Scrubber was my best friend, my mate, my protector, and the sweetest newborn little being to come into my life in the last 11 years (with the exception of my grand-daughter who was born the same year 1994). Scrub, or Scrubbie, was born in January 1994.
Scrubbie was a beautiful red Australian cattle dog, pure breed, with the worst kennel name anyone could have ever come up with (someone else did this not me) - Averdale Red Big Boofer. Scrubbie's mum, Missy, was my son's dog. She was a small blue cattle dog, and a mean little miss too when she liked. She mated with a big red dog, and had 5 puppies, all red. The first male was stillborn; Scrubbie and his 3 sisters survived. They were big pups, and Missy had to have a hysterectomy to bring them into the world. Scrubbie came into my life at the tender age of 3.5 hours, after my son and I collected mum and the pups from the vet clinic.
I really knew him before he was born as I had a big part in looking after Missy during the gestation period. My son had taken her to the cattle dog breeder’s to try and mate his cherished Missy so her breeding would live on. She didn’t seem at all interested, so he came home leaving her there for a couple of weeks at the mercy of all the randy dogs. When she arrived back home he was disheartened, and sure there weren’t going to be any pups as the breeder said that Missy spurned all the dogs. However, he added there was a slight chance that his prize big red dog had maybe had his way with her. My son had planned to go away fishing for a week, so he packed up and left, leaving Missy with me. I watched her over the next few days and saw changes, and I was convinced she was ‘up the duff’. By the time my son arrived back from his trip, I confidently told him puppies were on the way. Mind you I had never had anything to do with a pregnant dog before, but I could see her shape changing, day by day, and she was always hungry.
My son wasn’t convinced at all and I think he thought I was having a daydream. However over the next week or so he knew that Missy was in fact going to produce a litter, and he was ecstatic. She had obviously decided one of the dogs was okay. My son adored Missy, spoilt her rotten, and the rest of the family and I always blamed him for the way she was – mean when she felt like it. She would bite unprovoked, and wasn’t choosy about whom she bit, even me, the one who looked after her and fed her when my son was away. She now became queen of the castle and whatever Missy wanted, Missy was given.
When the time came for her to go into labour, my son advised me that he had been told we should leave her be, let her get on with the job without interference. I worried about her, she seemed to be in pain and a lot of discomfort, but I followed his orders. We knew she was close to her time this one night, but we left her alone in the special pen my son had knocked up for her in readiness for the new family. In the morning I wandered outside to see what was going on, and found Missy in the yard with a pup part the way out. I thought she was giving birth to it, but on closer inspection I saw that the pup was stuck fast. We tried every which way to help her, to no avail, so we packed her in the car and took her to the vet. The puppy was dead, and the vet removed him, and sent us home with Missy so the other puppies could be born during the day. But Missy was having dire problems, she was in a lot of pain, and distressed, and worn out. Once more we put her in the car, drove to the vets, and suggested she needed help. The vet decided we were right, that she did indeed need help, as the puppies were too big for her to birth naturally. And into the world came four squealing pure white puppies, three females and one male, and home they came with us once they were checked out and okay. Missy wouldn’t even acknowledge that we existed; she appeared to be totally wiping us out of her life as if we had done her an injury.
We worried ourselves sick about the puppies. We didn’t know if Missy was feeding them or not. I bought tiny bottles with little teats on them and we had puppy formula that we tried to feed them. They hated the bottle, and we became more and more frustrated. We finally gave up and left them to it, and started weighing them every day to check if they were getting enough to keep them alive. I had a set of scales that I used to weigh ingredients for cooking, and we used to lay them in the plastic bowl each day and weigh them and keep a record of their weight. All was well; they were gaining weight day by day. They would spend a lot of time inside on the tiles as it was January and very hot outside. We had newspaper everywhere and spent our days cleaning up after them. At night they would be returned to their pen outside and our sleep was often disturbed by one of them screaming. Out we would run wondering what was going on, and we would find either Missy laying on top of one of the puppies, or one would have fallen out of the box and would be crawling around blindly looking for Missy. We weren’t very good nurses :)
As they grew they changed of course, and started to get their colour and markings. The four of them were red with some blue on their faces. They were all different in colouring and markings and easy to tell apart. We had pet names for the four and Scrubbie was always Scrubbie. I was never a dog person, I loved cats, always had cats as a child and teenager and young adult. We had dogs at home too but they were guard dogs, not house pets. These puppies enchanted me and snuck into my heart. I loved them all, but as they started to develop little personalities, Scrubbie won my heart. All he ever wanted to do when I sat outside on the grass with the 'family' was sit on my knee, or lie next to me, while his sisters tore around the yard getting into all the mischief they could.
