January 2008 a little dog was found in the street on Keystone Ave. and brought into Good Dog. Curious, I went into her room to see her. She peeked out of her crate at me, all eyes and ears, and I took no time getting her out to get a better look. Hesitantly she stepped out to greet me. I picked her up and petted her little head. She put her paw on my shoulder. Two days later I took her home.

Wearing a collar with a broken off clip still attached to it but no tags, I assumed she must have escaped from a yard close by where she was found. I made a flyer and posted them around that area, checked the lost dog listings in the paper, but had no luck finding her owner. After I took her to a vet I decided I didn’t want to: she had never been spayed, tested positive for whipworm and heartworm, and had severely neglected teeth. There was no question of whether I would get her treated myself, she had claimed me as her own when her tiny paw landed on my shoulder. With those big elfy ears, I called her Pixie. The Lou came later.

Corny as it may sound, we saved each others’ lives. We were both heartsick. She with those infernal worms, and I with grief; I had just lost my Dad a few months earlier and was still trying to get back to normal. Suddenly this little creature was there, needing me. But I needed her just as much to come back to life.

Two and a half years later, she is still my partner in crime. A little spoiled, still a little prone to run for it if she gets loose, but I always bring her back and forgive her. Because she would always do the same for me.

Article Written by Jenny Smith

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