My dog ​​Scrappy.

Welcome to the street prophets coffee time.
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On a walk last year. He goes crazy when he sees a leash, and his tail almost wags in the air.

We have four dogs and they have an interesting variety of sizes and personalities. The one in the image above is Scrappy. He is loud, barks at absolutely anything, sometimes eats things he shouldn’t, rolls around in nasty substances, can be obnoxious at times, and sometimes smells awful. He’s a bit crazy. I love it.

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He loved that dog hat so much he ate it when we weren’t looking at him.

Like most of our animals, Scrappy was a rescue. Unlike the others, by the time it was finally delivered to me, I was planning on stealing it. I was a budding dognapper; and if it hadn’t been delivered, I absolutely would have taken it.

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He and Cookie were very good friends. Their tails were wagging so hard they were fuzzy.

Scrappy, who was called Pluto (like the Disney character) at the time, belonged to my father. Who had his girlfriend’s puppy. Who got it for her four-year-old daughter. I have to assume the girlfriend had never had a young puppy before. She was dismayed to discover that leaving a young puppy locked up alone in an apartment all day caused all sorts of problems. Who knew?

So she brought the puppy to my dad. Who already had two dogs which he found it increasingly difficult to take care of. Dad was almost eighty, sick and growing frail. If someone had asked me, I would have advised repatriating Pluto with someone else. But of course no one asked. The only times I was asked anything was when dad wanted to take a trip with his girlfriend and needed a petsitter.

It was 2019. Dad had moved into the tiny one-bedroom house he placed on the property. I went out several times a week to check on him and clean up the old house. The idea was that my family and I would move in and I would be there to take care of dad. Like I had for his mom. Once the pup moved in, he was running around barking at my car, scaring me that I would run him over. And invites himself into the house to monitor my efforts. It took a while but we finally became friends. My children adopted it before me. I thought he was a little rude.

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His first day with us. He was a sad little boy.

Came the day my daughter and I arrived, and the puppy wasn’t there to greet us. I assumed he had come out of dad’s yard; the fence his buddies had put up was really a crap job. Dad’s other two dogs constantly escaped. We walked to the little house and saw that the puppy was actually there. Inside the fence. Looking very sad and moving slowly. Dad came out to talk. The puppy approached and dad picked it up. That’s when we saw what was wrong. The little guy had been shot.

He had a hole in his right rear leg that was clear. Somehow he had missed major tendons, bones or arteries. But it was ugly, and clearly hurt.

Between when I left the day before and after dark, the pup had come out, walked into someone else’s yard, and been shot. I asked dad, do you want to take him to a vet? Do something for him? His answer surprised me. No, he wouldn’t. The dog should take care of it. The dog had to learn to respect the property of others. Yes, he really said that. I blurted something like for God’s sake it’s a puppy! What is he ? Four, maybe five months? How is he supposed to get anything out of it? Other than that, are you going to let him suffer? I was so angry that I momentarily forgot that my father had developed dementia; I lit in him. It was a mistake.

I begged and begged him to let me take the puppy. Dad didn’t have it. I left angry. I was mad at my dad and mad at myself. For being stupid enough to try to argue and reason with someone with dementia. Then I was mad at myself for not grabbing the dog and taking him away. It wouldn’t have been so difficult. I told myself no, because I wanted to stay on good terms with my father. Maybe that was partly true.

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Sporty pink veterinary scarf.

Anyway, I spent the rest of the day fuming and thinking about how I was going to keep Daddy’s dog away. And take care of it myself. I had actually decided to steal this pup if the begging wasn’t working when the phone rang. It was my father. He looked old, tired and sad. It hurts to hear. I apologized for going off on him, and he said no, I was right. And that he was bringing the dog to me at that time.

And he did. While on his way, it finally occurred to me that I was nearly broke and the next payday was a week away. I decided not to worry about it and to do what I could for the next few days. My son offered to ask his boss for an advance on his salary; I will always be grateful for that. My daughter helped me give the pup a desperately needed bath. And we picked a name for our newest family member. After all, it wasn’t like he actually came when you called “Pluto.”

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After a few weeks it was healing well, closed and covered in scabs. I left the bandage. Now there is only a small, narrow, hairless scar on each side. You would probably never notice it if you didn’t know where to look.

That first night I applied some bacitracin and wrapped it in gauze. The next day I received the veterinary dressing and a wound care product called EMT, which is recommended for gunshot wounds among other things. It’s incredible. The first week, I carried him outside to do his business; to his credit, he’s only poked into the house once. He spent most of his time near me. I introduced him to the other dogs, but didn’t let them play together. I kept it as clean as possible and, yes, I used the healing “vibrations” that I possess. The puppy ate, healed and grew. Eventually, he thrived. By the time we were able to get an appointment with the vet, he was well on his way to being fully cured. I have cared for several animals over the years; Scrappy is, and probably always will be, my biggest hit.

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Hanging out on my bed.

My kids chose the name Scrappy because they are Scrappy-Doo fans. Yes, the boring cartoon character. I accepted because for me, the word scrappy means a tough client, a fighter. The one who bounces back from adversity and comes out stronger.

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If you look closely you can see the small scar on his back leg. I tell him that makes him look harsh.

He always sleeps next to me. Last summer, he woke me up one night around two in the morning, growling and growling. I was so pissed off! Until I turn on the light and see a snake on the ground. It was a king snake, and harmless, but he didn’t know it. (I grabbed him with a pillowcase and pulled him out) My smelly, loud, omnivorous little hero was ready to fight for me. The boring little prick. I love it.

We really don’t deserve dogs.

Thanks for the reading. This is an open topic, all topics are welcome.