Pet Friends Magazine Emma's Story by Dee Blair

Emma's Story

by Dee Blair

Joe and I often visit our close friends and their strapping sons, who share their home with Emma, a beautiful two-and-a-half year old rotweiler/shepherd mix. Though delighted to see me she approaches quietly, breathes in my scent, then licks my hand, just once. Her tail wags gently. This beautiful chocolate and black dog has been terribly abused, but has managed to begin again.

This is her story.

Neighbors kept hearing barks from the abandoned house nearby. Sometimes a head could be seen gazing out one dirty window. Weeks later, when there was only silence, someone finally called the police.

Upon entry they saw bare, freezing rooms stinking of feces and urine. Where was the dog?
They found her in a back room, skeletal, standing in a corner with her head down, too weak to even tremble. She merely waited. When approached she avoided eye contact, turning her head toward the window, and daylight, past caring. They noticed her belly’s withered teats. She’d had pups, even that young, who’d vanished, along with the residents. This yearling dog had been kicked and battered, then discarded, like trash.

The animal shrank from the man, so his female partner sat on the floor nearby, making soft conversation. There was no response at first, but then she saw resigned acceptance in those dulled eyes. They gently wrapped her in a blanket and rushed her to the vet.

Emma was filthy, teeming with fleas and intestinal worms. Her body and ears had multiple wounds, indicating her short life had been brutal. Her coat was thin; fur fell out in patches. Offered clean water she looked fearfully around, but managed to sit up and lap. How long had it been?

After urgent medical attention, a warm deflea-ing bath and a meal of soft mash, this rack of bones was settled into a thick blanket in a roomy cage. Everyone fervently hoped for a miracle.

Weeks later she’d recovered enough strength to be evaluated. Her sweet disposition needed nurturing by a loving, patient family.

She entered her new home horrified by so many big, booted men. Rules and obedience commands were mastered immediately, to avoid upsetting anyone. Eating stopped because she wouldn’t turn her back, so her mistress fed her by hand, one morsel at a time. Meals took forever.

Eventually Emma understood that brooms just sweep, hands are gentle, and booted feet merely walk. Always.

Emma spends hours in her comfy bed-nest, placed so that she can look out at the countryside. She finds the view a constant delight.

Gradually she’s gained weight, and with it, some trust. She’s much more relaxed now, and eats on her own, head down, back turned. She loves deep snow, and is passionate about retrieving tennis balls hurled far into the vast white meadow by her family’s alpha male. She never returns empty-mouthed, though locating it might take awhile.

She’s even made a friend. Emma’s tentative teasing amuses Dexter, a large, easy-going apricot-and-white cat who keeps his sharp claws sheathed. The pair enjoys sharing space by the big wood stove, which keeps the farmhouse snug.

Emma’s becoming protective of her family, and, having found her voice again after nearly a year of silence, will bark- just once- when someone unfamiliar approaches the house. She doesn’t lunge or threaten, though she’s a big dog.

I love stroking her thick, soft coat. She holds my gaze for a really long time, before sighing. I believe it is from happiness. Emma has experienced the worst from humans, but has forgiven, and faces life with increasing confidence.

Best of all, she’s learning to love.

PART TWO: Emma-dog, Revisited

A cold nose announced Emma’s commanding presence. Joe and I entered our friends’ home with difficulty, as she was right there, filling the doorway. What a difference from just four weeks ago! Her greeting then, while warm, had been reserved. A shepherd/Rottweiler mix, she’d been rescued, barely in time, from starvation. Savagely abused the first eighteen months of her life she’d spent the past year learning to trade terror for trust, and finally, for love. Her skeletal frame and haunted eyes were an awful, but fading, memory. (Read my column dated 2-06-11.) Now her long tail—indeed, her entire hindquarters—wagged. I ruffled her luxuriant coat, and tweaked her ears. Emma gave my hands an appreciative wash.

She watched me remove my snowy boots, then escorted me into Sarah’s beautiful kitchen before ambling over to her bowl to drink, chomp a kibble or two, and sit among us, happy to be part of our laughter and chatter. The cat meandered downstairs; they touched noses. Dexter settled by the wood fire, and promptly fell asleep. Emma, though, caught my eye and returned to the front door. “Should I let her out?” The family issued a general chorus of yups.

