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Moose

When our county animal control officer found ten-year-old chow mix, Moose, she knew the then-management at the shelter would immediately kill him, so she called us. Moose found himself alone in the woods after his meth cooking owner overdosed. He stayed with the body for a few days before anyone missed the man.

Morbidly obese, terrified of strangers, and with a terrible case of 'meth mouth', when the authorities did arrive, Moose was a snarling mess. He had to be trapped. At the Sanctuary he was given his space for a week or two, then leash trained before undergoing a six-hour dental surgery. The abscesses in his mouth released such horrific toxins that Moose entered an autoimmune deficiency that had him suffering from numerous ailments, including infected sores, extreme sensitivity to pain, and worst of all, a violent reaction to something he needed to survive - food.

Moose could not keep food down, and he went from one of the fattest dogs we've ever seen to a mere skeleton. Exploratory surgery showed a thickening of the esophagus at the entrance to the stomach, which triggered vomiting whenever food hit the area. As our vet bills piled up and hit the five-digit mark, we wondered how long it would be before he starved to death, but somehow Moose kept going. After a two-week stay at our vets' office, one of the doctors had fallen in love with him, and quickly agreed to adopt him. Under the Doctor's care, Moose underwent more surgeries, including the rebuilding of an eyelid that collapsed due to starvation. The Doctor began researching holistic medicine to incorporate into his treatment.

At his worst, Moose lost all his hair, had an Elizabethan collar to prevent him from damaging his various surgical incision sites, and a diaper, because in spite of the fact that he looked like a walking corpse, he was ornery enough to urinate all over the Doctor's house when she brought home a new foster puppy. Moose also couldn't resist picking fights with the Doctor's pot-bellied pig; no matter how many times he lost, he kept going back for more.

Moose went vegan, a prescription diet resembling Corn Pops being the only food he could keep down, if only about half the time, and only after it had been soaked in warm water until it was fully saturated. His hair grew back in. His low-swinging testicles could finally be removed. He was still emaciated, but less so. And feeling better for the first time in a year, he decided to kill every chicken and rabbit our veterinarian had in her home. Had he succeeded in getting all of them he could have stayed with her, but since he missed a couple of parrots and rabbits, the Doctor felt the responsible thing was to return him to the Sanctuary; she had the smaller animals first and felt it was unfair to them to put them at continued risk.

We were happy to have the old man back, but we were unhappy with his 'Corn Pop' diet; it had served its purpose - not the most nutritious or digestible stuff, at least Moose could keep it down and had derived some minimal nutrition from it. We began adding Natural Balance vegan formula to the mix, and found as long as we kept it under half he could usually keep it down. We believed at the time that meat was too rich for him to eat, so we stuck with vegetable-based foods. But one day Moose got into some beef blood, lapped it up, and kept it down. So a few times a week, blood was added to the mix.

What we found next was the product that truly saved Moose's life: Sojo's. To the Sojo's we added an herbal pain relief and anti-inflammatory supplement called DGP, salmon oil, liquid glucosamine, and digestive enzymes. We'd put it all into a blender and mix with water or blood until it was the consistency of skim milk; any thicker and Moose would vomit, but as long as the mix stayed thin, he held it down. We fed him four to six times a day, as much as he would take.

Moose loved his Sojo's, but he was always eyeing the other dogs' raw meat, and whenever he could sneak a piece of turkey or pork, he went for it. This sometimes resulted in vomiting, but we discovered that because he had had so many of his teeth pulled when we first took him in, he was unable to eat the stuff very quickly, and couldn't pack enough meat and bone into his esophagus to trigger a vomiting response. So we started supplementing Sojo's with small pieces of meat. Moose was still thin, still achy.

I don't remember why we first gave Moose ground beef, but when we did, we were surprised to see that not only did he keep it down, he could eat four pounds at a sitting. And just like that, after two years of near-starvation, Moose was at a healthy weight in two weeks. We immediately began taking him for walks to restore some muscle mass to his atrophied limbs. First just 50 yards or so, then down the street, then around the block. First walking, then at a steady trot.