We owned three cats, and I say we because they actually were family pets. All had been waifs in need of a good home, all female, and were desexed. Mitten was the eldest, and I had bought her from the markets for my eldest son the first Christmas after I left my now ex-husband. She was a kind of ginger colour, but more white than ginger and she had the sweetest little face. My son and daughter moved out with me and we set up home in a house I rented. My son had a cat called Tom, but the house I rented had no fences, and as Tom was never a house cat, we had to leave him behind when we moved. My son really missed Tom and I thought that by buying him a kitten I could make up a bit for his loss. We were broke that first Christmas, and Mitten cost me $5 to buy. How cheap is life?
About two years after Mitten arrived, after we had moved into our new home that my son and I went halves in, I read a story about how many kittens had been taken to the RSPCA after Christmas by people who bought them for gifts and no longer wanted them. I was saddened by the story, and decided that Mitten needed a playmate. My son, daughter, and I, set off to the RSPCA shelter, and my daughter ended up choosing a sweet little female kitten who totally ignored us while sleeping away on a stand in the cage she shared with a lot of other cats. We called her Jasmine. We arrived home with Jasmine, feeling very proud of ourselves, introduced her to Mitten, who instantly took a dislike to her. We were dismayed as she made it well known that she was boss, giving Jasmine that ‘don’t come near me’ look. I couldn’t believe it that she took that attitude. Gradually she accepted Jasmine sharing the house, and they would lie around together, but not together. There was never closeness. During those early years we didn’t own a dog, so the cats had free range outside and inside. Jasmine arrived on the scene in January 1991, and Mitten had come into our lives in December 1988.
Sometime in the next few years, it escapes me exactly when, my son arrived home with a waif from a warehouse at his work. She was so tiny with hardly any fur, and a bad case of diarrhoea. Everything we tried to feed her went straight through her. We bathed her and cleaned her up as she was very smelly. She could sit in my hand with room, that’s how small she was. Eventually, with some love and care, she started to grow and became a very pretty lady, black with some white on her little face, and even some brown/ginger colouring on her body. She and Jasmine became fast friends, and Mitten ignored them both, remaining a loner. They all lived inside and had the run of the house and wreaked havoc on the carpet, the curtains, and the wooden chairs and upholstery. My beautiful home started to look the worse for wear.
My younger son arrived to live with us and with him came his pride and joy, his Missy. The cats were afraid of Missy as she seemed to delight in chasing them and molesting them. Once the puppies were born, there was more reason for the cats to hide inside, and Missy became even more aggressive towards them, I imagine to protect her brood. Missy and the puppies lived outside in their special place Aaron had built for them, but they were often inside because of the heat. Missy would chase the cats away from the puppies, and I was angry with her for terrorising them.
I used to leave the garden shed door open so the puppies could go in there as well out of the sun. We would go outside to see how the family was faring once they were old enough to be moving around the yard, and Missy would round them up from all their hiding places. They were either in the shed under anything they could hide under, or in the garden hiding under the rose bushes along the edge of the house in the shade. They hated the sun, squealed if they were taken out in it. The sun hurt their baby eyes. I put up a temporary shelter in the corner of the yard, using a tarpaulin, and they could hide in there out of the sun as well. We were always looking for them and finding them in the weirdest of places especially in the shed. Their white coats were often dirty from the things they hid underneath, like the old cement mixer we had stowed in there.
