Sheba - From Hell To Happiness

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Book excerpt

Chapter 1 

One Cold Christmas Holiday… 

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.”

            “But what on earth happened to her?” I asked.

            “That’s quite a story too. Seems the warden’s office received an anonymous phone call one day, telling them a dog had been thrown on a rubbish tip, I can’t tell you where, and that the caller thought it might still be alive. A dog warden went and found the dog, exactly as the caller described, and loaded her into her van and brought her here. Both the warden and the vet realised right away the dog had been badly abused. The lack of fur on her body indicates she’s been used as bait to train fighting dogs. They shave the poor dogs, to make it easier for the fighters to grab hold of their skin.”

            This was actually the first time either Juliet or I had learned anything about the world of dog fighting and I’m sure our faces must both have reflected the horror we felt at what we being told. After a pause for breath, Lisa continued her narrative.

            “Our vet has been treating her since she arrived but there’s not a lot more we can do. Her wounds are healing, but very slowly because of her poor overall condition. She’s clearly been starved and the ligature marks round her neck are so deep it’s obvious she’s spent her life tied up while the fighters were trained to attack her. Poor dog has had no real life at all. From her size, we’re guessing she was either stolen or bred for fighting but turned out to be an undersized runt so they used her as a bait dog instead.”

            “So, what’s going to happen to her?” I asked, knowing full well what was in Juliet’s mind.

            “The vet thinks she’s so weak, it’s unlikely she’ll live long,” Lisa replied. “Funny thing is, when she does lift her head and look up at you, she does her best to wag her tail and be friendly. Like every dog we see, she’s looking for a little bit of love.”

            “It’s just awful that people do things like that and get away with it,” Juliet commented.

            “Not awful, just plain criminal,” I said.

            Lisa seemed to be thinking for a minute before she said, much to our surprise.

            “Look, we know how you feel about dogs, and you’ve already got a houseful at home, but…” she paused.

            “But what?” I asked.

            “Well…maybe, if the boss agrees, and if you’re willing, you could maybe take her home and try and give her the love she needs for however long she’s got left.”

            “Please, go and ask her,” Juliet said. “We’ll take her, no problem.”

            Lisa disappeared and returned two minutes later with Kay, owner of the kennels, who confirmed the offer Lisa had made to us.

            Lisa led us back to the stable where the girls were still patiently waiting for us, talking gently to the little dog. Lisa opened the gate and walked in to the pen, bent down and began stroking the dog, who lifted her head up and, sure enough, her tail began to wag, slowly at first, then with a little more gusto when Lisa picked her up and passed her into Juliet’s arms. Juliet immediately began talking softly to our new and unexpected rescuedog, and Lisa reached down and took a blanket from the dog’s bed and wrapped it around the little waif to help protect her from the cold as we walked across the yard to the office.

            At reception, I was ready to fill out the necessary adoption papers and pay the usual fee for the dog but Kay held up her hand and told me they didn’t want a penny for her.

            “She’s not exactly what people usually leave here with and she probably won’t live very long. You two are marvellous for wanting to take her on and give her some loving care and affection. I doubt she’s had one day of loving care in her life. Just take her home and do what you can for her. We’ll do the basic adoption papers to comply with the legalities, but there’ll be no fee for this little girl. You’re doing us a favour by taking her.”

            A few minutes later, paperwork complete, and wrapped in a blanket we kept in the car at all times for our dogs, I carried our new rescue carefully in my arms and we gently loaded the little dog into our car, talking softly and reassuringly to her as we laid her on the large dog cushion that filled the large storage area in the rear of the estate car. As I closed the tailgate she looked at me and something seemed to spark in her mind and her tail wagged, just a little, as if she knew she was being rescued and going to a new home.

            I drove slowly on the journey home, and the girls, who were quite small and could just see over the back seat, through the dog grille, reported that the little girl was sitting up and seemed far more alert and animated than she’s appeared in the pound. As we headed for home, we held a discussion about a name for the latest addition to our rescue family.

            “Poor thing deserves a really good name, something proud and noble,” I said. “Something to make up for the bad times she’s suffered.”

            “I agree,” Juliet concurred and between us we reeled off various names that might be appropriate for her, with numerous suggestions coming from the girls in the back seat.

            Nearing home, I’m not sure after all this time whether it was me or Juliet who thought of it, but one of us suggested the name ‘Sheba’ as in the Queen of Sheba, reputed to have been one of the most beautiful women of her time, and usually known simply as ‘Sheba’ and even though the children were too young to understand the significance of the name they agreed it was a nice name for the little dog. We quickly agreed it would be a great name for her, so as we pulled up outside our home the decision had been made. Henceforth, the poor bedraggled and mightily abused, almost hairless little Staffy would be known as Sheba!