Dog-sitting Miss Daisy
I generally try to avoid writing two pet-related columns in a row, but since my life has been going to the dogs lately, it’s hard to stray from the subject.
Just a few days after Furry Murry’s frightening adventure with raisins (which, if you missed reading last Sunday, I learned can be deadly to dogs), my brother invited our parents to a professional baseball game in Cleveland. Attending the game would require my parents to stay away overnight, which meant finding someone to watch their dog, Daisy.
Our South Charleston house is about 25 miles from where my parents live in Red House, so driving back and forth repeatedly to dog sit would be unaffordable, but since our new house has a large porch and fantastic back yard, we volunteered to keep their dog here. It was only one night. How hard could it be? Especially since Daisy’s so ancient that snails often whiz past her (along with the occasional Ohio driver).
My parents hate to leave Daisy. She’s had a hard life. A Winn Dixie look-alike (only shorter), Daisy was already well past her prime when they adopted her from the shelter. Although there’s no way of knowing her age, a vet recently estimated her at about 15 years old. That’s 105 in dog years.
Daisy, who is deaf and almost totally blind, also suffers from a neurological problem that affects her balance, so on the few times a day she stands and propels herself forward, she looks like she’s been hitting the sauce. Stagger to the left, totter to the right. Sit down harder than planned in a totally unladylike fashion. But, much like those who’ve been hitting the sauce, Daisy dotters around seeming blissfully unaware of her condition.
When my parents dropped her off Saturday morning, Daisy plopped down on the porch and dozed off. I woke her to eat and visit the yard, trying to anticipate the way of her wobble to help keep her steady. She would walk as little as possible, then drop down again for another long snooze.
Just before bed, I took the dogs out one last time. Once Daisy was safely back on the porch, I barricaded the openings with boards so she couldn’t accidentally fall off during the night. When I went inside, she was sound asleep close to the door and appeared to be out for the night. Which she probably would’ve been had I not turned off the light.
Now please, someone tell me–since when are dogs afraid of the dark? Especially dogs that can’t see? And since when is fear of the dark such a powerful stimulant that it can completely overcome a neurological disorder?
But that’s exactly what happened. Apparently, when Daisy woke in the dark, her level of panic was so high it empowered her to knock down the largest of my three barricades, travel down an incline, across our yard, through the woods, down a hill, over fallen logs and rocky ditches, through neighboring yards, until she came upon the one obstruction that slowed her–a street drain.
That’s where Norma and Johnny Bane of South Charleston come in. Thankfully, our new next-street neighbors were returning home around midnight when, after pulling into their driveway, Norma spotted Daisy’s face peeking out of the drain. While everyone at our house was sleeping peacefully, unaware of Daisy’s adventure, Norma and Johnny were calling one place after another trying to get help rescuing a dog from the drain. But no one would come. Finally, a few hours later, Daisy managed to scramble out of the drain on her own. The Bane’s ushered her onto their back porch, gave her food and water, and tried to calm her.
That’s when Norma looked at Daisy’s nametag and saw the address for Red House. Twenty-five miles away.
“It made me wonder how long that poor dog had been walking,” joked Norma.
“Fortunately, Daisy’s incredible journey ended just as well as did Murry’s. In fact, since her return, my folks report she’s more lively and spry. As for us, we’ve gotten to meet—and experience the kindness of–a few more of our neighbors, which helps make our new house feel like home.