As they grew they started to demolish anything outside they could get their teeth into. Fortunately four little sets of teeth were only developing, and by the time they departed for new homes, the damage wasn’t too intense.
My son of course owned the dogs, and wanted to sell them once they were weaned and old enough to go to new homes. I asked if I could have Scrubbie, and he said no, that Missy wouldn't get on with a dog, even her own pup. I said I didn't care; after all it was my home they were residing in at the time and my son and Missy would no doubt leave at any given time. I offered to buy him so my son didn't miss out on the income from not selling him. He wouldn’t listen to me; he was boss and bad luck what I may have wanted or needed. I saw a mean streak in him then that saddened me because I knew it was inherited from his father. One day he piled the four puppies in his car and took them to the breeder to sell, ignoring my pleas to keep Scrubbie. That's where Scrubbie had his papers done. I cried for 3 days, and wouldn't speak to my son. I had already become so close to that puppy that I felt something precious had been torn away from me. My son eventually relented, although he didn’t tell me he had. He arrived home on the third day with Scrubbie in the car and I was so happy. He soon learned that I had chosen a beautiful animal, a dog with a nature not to be believed.
As the years went by no one who ever met Scrubbie didn't fall for him almost instantly. He would be wary, let people know they were being watched, but once he knew they were no threat, then he was a gentleman and became a friend easily. Missy died a few years ago; my son had to have her put down, as she couldn't walk anymore, her body just gave it up. It broke his heart to have to make that decision, but she was in pain with no light at the end of any tunnel that she would heal. From then on Scrubbie became his mate, slept with him every night, and wherever he went, Scrubbie was with him. He wasn't a one-person dog, he loved all of us, and whichever one of his 'family' he was with, then that was the one he protected and stayed close to.
Once Missy was gone the cats learned not to be afraid of Scrubbie as he really did like them. He had unfortunately, for a time, picked up his mother’s bad trait of chasing them, but once she was gone he stopped doing it. Sootie, the baby of the three girls, loved Scrubbie. She would rub all over his legs, walk in under him, and rub noses with him. The other two tolerated him but showed no signs of getting that friendly. I decided to have the carpet replaced and the curtains, and I also decided it was time for the cats to learn to live outside. By this time we had an inground pool and a fenced off area where the cats could live safely, and come and go from there as they chose. They had their own safe gardens to lie around in that were shaded during certain times of the day, and a pool to relax by :). I began to feed them out there, and gradually over time, they became used to being outside. Scrubbie became used to being inside and, as he didn’t tear up the curtains or the furniture or furball on the carpet, I wasn’t concerned about him being inside.
My eldest son moved out and relocated to work in the country. Scrubbie and I were alone, with the three cats. Somehow I managed to score all the pets as my responsibility, and from then on I had to organise ‘child care’ for them anytime I wanted to go away for a break. It always seemed that I brought home more pet food than I did human food, but Scrubbie always had human food as he didn’t like dog food at all. I cooked chicken and rice and pasta and vegetables for him, and bought him huge bones that he loved to lie out back and chew till he had emptied them of their entire marrowbone.
My younger son finally left her home for good about 2 years ago, leaving Scrubbie with me, as he knew I would be heartbroken if he took him away again. He had been away from home, then came back, then left again and came back. He had no ‘roots’, no home for Scrubbie, and he knew he was best left with me as I would look after him and love him and treat him with the respect he deserved. So Scrubbie once more became my protector and my best friend. He felt the loss of my son out of his life, but gradually he forgot about it and he and I became as one. Whilst I never encouraged him to sleep with me, he was inside the house whenever I was, and slept wherever he liked. For the first few weeks he slept on my son’s bed, no doubt waiting for him to come home. Gradually he realised this wasn’t going to happen, and he moved out of there to the family room, where I allowed him to lay on any chair he liked, and the floor was also his, wherever he liked. He was such a clever dog, would come and tell me when he wanted to go outside. He would come into my bedroom, stand beside my bed, and make noises until I awoke. He would then walk right up close to my left leg while I found my way in the dark down the hall to the back door. Once he was done outside, back he would run, jump up on a chair, and off I would go to bed once more.