Ground beef not being a nutritionally complete diet, we added supplements, and we continued to let him have the occasional pork bone to chew on. And now, at age twelve, the dog that barely ate for two years has a much-welcome weight problem. That's right - he's actually a little too fat, and we've cut back his portions.

No one expected Moose to live this long, and at any point in the long journey it took him to get here, no one would have thought euthanasia to be an unreasonable option for him. No one, that is, except Moose, whose will to live is, frankly, kind of inspirational. And moreover, the happy dog we see today (even though he always looks sad in photos) forces us to question the all-too-common and reckless statements so often heard in rescue circles about how much more merciful and humane it would be to kill a dog than to put him or her through lengthy and costly procedures that would restore life's quality and increase its duration. How much more merciful and humane it would be to kill a dog rather than to force him or her to wait in the shelter for a few extra months while we go to court on that animal's behalf. How much more merciful and humane it would be to kill a dog than to put time and money into behavioral rehab that might not 'work'. How much more merciful and humane it would be to kill a dog than to let it live out its life in a sanctuary that specializes in meeting its unique needs. And at the heart of it all, what these 'rescuers' are really saying is this: we don't want to spend that kind of money, give that kind of time, devote those kinds of resources to a dog. Dogs don't matter enough to warrant the cost, and so we rationalize actions, and inaction, that are fundamentally contrary to our espoused purpose, which is to save and improve lives, not to hold them in the palms of our hands and destroy them under the guise of what's more merciful and humane. And in our egregious error, we're ignoring the single, most driving instinct that defines the behavior of the entire animal kingdom - survival. Above all else, what dogs want, more than a tasty meal, more than a warm bed, more than a walk in the park, is to live.

And of course there is a time and a place for legitimate euthanasia; when animals have no hope of recovery and all other options have been exhausted, we must do the truly merciful and humane thing. But when many said that Moose's time had come, he taught us not to jump the gun, and that two years of struggle and tens of thousands of dollars were worth it to fulfill his greatest desire - to live. He won't be with us forever, and each day we have him is both a gift and a bit of a surprise, but in the end we'll know we did all we could for him, and when he goes, we'll know it truly was his time, and we can be happy in the knowledge that the last months, or dare I say years, of his life erased the pain of the first twelve. If Moose could talk, I think he'd thank us for riding it out with him. We're sure glad we did.

Update, September, 2012: When Moose hurt his leg a few months ago, he refused to walk, and in the time it took for the injury to heal, he lost what little strength he had in his legs. For a lot of dogs, this would have signified the end, and Moose was in awful shape, but we also knew that he had a history of bouncing back, so we moved him into hospice care with a volunteer. With lots of special attention, Moose began to sit up on his own, and with the help of a harness, he started to walk a little. He was steadily improving, so we decided it was time for him to walk on his own, with the help of some special hardware. He's never looked happier; whether he has to use his new cart for the rest of his life, or he gains enough strength to start walking without it, we're so glad to see the old guy getting around again. Read the rest of Moose's story here.

Update, December, 2012: After a few very good months in hospice care and lots of fun in his cart, Moose's health began to decline, and it became clear that he was not going to rebound this time. His pain medication was no longer giving him relief, and it was decided to let him go. Humane euthanasia was performed in the home where he was receiving hospice care, with those who loved Moose in attendance. The procedure was peaceful and expedient.

Moose exceeded all expectations and lived to a ripe old age of fourteen, in spite of all the trials he experienced. We will miss him greatly, and all of us who knew him feel blessed to have had him in our lives.

Posted on August 10, 2011 | Link

Spencer

by Steve Markwell, Executive Director

Spencer was my dog before there was any Olympic Animal Sanctuary. I actually paid an adoption fee for him in Colorado, something I've never done since. He had been picked up in New Mexico by a group that catches strays and takes them to shelters in neighboring states. The shelter he went to had already vaccinated and neutered him, claiming he was about eight weeks old, but he still had a bluish tinge to his eyes and had trouble with solid food, leading me to think he was younger.

