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Pet projects
IT'S A DOG'S LIFE (but it doesn't have to be)
Vito was the personification of a Thai soi dog. Not pretty, tough, physical problems, but independent, with a spirit that would fight on and on. A dog that would definitely bite the hand that fed him if that hand tried to force him to do something he didn't want to do.
Volunteers with an underfunded, overextended charity pulled out all the stops to save the life of an outcast at death's door. They failed, but not through want of love or effort. Now the organisation itself is on its last legs. Can you help?
Story and photo by DAWN POOLE
January 26, 2007: I had to put a dog to sleep today. His name for the last three weeks of his life was Vito. Before that, who knows? Did he even have a name? Did any person, even when he was a pup, ever hold him in enough regard to bestow a monicker on him?
Vito had only been with us, at the Hua Hin Dog Rescue Centre, for three weeks when he died. He came from Cha-am. Cheryl, who has a cafe{aac}/bar there, alerted us to his plight. We arrived at her place and she took us to meet him on the section of road he called home. My first comments weren't complimentary. I made some remark about him being an alien, not a dog. You might forgive me for that remark, had you seen him. No hair; covered in scabs and dry scales; one ear all swollen up with haematoma; unable to stand properly because of malnutrition and a problem with his hind leg; gummy, rheumy eyes; and the mouth of a denture wearer sans dentures. And thin _ so thin you could see every bone and overstretched tendon.
In the process of catching him, I got my first glimpse of Vito's personality. He wasn't physically able to escape us; in fact he didn't really try. He did, however, bite me (not as bad as it sounds, remember he was sans dentures, but he did have gums of steel) and protest the indignity of being lifted bodily and bundled into a car, most vociferously.
It was Joy, the volunteer who helped in Vito's capture _ or rescue, depending on whether you see it from his point of view or ours _ who gave him his name. She said it means "life". Even for such an old dog, it was truly an apt name. I've never seen such life, such spark in such a dilapidated shell.
At the vet's, blood was taken to test for heartworm, his fleas and lice were nuked (not quickly enough, though _ they had a field day with me, leaving me with a rash on my torso for a week afterwards), his ear was bandaged and he was treated for mange. Then we took him to his new home _ a cage in my garden. This may sound like torture for a free-spirited soi dog like Vito, but it was the one thing he seemed truly happy about. He didn't need to move around too much. He was able to lie on soft, warm quilts. He got meals twice a day, and water just by standing and turning his head. And he got out to relieve himself morning and night. He was also given medication that started to cure his mange, treat his gummy eyes and generally deal with some of his problems.
Two weeks passed, during which time Vito and I came to an understanding. This contract proved simple enough _ once I learned the details, that is. He didn't object to the food, or the water. He was quite happy with the comfy quilts, changed once a day, or more frequently if he'd had an accident. He'd happily take the medicine, if hidden in a lump of meat. He'd submit to having his eyes cleaned and medicated. He was partial to his nightly dog-chews. The one thing that he wouldn't tolerate was being taken out of his cage for his twice-daily trip to the "toilet". This was an indignity that a dog of his stature shouldn't have had to endure. And he chastised me for it. Many times, my nose got caught in a gummy "embrace". I eventually learned (how slow-witted we humans are!) to hold him in a way that wouldn't allow his gaping maw to connect with any part of my body. And, to simplify matters, I learned that if I left his cage door open after I'd remade his bed, he'd hoist himself into it as soon as his bladder and bowels were empty. No toddle round the garden for him!
On Monday, he had trouble standing to eat and to relieve himself and seemed generally uncomfortable, so I subjected him to another visit to the vet's. By the time we reached the clinic, his legs were in spasm. He was inspected and more blood drawn. It didn't look good. That night, he had his first seizure. From that time onwards, he never stood or left his cage again.
Lab results the next day proved he had suffered renal failure, was anaemic and had a problem with his platelets as well. The vet asked me what I wanted to do. Between us we decided on a plan: We'd try to treat his ailments for the next five days, and if that didn't work we'd put him to sleep. Caring for him became a little more difficult. Food needed to be held under his mouth, water syringed into it. He needed to be rolled off his quilt when wet, and rolled back onto clean, dry bedding. He tolerated this with more good grace than he had many previous experiences. His leg muscles were constantly in spasm and he must've been in pain, but he rarely grumbled.
