Miracle Dog!

Miracle Dog!

by Tom Woodard

We're dog lovers, and now have three dogs, two Dachshunds and a German Shepherd mix. But back on Father's Day, 2006, we had just one Dachshund, Scooter. Scooter was a character, to say the least, and like most of his breed, he was stubborn, hard-headed, independent, and feisty.

Scooter also had the largest vocabulary of any dog I have ever known, and I've known hundreds of them. They say dogs only have about ten "words" or sounds in their vocabulary, but Scooter had at least fifty! One of the funniest was that he made bird sounds!

On Father's Day, 2006, Scooter had been a member of our family for about two years, and to say the least we were very fond of him. His antics kept us constantly entertained. On that fateful day I was out in the front yard, cleaning out a flower bed which had become overgrown. Angie had just come out on the porch and noticed that Scooter had crossed the street with Angel, the German Shepherd. This was a strict "no-no" for Scooter, and I called out "Scooter, get your butt back over here." Well, being the independent cuss that he was, he would normally have just ignored me, but this time he immediately obeyed, heading back across the street.

As soon as I hollered at Scooter to come back, I heard a car coming, and immediately started yelling at him to go back, but he just kept walking across the street, not looking left or right. It happened so fast: in an instant an elderly lady in a Jeep Cherokee was upon Scooter, who kept right on walking - right into her right front tire. The Cherokee ran right over his head, flipping him over violently with a sickening thud of a sound. Scooter lay perfectly still, not even trembling. He was dead.

Angie was beside herself, screaming and crying, but I, having grown up on a major highway, and having lost more dogs than I could count by way of being hit or run over, just walked out into the street and picked him up. When I got to him his eyes were fixed and glazed over. There was no heart beat and no breathing. A massive amount of blood was in his mouth, and ran down my arm as I carried him.

I walked back to the house and sat down on the front porch, rocking him gently in my arms, Angie all the while in hysterical grief. The dear old lady who had hit him turned around and came back, got out of her vehicle and came up to me, expressing great sorrow, which was clearly genuine. I told her repeatedly that it wasn't her fault - that he had walked directly into her path and beneath her tire. She left, grief stricken that she had killed our little dog.

Well, I just sat there, continuing to rock him in my arms, by now covered in blood, for about six minutes. I had one hand supporting his chest, underneath, with my hand wrapped around his rib cage. Suddenly, my hand spassomed, causing my fingers to contract against his ribs, and I began to notice that he was faintly moaning. He was alive; I had accidently restarted his heart. But having had his head run over, I knew he had been accidently revived for no good purpose, and felt guilty for it. He couldn't possibly live for long with an injury like that. Angie, however, seeing that he was moving, started calling veterinarians. Meanwhile, Scooter's moan became louder and louder, and ultimately became a horrible howl, as he was suffering terribly from the pain. It was heart-wrenching, to say the least.

Angie called several vets in Tuscaloosa, each one, in turn, explaining to her that there was nothing they could do: he was going to die anyway. I also kept telling her it was no use; that he couldn't possibly survive. Nothing I or the vets said could dissuade her, however, and she kept calling. Finally she called a young vet, just out of veterinary school, in Greensboro. She said for us to come on over. Angie was too shaken to drive, and I had Scooter in my arms, so our neighbor, Jerry, drove us, with me in the front seat, holding Scooter, and Angie behind me.

When we arrived, we came face to face with a freckle-faced country girl, with a sure-nuff country accent, and skinny as a rail. Looked like a Pollyanna, not a vet! But she checked Scooter out and said "I think he's gonna make it." I couldn't believe it! She told us he was probably not going to know us, or even himself, and would be disoriented, blind, and filled with fear.

Boy, was she right! All of his vision was gone for awhile, and then he could only see straight ahead. He was terribly unsteady on his feet, and when we took him outside he would only walk in a straight line, for a short distance, and then stop and just feebly stand there. He was so crazed that he would bite us if we tried to pick him up, and we had to purchase a pair of thick leather work gloves, with gauntlets up to the elbow, just to be able to safely handle him. He did not know us or his home. It was pitiful and depressing, and wore on both of us, but especially Angie. Week after week it was the same, and we began to believe we were going to have to put him to sleep, but we just kept on working with him, now with not much hope, tired and heart-sick.

Then, after four weeks, he began to show little signs of recovery. His vision began to improve, so that he could see from side to side, and he seemed to be beginning to come back to himself. He was still very fearful, tho, and still subject to sudden panic attacks of fear, when he could bite you in a heartbeat, not in agression, but in fear. He would show signs of his old self, but we had to be very careful to approach him from the front, and be sure he knew we were there before trying to pick him up. After that first month, however, progress came quickly, so that in a few weeks more, he was essentially Scooter again. And after a full year, he was totally recovered, having, as the only signs of his fatal accident, half of his right upper canine tooth snapped off, and white hair on his left front foot, where the tire had run over his foot and torn the hide off of it, replacing the tan hair that was there before. Not that Scooter doesn't have issues; he does. But he is ninety-nine percent our old Scooter, and we hope that he is with us for many more years to come. He recently turned five, in human years, and Dachshunds are known for long life, so perhaps he'll outlive me!

We still call Scooter Miracle Dog, or, sometimes, Lazarus. He is, indeed, our miracle dog! And for that we thank our Lord, who is the author of miracles, and gave us this one, I believe, to strengthen our faith. It hadn't been long since Michael, my nephew, had died in a motorcycle accident, and we were still mourning his loss. If building and restoring our faith was His reason, it certainly worked!

Thank you, Father, for our Miracle Dog. Thank you for Scooter.

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