Inspirational story of rescuing a pup from an animal shelter
She was a small pup with wiry salt and pepper hair. She peered through the metal bars of her cage. Wagging her tail with before, she was oblivious to her plight at the shelter. I noticed a piece of paper clipped to the cage door. It read "P.T.S." and I asked the kennel assistant what that meant.
"Well, this little girl has been with us for about two weeks. I'm afraid we're going to have to put her to sleep tomorrow."
"Aren't puppies usually the first to get adopted?" I asked.
"Not always. This happens all the time," he replied.
"Could I taker her home? No one would have to know, right?"
He paused a minute and asked, "Would you be willing to do volunteer work here for a while?"
"What?"
"If I gave you this dog, would you come in here and work on a volunteer basis?"
I readily agreed. I cradled the Benji-looking bundle in my arms and took her back to my apartment.
This little dog was a quick learner. She wasn't hyper. She wasn't a happy dog. She was...well...perfect. She soon became my loyal friend and roommate. Due to the limited budget of a graduate student, I made most of her toys. Her favorite ones were tug toys made of dust rags. She loved to shake them senselessly. Within weeks, she easily grew into her name Rags.
After going to school and then work, I would come back to my apartment and to Rags who was my consistent and gleeful greeter. The thing about Rags, which I swore was a gift from heaven, was that she never argued. After graduation, I decided to head out West, and Rags was in total compliance. I packed our things and, with my furry companion in the navigator seat, I pointed the car toward Colorado and sped off.
What was to be a temporary adventure, our time in Denver became a two-year stay. I landed a job at a private animal shelter and my dog and I found residence in a small apartment. We made friends quick and Rags was loved by everyone.
As we made these new friends, we began receiving invitations to go on weekly mountain climbing trips; Rags and I thoroughly enjoyed these weekend Rocky Mountain retreats. Rags would get in her "Rin Tin Rin" pose and perch herself on a rock and spy over a valley. I would sit back and take pictures of this little dog in her famous stance and imagine her thoughts of grandeur.
Though I loved it there, Rags and I eventually had to return to Indiana because of financial reasons. Back home, I secured my first teaching job in a small town in the flattest part of northern Indiana. Again, my dog and I moved and this time I rented a house with a large fenced-in yard. Rags and I were content.
A few years later, I married and moved to the southern part of Indiana. Shortly after that, my husband's career took us to North Carolina. Again, Rags was accommodating to yet another move.
When I had my fist child, Rags was about seven. She was a wonderful companion for my son. There were best friends. Soon my life was blessed with another child, and Rags continued to be a playmate to both boys. She escorted them on cowboy runs, pirate chips, and camp-outs.
As the boys got older, as much as Rags tried to keep up with them, her thirteen years were unforgiving.
She had lost her right eye to glaucoma and her left eye was riddled with cataracts, leaving her blind.
Arthritis had attacked her body. Her climbing days were over. She could not navigate the stairs in the house or even the steps off the back porch. It was difficult to watch this dog slowly lose the quality of her life.
She made attempts to disguise her misery but her pain was noticeable in every step she took. The decision to euthanize her was a bittersweet pill. My husband and I buried Rags in the backyard of our North Carolina home. I chose her favorite spot where she had guarded our two boys during many afternoons of play.
Unfortunately my life took another turn for the worse when we lost our 16-year-old son several years later. Totally distraught over my son's untimely death, I contacted a renowned psychic, a hundred miles away, in a desperate attempt for comfort. Toward the end of the arranged reading, she said, "By the way, your son wants you to know that his dog is with him. He says this shaggy, little dog is jumping on him and wants you to know this. He keeps calling her "Raz" or something like that."
I originally had my doubts about the psychic until she mentioned this dog because she had no way of knowing about Rags. It gave be a great deal of comfort that even in death, Rags was my son's constant companion once again.
Years later and after many other canine companions, I read somewhere that animals are our spiritual guides for our souls. Perhaps that clandestine meeting with Rags was, after-all, for the "soul" purpose of building my son through his spiritual journey. Yes, this little dog enriched our lives immeasurably.
A wonderful tale about your first dog, Rags. Guys like him leave a lasting impression… Priceless. My first dog was a rat terrier named Rags. He was a feisty little guy. He tried to save my twin brother and I when we were two and we tipped over beehives. One time by accident, he was locked in our central Wisconsin home for two weeks while our whole family went to visit relatives in north-central Indiana. When we returned, Rags had eaten part of the draperies to survive.
She was a small pup with wiry salt and pepper hair. She peered through the metal bars of her cage. Wagging her tail with before, she was oblivious to her plight at the shelter. I noticed a piece of paper clipped to the cage door. It read "P.T.S." and I asked the kennel assistant what that meant.
