Bella

“The bitch got pregnant again.” That’s how many dogs end up in the street. This is how I ran into what dog breeders would call a junk Rottweiler. Her pups, of which she had had several litters before, wouldn’t fetch the money worth driving them to a flea market. This much we can surmise. Why someone dropped her by a gas station, and sped off, we can only guess. What we know with certainty is that it happens often.

Waddling along and, dangerously, across Hwy 11 looking for her owner and for food she bothered no one, but Rotties have a bad rep, and some gas station customers managed to feel intimidated by a shy dog full of pups in her belly. With the local shelter filled to capacity, rumor had it that a sheriff ’s deputy would have to shoot her. Miles away from this unfolding drama, I was paying my bill at Southern Ag on Harvard. Almost by way of a good bye, the peerless store manager, Felicia, happened to mention the sad case of the dog up in Sperry. Alternative responses to a situation that begs for a more civilized solution than shooting a dog are: Most people shrug unconcerned; an exceptional few rush to the scene; or some of us reason that scores of similar dramas take place in Tulsa every day—hundreds of thousands in America—and because we can’t help them all, we do nothing. This case, however, begged for action: It was the day after Christmas, below freezing, severe thunderstorms in the forecast, the dog was pregnant… It was impossible to let it go. Arriving at the conclusion that it would be easier to attempt a rescue than to regret my inaction forever, I put some moist dog food in a plastic container, took a leash, a blanket, and some Vienna sausages for good measure and, at that point, my husband, Christopher –ensuring continued holiday cheer— wisely offered to drive. While heading north, we called every shelter and veterinarian near and far to weigh our options; there were none— every cage in NE Oklahoma was full. We arrived wondering what to do if we found her.

The gas station clerks had seen her that morning. Clouds were gathering while Chris looked around the trash bins and I surveyed the fields. Then I spotted a black, lumbering dog across, and headed for, Hwy 11. I hastened to cross before she did, walking around and past her at a non-threatening distance, heading away from the road, thus hoping to detour her. Once she started turning her head toward me, I squatted and placed the open food container toward her, but within my reach. Softly I called her, still squatting motionless and half-turned away from her line of approach. Eventually, as my legs began to cramp, hunger won over fear and she came. I let her gulp most of the food and then, hoping he wouldn’t panic, I slipped the choke collar around her neck. As one accustomed to people’s betrayal, she looked at me as if to say, “And now what?”

The dog was weary and almost in labor; she would not get up to walk to the car, which Chris had brought very close to us. One by one, however, the sausages got us closer to the door and finally inside the car. Having failed to set an appointment on the phone with any veterinarian, being southbound on Peoria anyway, we opted spur-of- the-moment for City Veterinary Hospital.

Setting aside the fact that certain people are capable of tossing a pregnant animal out of a vehicle, “Who among civilized folk could see her in such condition and turn her down?” we reasoned while keeping our fingers crossed. City Veterinary also was within walking distance of some liquor-serving establishments, whose services I would soon require.

Dr. Chet Thomas listened to a synopsis of the situation. Then I asked, “Can you terminate the pregnancy, spay her, and give her all the necessary shots?” He replied, “Terminate the pregnancy and then spay?” “Yes,” I answered. “I have no problem with that,” said the good doctor. Chris and I breathed with relief: All would be well. Eleven viable pups were prevented from seeing the light that afternoon. They didn’t suffer. And the only other good thing that can be said about it is that their mother wouldn’t miss them.

Is life preordained to be grim, miserable, or cruelly ended worth getting started? Opinions differ, but the statistics are clear: Had those pups been born, even if each and all were adopted, five or six of them would have died before their first birthday. Those who reached adulthood would have endured a series of ups and mostly downs while being passed on from home to home, ending up in a shelter in the best of cases. Cruelty investigators, police, and veterinarians could tell you of the fates of many others. The roads are also full of their corpses. The fact is that only one of the 11 was likely, just “likely,” to complete his natural life cycle with the first person to adopt him and to receive proper treatment throughout. One in 11, by the way, is an optimistic expectation.

Tens of thousands of pups and kittens born in the US each day must compete against each other for homes. From the moment they are born, one-third of them are surplus and killed –humanely or not— while still in the cute and bouncy stage. To the vast majority of the survivors, even if adopted, life is like Russian roulette.

To humane organizations or individual rescuers, terminating a pregnancy, far from being a capricious decision, is based on the premise that by preventing new births an equivalent number of pups or kittens already alive and self conscious are given a chance. One birth always comes at the expense of another life in a world of limited homes and even fewer responsible pet owners.

This is an equation, however, that should not affect the mother. Having survived against ominous odds, an adult dog or cat is an intelligent being, aware of self, the surroundings, and past experience, which entitles her to preferential treatment over the potential offspring. I knew of no 12 homes I could guarantee forever as if my own, but I did know of one: Lanette Dietz’, my niece, who named her “Bella.” Imagine that: Someone’s discarded junk dog becoming someone else’s “Beautiful” companion.