life.   He was mentioning service dogs for him, dogs that could pull him in the chair, do things for him and the whole time my owner and the family kept me in mind and nothing else.  They stressed, it showed, and I knew that whatever they decided, it was best for me.

Finally three days later, amputation was decided and I lost my leg due to the theory of the old fart in the wheelchair.  I swore I would get up again.  My owner and his family call it will, dedication and pure love for them, but I call it me.  It is just me.  No fart in a wheelchair, no tears from an owner and no doubts from others would keep me down.  I would get up.

Immediately after surgery I was sitting, then I figured, Why not?” and dumped in the operating room as they were preparing my bed for sleep.  I figured “$hit on this stuff.  I’ll give a better description of WILL and DETERMINATION and get my A$$ moving because I gotta bone to pick with someone.  No way will I turn the other cheek on this one.  I am the one that is in charge now.  Back off folks, da Man is on his way home!”  Yea, I had enough of it all.  My owner gave me one more chance, he had the faith to believe it me, and now it is payback time.  I am going to take on the world…or course, I have to wait until my hair grows back to be take seriously.

The next day,  I was able to go outside with my owner and all he wanted to do is continue his goofy talks to me.   I cannot understand him, but I know a few things:  When he speaks to me directly in that calm voice, I trust him.  When he tells me those nice words I love you and you are my podna, my pal, I think I know I am special to him and that is what makes me happy.  His tears, they confuse me.  I am not sure if he is happy or sad, but he does love me and that is the main thing.  He  and I are a team now.

I will go home October 26 to my home with my family to start my conquering of the world, to reclaim my Billy Madison of the neighborhood and to do my best not to take anyone’s pity, anyone’s misunderstandings and that old fart’s negative comments.  I am a champ.  I believe in myself, my owner’s family for the dedication and I will not let them down.

Mine was not cancer.  Mine was not a disease or lack of nutrition.  If right, mine was not anything but some cruel bastard in a wheelchair and I understand he is my owner’s father, but I will look him in they eye every day and give him the look of a warrior, a bold and loyal animal and I will scare him to make him move, so help me.

My name is HUNTER, that is my story, I am going to stick to hit and I will not be HUNTED.   I am HUNTER.