Selecting an intact green tennis ball amid the graveyard of split, squashed ones scattered about in the snow she stared intently at the front window, motionless, knowing I was watching. She willed me outside.

Les came up behind me and remarked, “Emma’s dedicated to tennis ball retrieval. If you throw it she’ll charge down the hill to find it in meadow snow. Clap twice when she brings it back and she’ll drop it at your feet. The instant you reach for it, she’s off. Warning: she never tires.”

Ohboy. Intrigued, I hurriedly donned my coat and boots and went out into the late afternoon. Emma smiled as I approached. “Well,” I laughed, “lets do this!” She released her ball between my boots— and ran! I hurriedly grabbed it up and threw. By now she was halfway down the hill, looking skyward, plotting its trajectory. Plop! It rolled, bounced and buried itself. She snatched it from a deep drift and dashed back up to me. I clapped twice. There was a low moan of anticipation as she dropped it at my feet.

For 15 minutes I flung, before tiring. She was philosophical.

“Watch her,” Les prompted as I shrugged off my coat. Emma herself hurled the ball down the hill, then charged after it, pounced, then roared uphill again to throw it back down, over and over. Sometimes, after nailing it, she’d bat it around using her paws and long legs as hockey sticks, or leap straight up to land stiff-legged atop the frazzled ball, much as Dexter might toy with a mouse. Les chuckled. “Emma enjoys dropping it from the top of the stairs, then thundering down to grab it! At first we had no idea what was happening. It sounded like an earthquake!”

Darkness fell. She released the ball and waited by the door. We let her in to join Dexter by the fire. Socked feet stepped over the two dozing animals as we moved toward the dinner table. (Not long ago, Emma would have reacted with horror.)

“Sometimes, in the morning, we find Dexter asleep on Emma’s belly,” Sarah commented.

Once, during dinner, she stalked to the door, growling almost inaudibly. Somebody was walking down the road, a long way away. Les checked, said a soft word, and she immediately relaxed. No one comes near the farmhouse without her knowledge.

Emma is reborn. This beautiful dog’s happiness warms me to my toes.

SPECIAL THANKS TO SARAH DALGLIESH FOR THE GREAT PHOTOS OF EMMA!


