By Susan Tweit
At the Post Office recently, someone asked, “How’s your Great Dane? I haven’t seen her in a long time.”
I had to clear the lump from my throat before answering: “She died more than two years ago.”
Some dogs stick in your heart. Isis, named for the Egyptian goddess of wisdom and beauty, lives on in Richard’s and mine.
Partly it was her size: She outweighed me by around 20 pounds; when we were walking together, my hand rested comfortably on her shoulders and her head reached above my waist.
Partly, it was her looks: On her good side, she was elegant in stark black and white coloring as if wearing a shiny satin black tuxedo with the jacket open to reveal a white chest and belly, and snowy white feet.
Partly, it was her story, written all over the other side of her body: The burn scars running from muzzle to tail, leaving large purple expanses of bare, puckered skin, the shrunken shoulder, a spine with a pronounced ‘S’ curve.
Isis was rescued from a breeder who ran a puppy mill, confining her 85 dogs outside in ramshackle four-foot by-six-foot pens offering no shelter from the weather. (Isis shared her cramped pen with at least two other Great Danes.)
According to Animal Control officials, the place was horrific: the pens stinking of accumulated feces, and lacking drinking water, the dogs malnourished and many – like Isis – with untreated injuries.
Isis was a year and a half old then; at 70 pounds (around half of normal weight), she was emaciated with oozing burns and skin hanging in tatters. The first vet who evaluated her said flatly she should be put down, the second cried but thought she had a chance.
Isis was lucky: Six months of care later, she was healthy enough to adopt.
After we brought Isis home, our big dog shadowed us everywhere we went, from the bank two blocks away, to Richard’s folks’ house in Arkansas, where she spent hours snoozing on her giant dog bed while we helped with his dad’s hospice care.
At feeding time, she pranced in place, long legs nearly tripping over each other, and sang in her best “Roo-roo-roo!” voice. She mastered the art of spinning in joyous donuts in the living room – whirling as fast as she could in tight circles, nose to yard-long tail – and never broke a thing.
She went running with me at dawn, napped nearby while I wrote, and pranced beside Richard and me as we walked around town doing errands.
Isis made friends everywhere she went: little kids walked right up to her, nose to nose, and stroked her soft head. Old ladies cooed at her.
That’s the main reason why she sticks in our hearts. Despite her early abuse – penned up outside in all weather, starved, burned so severely she almost died – Isis loved everyone she met.
Her ability to forgive was an inspiration, her example of love and grace one that Richard and I will never forget.
Copyright 2009 Susan J. Tweit. Originally published in the Salida Mountain Mail.
Award-winning writer Susan J. Tweit is the author of 12 books, and can be contacted through her web site, susanjtweit.com or her blog, susanjtweit.typepad.com/walkingnaturehome
