You can’t change a dog’s past,
but you can rewrite the future.
– Agnes Carass
Looking out any window of our house, I’m bound to see one or more of the dogs that live at our Hutterite community in southern Manitoba.
The dogs are all shapes, sizes, colours and breeds: collie, terrier, poodle, German shepherd and American bulldog, to name a few. Most are mixed breeds, with maybe one or two purebreds.
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These canine creatures can be seen playing with each other or the children, chasing birds or snoozing under a tree.
I always find it interesting how some of them hang out around the school during the school year. They obviously love the children as much as the children love them.
Each dog has his or her own tale as to how they came to live in a Hutterite community. Rowley, a fairly big American bulldog, sported a beautiful beige coat, coffee-coloured eyes and a nose that looked like someone had pushed it in.
In summer 2016, one of the families in our community wanted a dog, although they weren’t sure what type or even where they’d get one. The dreams and plans of this family never included the kind of dog that ended up joining them.
One summer day, the parents were coming home from Winnipeg when they noticed something strange in the ditch. Curious, they stopped to take a look. As they walked toward it, they first thought it was a pig. They knew there had been an accident involving a semi-truck hauling pigs a few days earlier, and thought it could have come from that truck.
On closer inspection, they saw it was a dog — a very sick looking dog. Its hair was mostly gone, its body was full of sores, there was yellow stuff coming out of its eyes, it had mange and was barely alive. Add a strong stench to all that and the flies having a field day.
Many people would have departed quicker than they had arrived. However, this couple felt compassion and couldn’t fathom leaving a suffering creature to die in a ditch.
As gently as possible, they wrapped it in a sweater they had bought that day and carried it to their vehicle. At home they laid the dog on a rug on their back porch. Surrounded by shrubs and flowers, the covered porch was a pleasant place for a convalescing pooch.
None of the kids were very excited about this turn of events.
“It doesn’t even look like a dog,” said Fern, the youngest daughter. Some thought it looked like a kangaroo. Why would their parents even bring the thing home? Yes, they wanted a dog, but not an ugly, smelly, half-dead, rescue mongrel! Oh well, perhaps it would die. Then they could get a real dog.
But since they had been raised to show love to all of God’s creatures, the children helped take care of the dog. First, it had to be quarantined because of the mange. In a week or so, rehydrated, well-fed and cared for, they were astonished to see that the dog started to improve, and before long the sores healed and its hair began to grow back.
Slowly but surely, he had nosed his way into their hearts. One day they were discussing names for their pet.
“How about Pigler,” Lee jokingly suggested.
“Absolutely not!” the girls chorused.
They didn’t think much of that idea, since they wanted to forget what he first looked like. Finally, they agreed to name him Rowley, after a character in their mom’s favourite movie, Diary of a Wimpy Kid.
The family never found out who ditched the dog, but certain signs indicated Rowley had been abused. Whenever he saw someone with a broom or big stick, he ran away to hide. This made them love him even more.
Rowley seemed to love everyone on the colony, even those who didn’t particularly like him. He especially loved the family who had nursed him back to health and gave him a new lease on life. He loved to lick them, especially their feet. Upon researching this behaviour, they learned that this was the dog’s way of showing gratitude.
The newest member of the family was a very emotional dog who sometimes came home pouting after a scuffle with one of the other dogs on the colony. He enjoyed playing tag around the house, playing outside with his four-legged, furry friends, Mia, Lucy and Jasper, or snoozing in the shade on hot summer days.
But best of all, he loved to join Fern when she took golf cart rides around the colony after a long day working in the garden. Rowley knew Fern reserved the spot right beside her for him, and sat there like the proudest pooch of the pack. He also knew, when he jumped off for an impromptu swim in the lagoon, that he had to go in the back or run home.
One of Rowley’s favourite activities was swimming in any body of water, lagoon, river or swimming pool. It didn’t seem to matter that as an American bulldog, his centre of gravity was around the torso, which made it hard for him to float properly and keep his head above the water. His stubby nose didn’t help either.
Then there was the day he leisurely ambled around the colony. His stroll led him to an open door at the communal kitchen. A tantalizing scent met his twitching nostrils. Thinking the door may have been left open especially for him, he followed his nose right to the bakery. Before the bewildered bakers could react, he had snatched a few fresh buns from the table and high-tailed it back out.
After a few years, arthritis slowed him down considerably. I always felt sorry watching him with the other dogs when he clearly could no longer keep up with their antics. The family, not wanting to watch him suffer, made the painful decision to put him down. They decided to wait until morning to tell Fern this sad news.
That night there was a thunderstorm. Fern heard it and hurried outside to check on Rowley, who got really scared when it stormed. Not finding him on his back-porch rug, nor in his dog house, she grew frantic running around in the pouring rain calling his name. Hearing the commotion, her mom came to the door and called her inside.
“I can’t find Rowley,” Fern said with a shaky voice.
“He’s gone,” her mom said quietly.
After the sad truth sank in, Fern slowly walked to her room, a sad mantra playing in her head like the haunting song of a mourning dove. Happy memories mingled with sad ones as she drifted into dreamland. No more Rowley licks. No more golf cart rides with Rowley as co-driver. No more games of tag.
Rowley’s final five years were happy ones, thanks to the people who adopted him. He took full advantage of interesting places to discover and romp through on our colony. Rowley, the rescue dog, will long be remembered by his adoptive family. In his own language, he showed that he believed every word of this poem:
I Am Rescued
You didn’t care how I looked or that I wasn’t a pedigree.
You showed me that I wasn’t disposable and that I was loved.
You brought back the sparkle in my eyes and the shine of my coat.
You restored my spirit so my tail can wag again.
You took a chance on me to see what I can become.
You gave me a place to call home and a family to call my own.
– Author unknown
