To the Truck Driver who Saved My Dog —
By: Lisa Patrell
Tags: Animal Adoptions, Animal Abuse, Dogs, Nonfiction, Covid 19

Gregory Johnston via Dreamstime.com

Thank you.

Her name is Venus now. I was told you called her Lady. I read in the adoption paperwork that she is seven years old, and that you got her when she was a puppy at a truck stop. As a short-haul trucker you work long days, logging hundreds of thousands of miles on I-75 from Detroit to Dayton and on I-70 from Pittsburgh to Indianapolis. Ohio is in the middle, where the two of you once lived.

California, Los Angeles more specifically, a junkyard exactly was Pippin’s place of origin. For nine years, he was my dog. I had named him Leroy until my family objected. Renamed Pippin, this dog matched his Tolkien namesake — full of good intentions with a skillset equally aspirational. Pippin’s ignorance of all things home and family was cute. When routine and repetition did not clue him in, we invented commands like “cha-cha.” Cha-cha means, “move out of the way; I’m trying to walk down this very narrow hallway carrying this huge basket of laundry.” We should have known that Pippin’s propensity, to stick closer to me than a shadow, was a face of anxiety. We should have known that a rescued junkyard dog could have PTSD.

We learned that one Sunday afternoon when Pippin launched himself at my teen son, who 30 minutes earlier had been sitting on the floor with Pippin stroking his side before going upstairs to do homework. What changed? My son had pulled his hoody over his head, as it was his study habit. When he came downstairs the hood was still over his head. Pippin saw a guy in a hoody; he did not see my son. (Thank heavens, the jaw I pulled open was clenched onto only fabric).

Hoodies were triggers for Pippin. Other triggers were candles flames, cooking on a stovetop, bathrobes if the belt was untied, balls, sticks, anything thrown, sudden noises, praise given in a raised voice, or entering a room where he was dozing. Ears flattened, whale-eyed, body tense from nose to tail meant Pippin’s next move would be all defense. His move usually was running away to cower in my office, but not always.

I made an end-of-life appointment with our veterinarian. (I had previously called the rescue agency but they made it clear that rehoming rather than rehabilitation would be the course of action). It is a credit to my children that I drove instead to a university animal behaviorist clinic and that Pippin returned home with me, albeit with a prescription for doggy downers and a muzzle. Neither drugs nor restraints would cure Pippin but they would slow him down enough for me to intercede and redirect. The professionals had assured me that Pippin identified me as the benevolent alpha to his fearful gamma.

It took two years of redirection and new associations for Pippin to become a family dog who was 90% predictable, 90% of the time. The remaining 10% kept me within Pippin’s physical sphere many of the hours in a week.

In the following years, Pippin learned that balls and sticks were games, meeting new people was fun, and family life was good.

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Venus has been fortunate. She has not been beat, tortured, or used as bait in a fight pit. Venus thinks all people are good. Being petted is divine. Games are fun. Car rides are interesting. Household noises are not threatening. Someone walking into a room is a reason to be happy. These are important things you showed her.

On the other hand, Venus regards house rules and obedience as optional. The command “Sit” is fine for a moment. The command “Come” is a maybe. Yet for a treat, it is a definite. She thinks my bed is her bed and her dog bed is unknown territory. Our leash is a tug toy. To these things I say, so what. I have the time and Venus has the temperament; we will refine family life together.

And I’ll take care of the bald spot on her left thigh, the skin tag the size of a teat that is rubbed by her new harness, the mats behind her ears, the tartar on her teeth. I’ll teach her to walk on leash; not to bolt through the door when I open it; that food on the counter is not hers. Venus has already learned to sit patiently as I prep her food; return reliably when I call her; not to chase squirrels while on lead.

You did the most important work of raising a pup — you loved her. Your love shows in the eager gleam of her eyes whenever she brings me her rope toy. Your love shows in the heavy lean she gives people when petted. Your love shows in the way she helicopters her tail when I return home.

Her name was Lady, but when I called her by the name you had given her, there was no recognition of it. Her life as Lady had been broken in a way that so many things have been broken during this COVID-19 year. Dear Trucker, your surrender paperwork answered why: eviction.

You may be one of many independent truck drivers who are out of work, because big agri-business would rather bury tons of potatoes with backhoes and because social distancing has made online shopping for all things preferred? It must be an expression of grief that the name ‘Lady’ is broken too.

Your sorrow is not balanced by my joy. Still, I hope you can take some comfort knowing your dog was adopted and that I am grateful. I love her now too.