The Miniature Schnauzers
There is comfort for dogs in small spaces. Yet, there are other reasons for this behavior. The most common reason is fear. Your dog may be fearful of the area they are in because of loud noises, thunderstorms, strangers, abuse, or experiences in the past that bring about fear.
The two small dogs cowered in the far corner of the large kennel. I knelt down and cooed gentle words of encouragement. “Come little ones. Would you like to have your ears scratched? Or maybe your chest rubbed? It’s okay. No one is going to hurt you.” The girl shifted a little away from her brother. She trembled forward, belly to floor. Even so, her tail wagged a few tentative times. She stopped opposite me, behind the barrier, still quivering but willing to risk whatever fate awaited her.
The breeder, Beth, was devastated. For the first time in her career, a dog that she had placed with a family had been returned. And not just one dog. Two. A couple bought the pair as showpieces. Purebred miniature schnauzers. One salt and pepper. One black and silver. But, they didn’t have time for pets, especially eight week old puppies. Both worked. Both had busy social lives. All day, and often in the evenings, Sonny and Cher were kept separated in two small kennels. Later they were punished for behaving as all young dogs do.
It was the black and silver dog, Cherish Me, that approached us. We had no intention of owning two dogs. We had spent a long time researching dog breeds, had decided on size, weight, and personality. We calculated the costs: food, grooming, medications, veterinarian visits, unexpected emergencies. Our decision: one dog, twenty pounds or less, non-shedding, always ready for a walk. We attended a dog show to check out the three breeds that we had settled on. We met Beth there and learned that she had puppies that would soon be old enough to be adopted. Thus, Algernon joined our family.
A month or so after the adoption, we stopped to visit Beth on our way north for a vacation. It was during that visit that we met the mistreated puppies. Before we left, we had agreed to retrieve Cherish Me on our return trip.
We had changed Algernon’s kennel name because we liked the fact that Algernon means a “moustached man.” Further, the dandy by that name in The Importance of Being Earnest always makes me smile. We never re-named Cherish Me. The moniker suited her perfectly. Cher asked for nothing except to be loved.
When we brought our first child home from the hospital, I laid the infant on a receiving blanket in the middle of the living room rug. Then, my husband and I invited Algie and Cher to come and meet their new brother. They sniffed and licked and wagged their approval. Over the next eight years, two more babies arrived and were introduced in the same way. The canine brother and sister took equal pleasure in welcoming these new additions to the pack.
In one of our longest-lived-in houses, a short passageway lead from a ground floor bedroom into a bathroom. A small closet punctuated the right hand wall. Thunderstorms, firecrackers, construction trucks, and sirens terrified Cherish Me. We piled cushions and blankets on the floor in the small closet. Cher created a nest in the deepest corner. I closed the doors on each side of the little hallway and, in almost total darkness petted and whispered reasurances to the frightened pup. For some of us, people and pets alike, a dark small world soft with love and comfort is our safe place.
When Algie grew old and unwell, Cher lay beside him and licked away his pain. Given the opportunity, she would have been a wonderful mother. With the vet’s help, we allowed Algie a dignified death at the age of thirteen.
After a time of grieving, I suggested we get a puppy for Cher to “look after.” Along came Quinley, a salt and pepper male miniature schnauzer—just like Algie. Cher’s spirits lifted and, although she couldn’t keep up with her new charge, for two years, she tenderly mothered her little companion.
Cher had a fatty tumour on her chest. By the time she was fifteen, it had grown to the size of a grapefruit. When it started to shrink, we learned that her failing body was feeding off its fat. In time, her back legs refused to negotiate stairs. We picked her up to convey her outside.
Why was it so much harder to allow Cher to die? Perhaps because she needed us more than Algie. She seemed to know that we had “saved” her. That we were the right people to take her into our lives and into our hearts. When her quality of life deteriorated further, we had to let her go.
In spite of the few harsh weeks near the beginning of her life, Cherish Me died a happy, fulfilled and much treasured little dog.