We had a wonderful time together. Wherever I could take him, I did. The backseat of my car was his, and if we went on a trip, then he sat in the front on the passenger seat because he suffered carsickness on long trips. We used to go for long walks every day before and after work, and on the weekends once a day. We were both fit then, and he loved his walks, and was never a problem. He just walked either in front of me pulling me along by his strength, and as he got older, he walked beside me. I could take him anywhere with never any fear that he would bite anyone or show any aggression. Other dogs he ignored when he was out, and my grand-daughter’s little flighty dog, he tolerated in a gentlemanly manner. He loved my grand-daughter and there was never a moment in the 11 years they knew each other, that I feared for her safety when she was near him. Of course I watched him carefully around her, not being a ‘dog person’, but there was never a need for any concerns.
He developed a problem with his back leg, as a result of falling through a cattle grid on one of his trips out west with my younger son. As he aged, the sore leg became arthritic, so I used to put him on anti-inflammatory pills until he came good again. I developed spurs in my heels and some planter membrane damage that stopped me from walking very far at all. From the front door to the car was an effort for many months and once the foot healed, my leg then gave me trouble because of the way I had walked for months whilst my foot was healing. So neither one of us was very fit anymore, and walks were few and far between. I wanted so much to take him for his walks, as I knew they were important for both of us, but I had no option; I couldn’t walk anywhere that I didn’t need to, as the pain was intense. About a month ago things improved and I started to take him on shorter walks than we used to do, and less frequently. I felt happy that we were once again starting to get back to doing something we both enjoyed.
On Monday 13 June this year, Scrubbie and I went to my daughter's home for a bbq lunch. It was a farewell bbq and early birthday get-together for my son (Missy's owner) who was leaving Sydney that week, with his lady, to start a new life in Western Australia, some 4,500 kilometres from Sydney where we live. We had a great afternoon, with everyone remarking on how well Scrubbie looked, and how fit he was. On Tuesday morning, after sleeping near the fire as usual, he went outside while I went to work. Nothing seemed amiss, just his usual 'oh no you are leaving' look. After working back a half hour that day, and having to go to the local shops for a quick stop to buy him some more biscuits etc., I arrived home to find him very ill. He walked very slowly to the back door where usually he ran, and when he came inside he fell on his hammock and didn’t move. I knew by his eyes he was sick. I went into terror mode, I didn’t know how long he had been like that, and I knew he was perhaps too ill to get himself out to the car and into the back seat to go to the vet. I also knew there was no way I could lift him myself as he weighed around 36 kilos and, being unable to move, would be dead weight.
I rang my daughter and she and my grand-daughter came over to help me get him to the vet. Before they arrived I had managed to get him to the car and onto the back seat. Somehow he found the strength to do what I asked of him, the same way he found the strength to come in from the yard to the house when I arrived home. The local vet had three options for me, two I wasn't interested in. The third was to take him to the Animal Referral Hospital at Strathfield and so that was where I decided to go. They carried him back out to my car on a stretcher from the clinic, and my grand-daughter sat in the back with him, patting him and singing to him all the way to Strathfield, which took about an hour. He was admitted as an emergency patient, and after speaking with the doctor and stressing that no matter what the cost, they were to do all they could for him, we said our farewells to a very sick boy, telling him to hurry and get well and come home. The doctors rang me often through the night with updates. I sat up for hours crying; the tears wouldn’t stop. I was broken hearted; I wanted to be with him and yet I knew it was best that I wasn’t. The hospital was like an emergency ward in any hospital, and there was nowhere for relatives or owners to go except in the waiting room. I also had my family to get back home again as it was getting late and a weeknight.
