Last winter, with my heart still broken from divorce, I fell in love.
And no, I wasn't trying online dating, though it was a match made through social media.
A Facebook friend had posted a picture of a dog in urgent need of a home. It was nearly Christmas, and the older Rottweiler had been named Tiny Tim by his rescuers. He was paralyzed, and had been cruelly dumped in a culvert to die. Tiny Tim tugged at my heartstrings, so I took a chance and reached out.
The initial response from Guardians of Rescue was that Tiny Tim was not well enough to make the trip from the shelter in New York to my home in Rhode Island. He was scheduled to be euthanized. Then they called back: A few of his rescuers couldn't shake the feeling that he just wasn't ready for the Rainbow Bridge. If I was willing to take him with the understanding that he might have only a matter of days or weeks ahead of him, they felt it would be nice for him to spend his remaining time in a real home.
I agreed.
So it was that I found myself traveling to Long Island. On the drive down I steeled myself for the worst. I knew there was the possibility that Tiny Tim was beyond help. If that was the case, I would stay with him while he went to sleep, then come home alone.
I was amazed when I saw him.
Tiny Tim was massive in terms of size, but it was his spirit that filled the room. He lay on blankets by the Christmas tree at Save a Pet, and he enthusiastically greeted everyone who came near him. He looked like he was smiling. In spite of his paralysis, he was able to use his front legs to raise his large head and chest. When I crouched down beside him, he put his nose to mine. I felt an instant connection. There was something in his eyes that I recognized.
I understood immediately why Tiny Tim's rescuers were reluctant to euthanize him. His medical issues aside, there was an enthusiasm about him that was contagious. We discussed practical matters: I couldn't lift him alone, but I had friends who would help with vet visits and fresh air breaks. Puppy pads would serve as his rest room. I was given his vet records (he'd seen at least eight veterinarians since his rescue), medication and food, and we were on our way.
On the ferry ride back to Connecticut, I lowered the car windows and sat in the back seat with Tiny Tim's big head on my lap. Every now and then he'd raise himself up and sniff at the salt air. I gave him treats and told him about the fabulous place at the end of my street: the dog beach. Year round, my little dog Kimba and I go there morning and night. Kimba runs and plays with his canine friends.
"We'll find a way to get you there," I promised Tiny Tim.
His use of his front legs had given me hope. I thought maybe with custom wheels supporting his back end, and physical therapy for his front end, he could be mobile again. I called an aunt for the name of the hydrotherapist and doggie PT she'd used with her German Shepherds. I called a friend who is an industrial designer and inventor, and he assured me that if no one had what Tiny Tim needed, he'd build wheels for him. All-terrain wheels for the dog beach.
By the time we arrived home in Rhode Island, I had all sorts of ideas for Tiny Tim's future. My Peace Poodle Kimba welcomed Tiny Tim nose-to-nose, then hopped onto the couch to watch as friends helped me get Tiny Tim settled onto his bed. He seemed a little confused that this big dog required so much attention. Tiny Tim appeared to relish every moment of it.
Over the course of the evening, though, Tiny Tim took a turn for the worse. His breathing was labored. With his head on my lap, I called one vet after another, describing his symptoms. They all told me the same thing: he needs a trip to the emergency room, and he likely needs to be euthanized.
I didn't like those options. The goal had been to give Tiny Tim a comfortable home for his last days, not to rush him out on a cold night to a bright, frightening animal hospital. Had I known this would happen, I'd have held him and let them euthanize him at the shelter in New York.
I found the name of a vet who makes house calls, Dr. Dennis Thibeault of Green Valley Veterinary Services. After a long phone conversation with him, I felt I'd found the best option. If he felt Tiny Tim could be saved, he would tell me and we'd treat him. If not, he'd help him go quietly to sleep at home. No more trauma. He offered to come immediately, or in the morning. Tiny Tim was sleeping quietly just then, so I opted for morning. Then I made a bed on the floor beside him, and Kimba and I settled in.
It was a long, difficult night. I felt guilty for taking Tiny Tim from the shelter. I worried that I had prolonged or exacerbated his suffering. Still, I felt grateful to be caring for him. His earlier exuberance had vanished, replaced by a calm that was almost eerie. He seemed to relax into the routine of being cleaned and turned as needed. I petted him and told him how wonderful he was. I promised him he was safe, he was loved, and he would feel better soon. Those who have loved a dog will understand: this wasn't a one-way conversation. He said it all with his eyes and the way he pushed his nose into the crook of my neck.
When Dr. Thibeault arrived, he read through all the veterinary paperwork I'd been given. Soon I felt as though my prayers had been answered. Dr. Thibeault was gentle but thorough in examining Tiny Tim. He was honest but kind in explaining both what the previous vets' reports meant and what he saw. And I'm pretty sure I saw him tear up more than once.
I've said goodbye to many dogs in my life, and I've learned that it doesn't matter how long you've loved a dog; there is never an easy time to part ways. It's been almost a year since Tiny Tim came into my life and left again so quickly. His collar and his ashes still sit beside me as I write this.
What little we know about Tiny Tim suggests that he had no reason to trust people ever again. Yet he not only trusted, he loved. We humans like to think we're so evolved, don't we? But this dog took a greater leap of faith than many of us ever do. He kept his big heart wide open, and even as I felt my heart breaking yet again with his passing, I realized: Tiny Tim perfectly demonstrated that the rewards of love are well worth the pain.
Thanks to the efforts of a very long list of people, a dog who was treated with a kind of cruelty I cannot fathom was spared a lonely and frightening death. He inspired an impressive outpouring of support from people all over the world -- and motivated people to get involved in rescue.
Just a few hours after I said goodbye to Tiny Tim, I watched Kimba run on the dog beach. The wind was cold, the sky was grey, and I could not stop crying. Kimba stopped, as he often does, and ran back to be sure I was following.
"Run, poodle, run!" I shouted, and I smiled as he took off like a shot. I looked down, and alongside Kimba's tiny prints, I saw a set of massive paw prints disappear down the beach.
Now, my head knows those prints were made by someone else's dog earlier in the day.
But my heart?
My heart felt sure they were left by Tiny Tim.
