BRIGHTEN A SHADOW,
A story of a Rescued Elkhound

She arrived late the night before Thanksgiving. It was cold and damp, the skies a midnight shade of grey. She, like the storm clouds that heralded her arrival, was a large grey ball of fur that waddled when she walked. Her long neglected toe-nails clicked with every step and the pungent odor she emitted indicated an immediate need for a thorough bath.

When Wylie, our athletic pup who was just reaching sexual maturity, smelled her, he jumped off of an eight-foot fenced deck to check out the new girl in town. Terrorized by the drooling, howling maniac that was chasing her, the fluff-dog escaped into the woods around our home. Wylie followed in hot pursuit. Despite the lateness of the hour and rain that had begun to fall, I was forced to join the chase through the undergrowth and retrieve the escapees.

It was not an auspicious beginning for a new relationship. The new dog was a rescued Norwegian Elkhound that my husband and I planned to adopt. Not only was she overweight and in need of physical care, she was scared and not outgoing like most Elkhounds. She also bore a sad, dark name that seemed to describe her. She was Shadow. My hopes fell. Could this possibly by my dream dog, "the one" I had been waiting to save for more than seven months?

The idea to rescue a dog came when my 12-1/2-year-old Afghan hound, Keisha, died suddenly of heart failure. Even in old age, Keisha had been a wonderful companion, so in her memory, I wanted to adopt an older dog that no one else wanted. I knew I could love and care for an aging dog. I believed that the relationship would make both the dog and myself happy.

Now the reality stood quaking before me, vastly different than my hopes. My heart sank with the knowledge that my dreams may have been wishful thinking instead of well-laid plans. With dread in my heart, I began the work of bringing Shadow into our home.

The first step was to bathe her before we could go to bed. Although this wasn't Shadow's idea of a great welcome, she accepted with grace the indignity of being drenched and scrubbed. After finishing, I put her to bed in a crate, away from us and the other dogs.

On Thanksgiving, the dogs were left alone for most of the day. Shadow in her separate room, must have been the loneliest. When we returned home, she looked at me with sorrowful eyes as if to say, "Is this all a new life has brought me?" I felt badly for her, but could not bring her into the pack since she had started to show signs of having kennel cough.

While she recovered from the bronchial infection, I isolated Shadow from the other dogs in an upstairs room. Soon she began having difficulty climbing the stairs and she leaked puddles of urine in her sleep. An exam by the vet revealed severe dysplasia in both hips, plus an old but poorly-healed break in her pelvis. Her teeth showed extensive signs of wear and the vet estimated her age to be at least 12. Rescue volunteers had been told that the dog was only eight years old. I was overwhelmed. So many problems, so much care would be required, and for what? Shadow was more ghost than companion.

I felt guilty for being disappointed. I tried to compensate by spending time combing out her matted undercoat. Once when I accidentally pulled her fur, she snapped at me. I started to sob, reminded of Abel, the young rescue dog we had recently lost to a health-induced aggression problem. The painful memories and heartache were too much; I couldn't bear to go through a similar scenario again.

Hastily I decided to turn Shadow back over to be placed in a different household. But there were too many dogs in foster care and rescue couldn't accept her. It was suggested that I show her at a pet adoption fair in hopes that someone would feel sorry for her and take her home. Who would adopt such an old, sick dog? Christmas was less than two weeks away. Who would have the time to care for her during the year's busiest season? She had already been ignored, neglected and shuffled through too many kennels in a short time. I couldn't add to her sorrows. My gift to Shadow would be to give her a healthy, happy home for the holidays.

I talked with Shadow and tried to explain to her how I felt and what I planned to do. She looked at me in response. In her beautiful face I saw the promise of my dreams. "If you give me a home, I will please you, and love you, and be happy for both of us," she seemed to say.

The holidays passed and Shadow stayed. She joined the pack, eating and sleeping with the other dogs, and us. She followed me from room to room, a quiet shadow wherever I went. When I sat at my desk, she would sleep beside me. When I came out of the bathroom, she was by the door, waiting. Although she always wanted to be near me, she didn't seem to enjoy our companionship. She appeared to have settled in and been accepted, yet she had never wagged her tail. I wondered what was missing.

One day while I was fixing a glass of ice water for myself, Shadow came to the refrigerator and stared at me with an expectant look in her eyes. I asked, "Would you like an ice cube?" She answered by licking her lips. I fished a cube from my glass and gave it to her. She started to run from the kitchen with her prize, but stopped turned her head back toward me and gave me a brief wag of her tail! I was elated. Maybe she would like it here. Maybe we could like each other. Maybe this relationship had a chance after all. My hopes were revived. As the months passed, I took care of Shadow's needs. I brushed her, fed her, took her to the vet. Sometimes I stroked her fluffy fur, sometimes not. Something was still missing.

I made a mental list of Shadow's attributes: comes when called (unlike other Elkhounds); obeys without question; never tears anything up; doesn't get in trouble; sleeps when I want to take a nap. She was grateful for her care and easy to please. She was friendly with strangers and loved people. She put her halter on herself for walks, she heels off-leash and automatically sits when you stop. Shadow had earned her Canine Good Citizen and Therapy Dog titles. And Shadow wagged her tail most of the time now, even when I gave her a bath. Her only fault was a continuous barking while preparing her meals.

I cared for Shadow, I liked her, I was glad to have her company, but even with all of her positive points, I didn't believe I felt the intense, committed love for her that I did for my other dogs. I wanted to love her the same way. Why didn't I? The answer didn't come until almost too late...

Shadow is somewhere between 14 and 15 now. Recently she has had several age-related illnesses and injuries. She's developed cataracts and her arthritis has worsened, making it difficult for her to get up without help. More days than not, she lies sleeping at my feet, disinterested in the activities around her. She seldom comes to the kitchen for ice cubes anymore.

It is difficult to watch Shadow grow old. To protect her from injury, like her first weeks here, she is sleeping in a separate room again. I miss her presence and the sound of her breathing in the night. There are things she can no longer do and I miss the part of her that is already gone. I will miss her annoying bark when she is no longer here for me to fix her meals.

As it suddenly dawned on me that Shadow's days were coming to a close, I sat and held her and cried. I knew then that I loved her and dreaded losing her. I realized that what had been missing from our relationship all along had been me. Even in her fading presence, Shadow still gives all of herself that she can. She loves me unconditionally despite the short length of time we have been together. Her peaceful nature calms me when I am upset. The only demand she ever makes of me in return is a little love, which I gladly give.

This rescued dog -- that at first sight I thought I might not want -- has shadowed my life with brightness, a blessing like grace that follows our footsteps but is seldom noticed.

When she is gone, I will remember how she loved me before I knew how to love her. And I will remember how she loved ice cubes. Every time I prepare a cold drink, I will look to see the ghost of her bright shadow wagging a happy tail by my refrigerator.

I love you Shadow, then, now and always. ------ "Thank you" to the rescue program and caring volunteers that brought Shadow into my life. copyright 1998 by author