More Than Your Diagnosis
They told us she was going to die.
But we could have her if we wanted. If not, they’d just put her down.
She wasn’t even expected to last the night.
When we found her, a coal-like blip in the middle of a green meadow, long hair matted into peanut butter and barely breathing, the ground was thawing from the night before. Late September in Michigan isn’t particularly forgiving, and it was a “miracle she held on this long,” the vet said.
When we picked her up from the animal hospital, she had to be carried to the car with a bag of pills and insulin. But at least she was dry and you could tell she was a dog. A black one with thinning hair like fragile yarn. Blind, mostly, with two cloudy, bloodshot eyes.
Our other four rescues, we thought, won’t know how to take her. Hopefully, they don’t trample her. Either way, she’s ours.
May, we named her — because my wife insisted she looked like a May — didn’t move much those first few days. She wouldn’t come to me at all, but she’d nestle up to my wife when she got the energy. Shockingly, four bulldozing beasts sniffed, stared, sniffed some more, and just let her be.
For about a week.
After that, all bets were off. When it was time to eat they bum-rushed the kitchen and May always seemed caught in the crossfire. When it was time to navigate the backward, she galumphed down the deck stairs, usually head first. And when the other dogs wanted to play, they’d antagonize the blind ole’ Shepard until she forced a mean spirited, and complete harmless, “Yip.”
Unbelievably, within about 10 days of finding her left for dead on the side of the road, May got better. Her hair thickened like a loaf of bread baking in the oven. Once oil spill black, it shined with silvers and browns and grays. Almost fashionable. Elegant.
Another ten days after that, May ran. It was clunky, how you imagine a robot to run with one leg longer than the other, and it took a lot out of her, but she ran. With four other dogs, all bigger and younger and ruthless, May tried her best to keep up.
That was two years ago.
Today May is still with us. The vet tells us it’s because of the diet and medication, but I know better. It’s because of her relentless brothers and sisters who don’t see age, ability, disease, or history. All they see is a dog. And all that means to them is play. If we didn’t have a house full of canines, in my opinion, May wouldn’t have made it.
And if you don’t have a community that sees more than your diagnosis, your history, your past, you won’t either.
