Maisy said she was "scared that he was going to kick her for weeing and she was only 8 weeks old but the Breeder couldn't give the money back and she had to be found another home immediately!" That is what Maisy said anyway. I drove down the M1 and returned with a little black fuzzy thing about the size of a tennis ball, with spiky hair sticking out all over and distinctive bits of long hair sticking up like rushes out of her huge pointed ears. They said she was a Schnoodle. There's no poodle in her, I assure you! Plenty of terrier. Now an adult, about as tall as my hand-span and only that because she has long legs which look like stalks. She is the bossiest dog I have ever had. She and her first offspring, demonstrate that they simply adore me and Maisy wags her whole body and sneaks with delight if I simply look out her. We are inseparable.
A phone call: My two incredible miniature poodles who had kept me from going under after a terrible bereavement, had died, just after Maisy had sent out her SOS. The phone call said:
"This may be too soon. But we've been given one of our poodles back in a state. She's a toy poodle, about four. She had a good home but we don't know what happened. She's been starved and hasn't any fur. She needs a lady owner who's in all day. We immediately thought you'd be perfect."
Poppy looked nothing like a poodle. Nothing like a dog. She looked like creased grey tissue paper bag wrapped round a carcass. Her eyes looked at me, more heart-breaking than I have ever seen. I took her and she nestled so closely to me that I could not see her by looking down.
Over the months, with a special diet and more food additives, she regrew her fur, and started to walk around behind me. She remained terrified of others and stayed hiding from them. The first time she barked, a year later, I cried. Then she came to me with the others when I called them to get treats and she began a little circling dance! I guessed she might have been taught this. Now, 4 years later, she barks, sings, tussles the others and is very much a poodle. Filled with Poodle bossy confidence she is an important part of the little pack.
Pancho was half the size of his five Chihuahua brothers and sisters who were getting mum's milk with gusto and pushing him out. His breeder was in depression and her family scared that, should he die, "she might just be too upset - you know?". She said he was "laid back". Actually he had given up. He needed feeding round the clock. He was as small as a mouse. Using a small banana shaped feeding bottle three times his length, which the Vet gave me, I tried to persuade him to suck. He spat out the nipple and instead became a soggy puppy-milk-bathed little "just like the cat brought in" creature. I was so scared I was making him cold and hastening his demise. The Vet had said, as he grows, add the milk to wet puppy food and let him try soup. In desperation on that first day, I added a small amount of milk to some puppy food, scooped it on my finger and began to hover my finger towards his pathetic little 5 week old soggy, furry head. With my finger about a centimetre from his tiny mouth, he suddenly gave a huge "shlrup" and all of the brown dollop went into his little frame. No coughing, no gagging, no chocking... I did it again... and again... I only stopped for fear of his getting tummy ache.
Two months later, I was still trying to persuade him that there are other ways to eat than being personally finger-fed by your devoted slave Hu-mum.
Pancho is named after Pancho Gonzales, the first to be filmed, Fighter for the rights of Mexican Peasants, who used to phone the US film Companies to say where when the next battle would start (it had to be when the sun was up - no lighting for films then - early days!)
He and Maisy immediately hit it off and played together with great joy. Maisy did make sure he knew she was in charge but Pancho didn't notice that. He actually has his own unique style and approach to life. He does what he likes.
Well, mine and Maisy's Pancho, may have looked the size of two very fluffy tennis balls, and the Vet might not have been able to find his balls, being that they were smaller than pin-heads early on... but before he was one year old, in one department he proved to be very advanced.
Maisy's babies, which the Vet said would be no more than 3, probably 2, arrived just before Pancho's 1st birthday. All five! Only two eventually took after Maisy in spiky hair-dos. The rest are, as children keep telling me, "so cute!" with silky long wavy fur.
Maisy had kept me up all night insisting I stroked her tummy. All night.
The first to arrive was in such a tight birth sack even Maisy's teeth couldn't penetrate it and neither could my special scissors, until I used my finger nail... out slid a large-walnut sized little black thing... I rubbed her sides hard with a face cloth, while over the phone the Vet said, "rub harder than you think you should"... Then she squiggled and turned! I put her to Maisy's tummy where the second puppy was already latched on and drinking. Maisy was busy producing number three of the five.
When the puppies were 6 weeks old I came in to the room to see Maisy curled up outside the puppy-pen making terrible little grunting noises. She had jumped over the puppy pen and caught her back mammary gland on the top of the pen (which had poking up bits - stupidly).
She was in agony and seemed to be dying. I rushed to the Vet in numbness. For a week Maisy spent all day at the Vets' coming home to sleep in my bed at night. Then Maisy's mammary gland died. The area, much larger than a 50p coin (and this is one of the smallest dogs) became black, necrotic. The Vets cut off the necrotic material. A huge red exposed area of Maisy's tummy was left with no skin and no skin to cover it. Only one option lay ahead. It had to heal itself. Every few hours I had to bathe it in saline. Maisy had antibiotics. Her puppies were taken to the homes of the Veterinary Nurses so they did not bother her. We waited.
During this time I decided that the little black puppy most like Maisy as far as you could tell was going to stay with me.
Then the first-born puppy showed sings of weakness when jumping up. I checked her. Yes, her right back leg seemed weaker. I would not let her go to anyone else in case they did not make allowances, she probably had a birth injury.
I continued to bathe Maisy as she squirmed around and I got soaked, and visit the puppies at the Vets'. Then Maisy was back in hospital again as she had become weak. I could hardly talk. Maisy was "that one dog" the Vet had said. He understood when I said "I know I shouldn't say this to you, but I can't tell you what Maisy is to me. She has literally saved me from going under. She is the very best friend I have ever had." He understood. He said "In life you get that one dog. The one who is part of you so much that they are you." He's such a lovely man! He understands me - like me he does not watch David Attenborough kind of animal films "in case any of them die or get abandoned." I cannot not even recover from an ordinary film about a Goat-Herder I saw years ago.
After 10 weeks of saline bathing, medication, and being so brave, Maisy's wound healed! She has a perfectly healed part of her body where the only clue is a missing nipple! It is hard to find a scar.
One day a man with whom I was at primary school came to my house. I was about three paces from him in my kitchen, he being through the door in the Dining room. Suddenly Snowdrop, the first-born, aged 3 months, began the loudest, most blood-curdling and piercing kind of whistling shrieks, such that I have never heard from a dog. I rushed to her saying "What happened? Did you see? What did you do?" He was right next to her, she was under the table absolutely terrified, shaking so much she was difficult to pick up. He walked very closely, slowly past me, smiling a kind of very pleased and satisfied smile. He did not say a word. I felt as if he were sneering at Snowdrop or me. He didn't answer any of my repeated questions "What happened? Did you see?" not even say "Is she alright?" He was pleased.
That night, he raped me.
Since that night, my little family of rescued dogs have truly rescued me. They have been my absolutely essential life-support. They sleep on the other side of my double bed. Well, more or less, as Snowdrop has an arrangement whereby she sleeps almost on my head. Without them I might not be alive today. We six are as one.
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