He began coughing almost immediately after I adopted him, and seemed to weaken within hours, so we went to the vet the next day, where his age was estimated at four weeks, not eight. His health had deteriorated considerably in under 24 hours; he was diagnosed with distemper. All I could do was wait; he received a subcutaneous fluid injection and was put on milk replacement and re-weaned, as his distemper persisted.

I always said goodbye to him before I fell asleep, knowing he would probably die sometime in the night. Around three AM every morning he would climb onto my chest and cough in my face like he was begging for help, and we'd start a new day. He barely ate or drank, he was weak and had trouble walking, and he was becoming increasingly uncoordinated. And of course the shelter that had done this to him, by vaccinating him too young and weakening him with surgery, refused to take any responsibility.

After a few weeks, Spencer turned a corner. He had energy, and was eating more. We had moved to California temporarily, where I had set up an office at my grandfather's house; a few houses down there was a big, orange cat that Spencer befriended, and the two of them wrestled around in the street every day. The lazy, slow-motion way that some cats seem to play was perfect for Spencer. He had developed chronic bronchitis, and coughed a lot when he played, so he became tired quickly, but I finally felt he was going to make it.

At six weeks I began teaching him a few tricks as a means of continuing to bond with him, and Spencer picked up the commands so quickly that within about three days I was running out of things to teach him: sit, shake, other hand, lie down, roll over, other way, stand up, turn around, gimme five... he learned everything in two repetitions and remembered it the next day. And one day, after a week of this, I asked Spencer to sit, he did, and I gave him a treat, but when I asked him to shake, he barked at me instead. When I asked again, he growled. I realized that he was too smart to be told what to do and didn't think any treat was worth having to do a bunch of stupid tricks. I opted to respect what he wanted. If he could come when called and sit down when asked, that was more than enough.

At about seven weeks the little wild dog in Spencer made its appearance; around four every afternoon he wanted to play, and if I didn't play, I'd pay for it. For about two weeks he would attack, cutting my arms to ribbons. He gained more energy, and suddenly could play for hours instead of minutes. I frequently had to physically restrain him just to keep from being slashed with his little fangs. The biting stopped after a couple of weeks, but he still had the energy. He was clumsy and his hind legs had been affected by the distemper; he sometimes tripped over his own feet, and he couldn't jump, even a little.

When he was four months old we started going to local dog parks in the afternoon, and Spencer would play nonstop until dark. He frequently found the biggest dog in the park to play with: mastiffs were a favorite. He'd pester and nip at them until they finally lay down and surrendered. Most dog park patrons came for about an hour; Spencer would wear out one dog, then another, and another, and when he was ready to go he'd sit at the gate and wait for me. Sometimes he'd fall asleep as I carried him to the car. He still had scar tissue in his throat that caused a buildup of phlegm that he'd cough up at the start of every playtime, but he was otherwise healthy.

When we moved to Washington, Spencer's back end began to improve; the neural pathways that had been damaged by the distemper were rerouting themselves, and he could run like never before, and even jump up onto beach logs and boulders. The coughing stopped, too, and he was finally eating well, even too much. I had to start controlling his portions.

As Olympic Animal Sanctuary grew and developed, Spencer was at first annoyed with the other dogs, but eventually became used to having new arrivals on a somewhat regular basis. These days he doesn't even get off the bed to give them a sniff. He's a quiet dog, except when he leads the entire sanctuary in a group howling session. He is outgoing and affectionate with nearly everyone he meets, but he'll always have a very special relationship with me, being the little dog that spent most of the first year of his life sitting on my lap while I drove around the country. He's survived distemper, and more recently, Lyme disease and Babesioisis - two tickborne illnesses he picked up on a rescue trip to the east coast. I don't travel east with him anymore.

One of the benefits of sanctuary life is that as I've specialized increasingly in the care and rehabilitation of feral dogs, pariah dogs, and coyote hybrids, Spencer gets to be part of a pack of dogs just like himself - something few wild-born dogs ever experience in captivity. It's fun to see him as the older, wiser dog that helps the others along with their socialization. But at seven years old, he still seems happiest when he's in the front seat of the truck, so some days we take a drive, just the two of us, just like old times.

Posted on April 10, 2011 | Link