Saving Sarah

“My dog! Don’t leave my dog here!” My two-year-old son shouted earnestly as we walked through the small lobby of the Kent Animal Shelter. Looks from a couple at the front desk burned a hole through me as I shuffled my son towards the doors. “It’s ok, we’ll come back tomorrow,” I assured him as I got more dirty looks. “Whyyy?”my son pleaded.

Sarah, whom we had come to rescue, was not the dog that I had remembered. She was overweight (52 pounds to be exact). She smelled God awful. So much so that my eyes watered as she entered the room, and my mouth salivated as though I just might vomit. She could barely stand on her feet. Her legs buckled under the pressure of her weight. With her head hanging low, she hardly made eye contact and just blankly stared at the ground like Eeyore on a bad day.

Despite all of this, my son stroked her head and giggled. He willingly accepted her as his. I knew for certain we had to break her out of doggy prison. There was just one problem.

How were we going to get her home?

My husband and I had met Sarah a few years back. My uncle had called before coming over for a barbecue. “I hope it’s ok to bring my dog Sarah. I don’t go anywhere without my girlfriend.” he explained. It was unusual for him to go to social events, and this was his one condition for coming.

I remember her that day, nestled at his feet as he sat on our patio. She was friendly and welcomed anyone that would give her a scratch or a pet. Back then, she was healthy, her border collie fur shiny, and her eyes clear and alert. I loved her instantly (to put this into perspective, I love most dogs instantly.)

Four days before my best friend Heidi, my son and I hopped our superhero selves into the car to make our way to the rescue at the Kent Animal Shelter, I received an E-mail from my dad’s cousin. My uncle Mike had passed away in his home. Sarah had been the only one who had witnessed his passing.

Without someone to care for her, she was confiscated by animal control. When I called the shelter, the woman on the other end of the line said because she was an older dog she would be euthanized within a week if she wasn’t rescued.

After some discussion with my husband of the responsibilities and other important considerations that come with having a dog, we concluded that Sarah still had some good years ahead and that she did not deserve to have that taken from her. We were willing to host and care her for the rest of her natural time, whatever that was.

“What happened to you sad Sarah? Did you lose your person? It’s ok…You’ll be ok.” I coaxed her as I brought myself to pet her. I ran my hands over her heavily matted fur.

“I’m glad you came to get her,” the control officer said to me. “We were wondering if someone would.” She’s sympathetic as I told her that Sarah was my uncle’s dog.

Heidi and I took turns assessing her. Finally, she said “She is the most obese dog I think I’ve ever seen.” I knew the situation was serious when my friend, who follows countless Instagram pets including an exceptionally plump wiener dog, crowns Sarah as most obese dog she’s ever seen. “I don’t think she’s going to fit in your car.” she added.

I did the visual measurements of my Volvo backseat and factored in the car seat against Sarah’s girth in my head. She was right. There was no way she was going to fit.

Fully equipped with my friend’s car that contained an expansive back seat, we were ready to transport hefty Sarah to her new home that very next day. I felt the excitement rise as we made our way out of the doors of doggy prison with her. I was imagining welcoming her into our home, caring for her and for God’s sake getting the poor girl a bath.

Then I opened the car door.

“Jump up Sarah.” I patted the seat.

Sarah didn’t move. She stood in front of the opening and blankly stared.

“She can’t jump up there. We’re going to have to somehow lift her in.” Heidi concluded.

Let me tell you, getting a 127-pound dog who is dead weight and smelled like she just rolled out of the dump into a narrow margin between seat and car door then up onto the seat was no easy task. I thought I may slip a disk or two in my back as I heaved her back end up, gagging, while my friend pulled from the other end.

We finally got her in the car, rolled the windows down and made our way straight to the vet to have a serious consult to what we were getting ourselves into. Waiting in the exam room for the vet, Sarah’s heavy burdened legs slipped out from beneath her as if she were on a sheet of ice. She finally gave into the gravity of her weight and laid down on the floor.

After some blood work, extraction of fluid out of some fatty tissue lumps, and a thorough look over, the vet concluded shockingly that she needed to lose weight (we found out later that she was also prediabetic).

I was up for a challenge of taking the pounds off our new adoptee. My friend joined in on the task as well. She volunteered to help walk her while I was at work. It was almost as if we could hear the song “Eye of The Tiger” playing in the background as we left the vet’s office and came up with our saving Sarah game plan.

One year later, Sarah was a slim 78-pound dog. She was a whole new girl. She was sprite, spunky, and when she visited the same vet the next year, she pranced down the hallway as if to say, “Look at me now.” The vet couldn’t believe it was the same dog.

We had three years with Sarah. I still miss those sunset walks that I never would have taken without her, the way she would smile as she looked at me and the loving way, she leaned her body against mine.

What turned out to be a quest to save Sarah, in the end I realized that she saved me too in ways I couldn’t have ever imagined.