Wheatie

When we first found Wheatie many years back, she was just a puppy. Small, abandoned and starving, she tunneled her way into our hearts. It seemed only natural to bring her home with us.

Within days of becoming ours, it was apparent that Wheatie was a jumble of neuroses. Afraid of the dryer, the air vent, the ceiling fan, Wheatie would often wet the floor out of fear.

When I became pregnant years later, Wheatie was my shadow. It was natural for her to flip her ear back and lean into my stomach, searching for life. Nooze would move - as if to pat her - or to snuggle in. They were friends from day one.

Years have passed now. Nooze is older; Wheatie past middle age in 'people years'. Yet the bond remains.

Imagine the difficulty that occurred Thursday, when Wheatie was bitten by a water moccasin. Imagine having to explain life and death to your five year old. A five year old who considers this dog a sibling.

When Chachi and Nooze brought the dogs in Thursday night, it was apparent that something was wrong. Wheatie was struggling to walk, struggling to breathe. Her hind leg was swollen, the top of her foot was mangled with bite marks and swelling.

A call to our vet proved fruitless; they were closed. The emergency number was called, and a brief conversation followed. Chachi was told that it would be 'expensive', with an initial 'after hours' fee of $100. Tests could total $400. There is no worse feeling than having to choose between life and cost. Further discussions followed, only to find that the emergency vet was over an hour away. An hour we didn't seem to have.

Wheatie was going into shock.

In a panic, I called my friend T. I have known T. since college, and am responsible for her moving to the grand state of North Carolina. T. now lives fifteen miles from me, and is the complimentary granola/wildlife specialist in my life. She also lives across the street from a certified Old Fashioned Country Vet.

T. sensed the panic in my voice. When I explained the situation, she told me to hold on. Her husband (also a certified granola/wildlife specialist) ran across the street to the OFCV. He was back in a flash, yelling, "Get Wheatie and come on!"

Chachi decided to stay home with Nooze, as he could explain Life Cycles in Animals better than I could. Nooze also had school the next day, and this was close to her bedtime. I carried Wheatie (a solid 45 lbs.) and my purse to the car.

Then I set out on the longest drive of my life.

I traveled through the countryside as quickly as I dared, careful to miss potholes and swampholes. Every bump, every jump, caused Wheatie pain. I had the air conditioner on high, with Wheatie sitting up as best she could, gulping air. Her eyes began to glaze over.

Oddly, I was less concerned about her dying in my car than I thought I would be. I just didn't want her to be in pain. She struggled toward me, placing her head under my right hand.

I told her it was ok. She was a good girl. If she needed to go, I understood.

We finally pulled into the parking lot of the clinic. I placed her on the ground, careful to move her from the roughest part of the lot. She began to sniff, and attempted to wander off in search of a scent that intrigued her.

I reigned her in, pulling her into the clinic. The kind nurse took my name, and immediately knew me as "Ts friend". She smiled, and took my information quickly.

I glanced around, noticing that there were dogs roaming freely throughout the office. All had some sort of deformity, amputation, or defect that apparently deemed them unadoptable. It was The Island of Misfit Toys: Animal Edition. I loved the vet immediately.

The front door burst open, and T, J, and their daughter ran in. They helped take Wheat to the back, where she was cared for by the most incredible set of doctors and nurses that I have ever met.

Wheat was given four shots, which she leaned into. Each shot seemed to make her just a little better, a little stronger. The vet inspected the bite area, noting that the bite was "hot". If venom extraction was tried, it would destroy her foot. Amputation would then be inevitable.

First, however, there was something else he wanted to try. Something less invasive, that would give Wheat a chance to continue life as my four legged friend. When I asked what that would be, he smiled.

"You're going to think I'm crazy," he said.

I surveyed the room, glancing at the three legged Rotweiller, the lame beagle that scooted through the room on his butt, the mangled kittens that snuggled up to the nurses. I shook my head.

"I won't think you're crazy at all," I responded.

He disappeared from the room, returning with a sport sock, an ace bandage...and a bag of sugar. I will admit to raising my eyebrows.

With the help of the nurses, he rolled the sock down (as one would pantyhose), pouring sugar into the sock. Then he placed Wheatie's mangled foot into the sock, rolling up the sock and pouring even more sugar into it as he went. Then he covered the sock with the ace bandage.

"The sugar will pull the poison and the swelling out slowly, and will avoid permanent damage to her foot," he explained. He recommended leaving it on until Saturday or Sunday, and seeing how it looked from there.

The visit took a total of 30 minutes. The bill came to be a total of $150, which the vet said could be paid 'by installment'. I nodded, calculating the fee as I made my way to the front desk. J. sat on a chair holding Wheatie, who was smiling and half asleep.

I took out my checkbook, only to have T. tell me to put it away. The bill had been paid. In full.

Unable to contain it any longer, I began to cry. T. hugged me close, telling me that she loved me - and that money should never have to be an object when caring for those you love. Then she smiled.

It is now Sunday. The sugar sock wrap has been removed from Wheatie's foot, because she tried to EAT the sugar. Her foot is still slightly swollen, but she is gaining strength in it.

I allowed her to be hooked out this afternoon, for the first time since she was bitten. She march/hopped through her area, staring directly at the woods. She glared defiantly, marking territory as she went.

Despite her fears, I don't think Wheatie will go down without a fight. Not anymore.