Blaze

A couple of years ago, I noticed a stray mutt running around the woods near our house. I watched for her, but our other dogs chased her off. Well, a couple of weeks later, I was on my way outside, when I again see the dog on top of our feed cans, searching for food. When she saw me, she ran. I quickly locked all of the other dogs in a pen, and then got a pan of food. (I was 12-13ish at the time, so I wasn’t exactly smart for messing with a stray, but just listen. It turns out good) I shook the bowl and called “Here pup,” a couple times, and she eventually slunk over. She was as thin as a rail, probably 20 pounds underweight. I could count every rib in her body, and her skin was merely stretched over her bones. She looked up at me while eating, and feebly…almost fearfully wagged her tail. I managed to get her to follow me partway to the house, and then she even let me carry her the rest of the way. (Thank God she didn’t bite my face off) I put her in a kennel and got my mom, and together we washed her up. We must have pulled 15 ticks off of her, and the fleas…don’t make me get started with the fleas. Well, I was the only one that could go near her with her growling, and she was especially afraid of my dad. She didn’t like men. She was full of worms, weighed around 30 pounds, was as mangy as a rat, and terrified as an abused animal.

Today, I go outside to do my chores. I snap my fingers, and a tan-colored pit-bull/mutt dog runs up. She has a stick in her mouth, and is just begging to play fetch. She fairly jumps and spins in the air playfully as I pick the stick up. I toss is, and she charges after it, bringing it back for another. As she romps about, I hear one of my favorite sounds: her collar clinking as she runs. Her collar isn't a symbol of bondage, but an amulet of protection, giving reassurance that she has a loving home.

Tonight, I lay in bed. I hear a huffing sound at the foot of my bed, and see a pink nose poking my covers. A second later, the same dog jumps up on the bed and curls up on my feet. I sigh, and remember when we first found her; two years ago.

Blaze.

She weighs 50 pounds. Her coat is shiny and no longer flea ridden. She doesn’t inhale her food, as if it was her last meal. She doesn’t cower in the corner at the sight of a man. She doesn’t eye us with fear, waiting for a chance to run. There’s not a parasite in her, nor a flea on her.

She loves me. She loves our family.

But to this day, she will run and hide if someone raises their hand in a threatening motion, holds up an object that could inflict pain (flyswatter, broom, rope, belt, etc.) or a model gun. She won’t forget whatever was done to her.

My dog; I saved her life, and she makes mine.

(She's been playing in the sprinkler, so that's why her ears and face look wet.)