At midnight the prognosis had improved from a code red to yellow or orange. They had found a tumour on the spleen, and while it could have been operable, he developed an even more dangerous problem with his heart. The internal bleeding was not severe; he was not anaemic and his blood readings were good. He showed some signs of diabetes but nothing that couldn’t be treated. His heart rate was 300; they tried different drugs to bring it down through the night, and rang me often to tell me how things were progressing. By early morning he had taken a turn for the worse, and it was now imperative that the heart rate come down. The next call an hour later wasn’t much better; things were grim. Two hours went by with no word, and I rang out of desperation to know what was happening. I was told the doctor would ring me soon, as he was tied up with something and couldn’t come to the phone. Approximately an hour later he did ring to tell me that they had the heart rate down to 160, and Scrubbie had been sitting up while they were getting organised to take x-rays of his chest. He went into cardiac arrest and could not be revived. He died just before 9.00 Wednesday morning and I was not with him. I now have to try and live with the fact that I wasn’t there and that he died with strangers, something I would never have let happen if only the circumstances had been different. And yet I had prayed to whoever in those long lonely worrying hours, that if he couldn’t make it, his heart would give up so I didn’t have to make a decision that would break my heart even more than it was breaking already.
My daughter drove me to see him a few hours after he had gone, for the last time. He looked so peaceful sleeping. As I sat next to him, through my tears and heartache, I remembered vividly how, on the Monday night, he had been on the floor behind me while I was using the computer, snoring his head off. I loved to hear him snore, as I knew he felt so safe with me, as I did with him. The doctor told me how trusting he had been while they worked on him. My sweetie had tried so hard right to the end to do the right thing.
To say his passing devastates me, is putting it mildly. I have lost something precious from my life that nothing can ever replace. The safety I had, and the love I felt from Scrubbie, is something now missing. No more coming home to a wagging tail and a dog that couldn't wait to be let inside to lick me and cuddle with me. No more waking up of a morning to find him on his back on the lounge wagging his tail for a tummy rub. No more excitement when I lock the back door and he knew he was going either for a walk, or out in the car with me. No more Scrubbie.
May he rest in peace. He is not gone, he is just away, and will be in my heart forever and the hearts of those that loved him and mourn for him now.
I decided on cremation. I had a dream to take Scrubbie to a new life in the not too distant future to Western Australia. My promise to him I will keep. He will go with me, and when it’s time for me to depart this earth, my wish is for our ashes to be scattered together on the sea. Together forever.
Oh this just brought tears to my eyes, they are so faithful and loving to the end. Can I ever relate to what you went through, and the general mentality of Scrubbie. Beautiful doggie, just beautiful.
I've been around dogs all my life, and just adore them, as I know that if they could they would lay their own life down for yah.
ty for this heartwarming story, and if you don't mind, I feel inspired to write about my Sheppie that passed away three years ago, whom I called Hine HEE NEE, as I am NZ born and its polynesian.
Im totally besotted by this story, check in with you again soon. Take care and hope your eyes are ok.
Love Ch'erie
From Adelaide
I loved the story, I am both a cat and dog person with a psychotic cat named Goofy that lives with mmm I should say I live with him in a 1 bedroom apartment. (he thinks he is the owner, and I the pet) I would be devastated should he became ill and the thought of death is not even possible to imagine. This story is warm, fresh, and very charming!
Reviewed by April Smith
6/23/2005
Oh, boy, this brought me to tears. Only another animal-lover could know the pain you're going through. :-( I'm so sorry for your loss of Scrubbie, who sounded like a sweetheart. Losing a pet is losing an integral part of the family! Take care of yourself and thanks for sharing with us, April
powerful and heartwarming story in tribute to scrubber. may his memory forever live on! very well done!!
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in tx., karen lynn. :( >tears <
i know how it is to lose a pet...i lost two cats, "friday" and "ouizer" ("wheezer"), and i had to give up another ("cajun"), so i know the pain of which you speak! i shall never forget my furry babies! :(
An Australian Cattle Dog Named Scrubber