	Emma's Story *by Dee Blair* Joe and I often visit our close friends and their strapping sons, who share their home with Emma, a beautiful two-and-a-half year old rotweiler/shepherd mix. Though delighted to see me she approaches quietly, breathes in my scent, then licks my hand, just once. Her tail wags gently. This beautiful chocolate and black dog has been terribly abused, but has managed to begin again. This is her story. Neighbors kept hearing barks from the abandoned house nearby. Sometimes a head could be seen gazing out one dirty window. Weeks later, when there was only silence, someone finally called the police. Upon entry they saw bare, freezing rooms stinking of feces and urine. Where was the dog? They found her in a back room, skeletal, standing in a corner with her head down, too weak to even tremble. She merely waited. When approached she avoided eye contact, turning her head toward the window, and daylight, past caring. They noticed her belly’s withered teats. She’d had pups, even that young, who’d vanished, along with the residents. This yearling dog had been kicked and battered, then discarded, like trash. The animal shrank from the man, so his female partner sat on the floor nearby, making soft conversation. There was no response at first, but then she saw resigned acceptance in those dulled eyes. They gently wrapped her in a blanket and rushed her to the vet. Emma was filthy, teeming with fleas and intestinal worms. Her body and ears had multiple wounds, indicating her short life had been brutal. Her coat was thin; fur fell out in patches. Offered clean water she looked fearfully around, but managed to sit up and lap. How long had it been? After urgent medical attention, a warm deflea-ing bath and a meal of soft mash, this rack of bones was settled into a thick blanket in a roomy cage. Everyone fervently hoped for a miracle. Weeks later she’d recovered enough strength to be evaluated. Her sweet disposition needed nurturing by a loving, patient family. She entered her new home horrified by so many big, booted men. Rules and obedience commands were mastered immediately, to avoid upsetting anyone. Eating stopped because she wouldn’t turn her back, so her mistress fed her by hand, one morsel at a time. Meals took forever. Eventually Emma understood that brooms just sweep, hands are gentle, and booted feet merely walk. Always. Emma spends hours in her comfy bed-nest, placed so that she can look out at the countryside. She finds the view a constant delight. Gradually she’s gained weight, and with it, some trust. She’s much more relaxed now, and eats on her own, head down, back turned. She loves deep snow, and is passionate about retrieving tennis balls hurled far into the vast white meadow by her family’s alpha male. She never returns empty-mouthed, though locating it might take awhile. She’s even made a friend. Emma’s tentative teasing amuses Dexter, a large, easy-going apricot-and-white cat who keeps his sharp claws sheathed. The pair enjoys sharing space by the big wood stove, which keeps the farmhouse snug. Emma’s becoming protective of her family, and, having found her voice again after nearly a year of silence, will bark- just once- when someone unfamiliar approaches the house. She doesn’t lunge or threaten, though she’s a big dog. I love stroking her thick, soft coat. She holds my gaze for a really long time, before sighing. I believe it is from happiness. Emma has experienced the worst from humans, but has forgiven, and faces life with increasing confidence. Best of all, she’s learning to love. *PART TWO: Emma-dog, Revisited* A cold nose announced Emma’s commanding presence. Joe and I entered our friends’ home with difficulty, as she was right there, filling the doorway. What a difference from just four weeks ago! Her greeting then, while warm, had been reserved. A shepherd/Rottweiler mix, she’d been rescued, barely in time, from starvation. Savagely abused the first eighteen months of her life she’d spent the past year learning to trade terror for trust, and finally, for love. Her skeletal frame and haunted eyes were an awful, but fading, memory. (Read my column dated 2-06-11.) Now her long tail—indeed, her entire hindquarters—wagged. I ruffled her luxuriant coat, and tweaked her ears. Emma gave my hands an appreciative wash. She watched me remove my snowy boots, then escorted me into Sarah’s beautiful kitchen before ambling over to her bowl to drink, chomp a kibble or two, and sit among us, happy to be part of our laughter and chatter. The cat meandered downstairs; they touched noses. Dexter settled by the wood fire, and promptly fell asleep. Emma, though, caught my eye and returned to the front door. “Should I let her out?” The family issued a general chorus of yups. Selecting an intact green tennis ball amid the graveyard of split, squashed ones scattered about in the snow she stared intently at the front window, motionless, knowing I was watching. She willed me outside. Les came up behind me and remarked, “Emma’s dedicated to tennis ball retrieval. If you throw it she’ll charge down the hill to find it in meadow snow. Clap twice when she brings it back and she’ll drop it at your feet. The instant you reach for it, she’s off. Warning: she never tires.” Ohboy. Intrigued, I hurriedly donned my coat and boots and went out into the late afternoon. Emma smiled as I approached. “Well,” I laughed, “lets do this!” She released her ball between my boots— and ran! I hurriedly grabbed it up and threw. By now she was halfway down the hill, looking skyward, plotting its trajectory. Plop! It rolled, bounced and buried itself. She snatched it from a deep drift and dashed back up to me. I clapped twice. There was a low moan of anticipation as she dropped it at my feet. For 15 minutes I flung, before tiring. She was philosophical. “Watch her,” Les prompted as I shrugged off my coat. Emma herself hurled the ball down the hill, then charged after it, pounced, then roared uphill again to throw it back down, over and over. Sometimes, after nailing it, she’d bat it around using her paws and long legs as hockey sticks, or leap straight up to land stiff-legged atop the frazzled ball, much as Dexter might toy with a mouse. Les chuckled. “Emma enjoys dropping it from the top of the stairs, then thundering down to grab it! At first we had no idea what was happening. It sounded like an earthquake!” Darkness fell. She released the ball and waited by the door. We let her in to join Dexter by the fire. Socked feet stepped over the two dozing animals as we moved toward the dinner table. (Not long ago, Emma would have reacted with horror.) “Sometimes, in the morning, we find Dexter asleep on Emma’s belly,” Sarah commented. Once, during dinner, she stalked to the door, growling almost inaudibly. Somebody was walking down the road, a long way away. Les checked, said a soft word, and she immediately relaxed. No one comes near the farmhouse without her knowledge. Emma is reborn. This beautiful dog’s happiness warms me to my toes. *SPECIAL THANKS TO SARAH DALGLIESH FOR THE GREAT PHOTOS OF EMMA!*