He was, however, going downhill fast. By Thursday, when the vet visited on an unrelated matter, we agreed that the time had come to let Vito go. The vet made an appointment to come over the following morning and I spent the rest of that day burdened with the knowledge that it would be Vito's last. His final dog chew, his final evening meal, his final syringe of water, his final bedding change, his final breakfast.
The act of dispatching him was more traumatic than anything similar I have ever witnessed. Administering the injection proved difficult because he was in such a bad state that most of his veins had collapsed. Then he refused to go quietly. He didn't struggle outwardly, but he was possessed of such a monumental will and spirit that he held out against the euthanising drug for five agonising minutes. I'd never seen that before. Of course, he did, finally, succumb.
So why this tribute to an ugly, bad-tempered, old soi dog that I only knew for three weeks? A dog that never showed me the slightest sign of gratitude for taking care of him? No pacifist, Vito, no licker of hands or wagger of tail, he! Why am I crying, yet again, while writing this? Tears obscuring my vision and dropping onto my keyboard? For two reasons, both intertwined:
Vito, to me, was the personification of a Thai soi dog. Not pretty but tough; physically weak but still fiercely independent, with a spirit that would fight on and on. A dog that would definitely bite the hand that fed it _ if that hand tried to force him into something he didn't want to do.
Vito did not, to paraphrase Dylan Thomas, "go gentle into that good night". He "rage[d], rage[d] against the dying of the light".
Vito, you were a true character. Rest in peace, old man, you deserve it. And, let me tell you, you earned the undying respect of one farang woman. Goodbye.
May 17, 2007: Vito has been gone for nearly five months, now. Earlier this week, I had to put another dog to sleep. Si Khao had been dumped in my garden during the rainstorms a fortnight before. He was quadraplegic (probably the result of a stroke), incontinent and had a huge abscess covering one entire wall of his chest. I cared for him for two weeks, turning him to prevent bedsores, cleaning and dressing the abscess, changing incontinence pads and bedding so that he didn't have to lie in his own waste. Sadly, he deteriorated, and was in such pain that he'd scream when moved and every time the painkillers wore off. So, I thought it kinder to let him go, too.
Our work continues. The dogs continue to come in. To be dumped. To be reported to us. The money and the volunteers don't arrive with anything like the same regularity. We have no money, at this time. We have a single volunteer (who helps out one morning a week) but she's on holiday for a month. Another has travelled up from her home in Bang Saphan to help me for a week, due to the desperation of our situation. Other than that, the work in the centre, caring for over 100 dogs is done by one paid worker and myself. The 30 dogs in my house (the sickest ones; the paraplegics _ five of them; the pups) are looked after solely by me. We owe our vet 13,000 baht. It was 17,000 baht, but I've managed to scrape together 4,000 baht for him. Now, we can only take absolute emergencies to him. Anything else, I have to try and treat myself.
During the rainstorms we had dogs with hypothermia (some of the pen roofs leaked terribly); two pups died. I couldn't get bedding for the sick dogs properly dry after washing it, so I had to risk putting them on damp bedding.
The Hua Hin Dog Rescue Centre is on the verge of closure. It's heartbreaking for me personally, but also frustrating professionally, as we are/were about to start a neutering programme for strays in Hua Hin, in conjunction with Dogchance, neutering and vaccinating a minimum of 40 street dogs per month. This will help/would have helped with the stray-population problem in Hua Hin. We desperately need assistance in order to continue.
Here's how you could help:
- Donate. Money, food, bedding materials (old blankets, towels, quilts), even old newspapers would all be very gratefully received;
- Sponsor one of our dogs yourself or get your business/company to do so;
- Practical help. Do voluntary work at the centre or at our charity shop (if you're based in the Hua Hin area). Help maintain the pens and the centre;
- Adopt a dog. All our animals are friendly, sociable, loving, neutered and vaccinated;
- Fund-raise. Could you organise a fund-raising dinner and invite your friends along? A sponsored parachute jump? A party? A sponsored dog walk? It'd be a way to have fun and help our dogs at the same time.
Hua Hin Dog Rescue Centre details:
- Web site: www.dogrescuecenter.org/
- Email: info@dogrescuecenter.org
- Telephone: Ring Dawn Poole on 08-1981-4406
- Bank: Bank of Ayudhya, Hua Hin branch
- Account name: Mrs Maureen McCulloch Taylor or Mrs Dawn Poole
- Account number: 074-1-25450-9
- SWIFT code: AYUDTHBK
