Momma Help

Let's start at the start. Four years ago I went to a questionable home and met the sweetest little English Bull Terrier pup ever. I had no idea how much he would choreograph the next years of my life.

He was ridiculous from the first day. He played with metal not toys, he knocked himself out a couple of times. He made me full-on-belly-laugh every single day.

He pushed me to train harder, to be more consistent. He ate my car seat. He insisted on my complete engagement, he made me be "present". He was agile, determined and brilliant.

Training this boy was as rewarding for me as it was him. He could learn a trick a day and I soon found myself googling new tricks or buying books full of trick ideas. He would do anything! He could learn anything. He cemented, for me, that if he wasn't catching on, it was my training, not his learning that needed adjusting. We built a strong communication over the years. He was my boy.

The summer he was 1.5 years old I used a flea and tick product (over the counter) that changed him forever. He didn't eat for almost a week, became suddenly sound and sight sensitive, developed a cough and allergies from organ damage that I spend the rest of his life untangling. He also developed neurological damage that manifested in aggression toward humans. My sweet, life loving, people adoring boy was suddenly a lunging, uncontrollable maniac. And that would stay with him for the rest of his too short life.

Buffer was amazing training the puppies that came in through  Oops! Puppies. He adored them. They could climb and chew and stick their little heads in his mouth. He had endless patience and often prompted me when it was time to feed them. He was my constant companion, my security blanket, my entertainment and my best friend.

He taught me so many life lessons. One of the larger ones was you get what you need in life, not what you want. I never wanted a pure bred terrier of any design. Terriers are brilliant, and pushy and I was at a point where I wanted to coast and not have to be on top of my game. He taught me to laugh and to trust the process. He made life less serious, he lined up priorities.

A few weeks ago he took a turn for the worse and all the foods that were once safe became foods that made him reactive. I could do no more. I worked at it for 5 weeks, picking it apart, looking at the patterns, trying to find the "thing" that was setting him off this time. It simply wasn't there. It was everything. Reality was setting in and I was making phone calls to my friends and family seeking input. some forgotten tidbit that had worked in the past. some insight they may offer. I'd been through it before, and would make discoveries like him eating apples off the tree in the front yard (he was allergic to apples) There was nothing this time, no trigger. I looked at everything a hundred times.

The feeling of helplessness was taking over. This little creature that had become my life line and my rescuer couldn't be rescued, it would seem. I asked him to tell me if and when he wanted me to let him go, I explained to him that I simply couldn't make the decision on my own. I asked him to help me through this one last thing. I cried, and tried to make peace with it. There was no denying the decision, it was now about timing.

The Universe is a funny thing, that same day I was contacted about an another bully that needed to be rehomed. It turned out, after some discussion that the new guy is a full brother to Buffer. 4 litters later, same parents. Was it a sign? Was it Buffer looking after me? Or was it me reaching for some way to make life more bearable?

I went and met Toad. He'd spent most of his first 2 years in a shed or tied outside on a patio. Was re-homed to a gal who had too many other commitments to be able to handle a bully with no training. He had an incredibly engorged scrotum. He peed on me while I crouched to meet him.  He came home with me.

Buffer seemed to rally, Toad had a possible home, life seemed like it was coming back around. Toad went to the vet to have his first vaccination and his scrotum checked. The vet determined that something had caused a sudden and horrid trauma to his vascular system, that the extra blood had filled the sack and once completely engorged, found its path and the blood continued on. I am told that neutering or opening him up would most likely lead to his death. That clamping the arteries was not an option and would probably end poorly as well. That he was basically inoperable. That it would be best to have him put to sleep. There was no rush, he wasn't in pain, but he wasn't "adoptable".

Two days later, Buffer, with his head-on, direct approach to life that he could have patented, told me that it was time. That I had to let him go now. The message was super clear, and the decision one I am 100% confident about. I firmly believe they will tell us if we ask and are willing to listen. Buffer and I had been communicating for so long it was like breathing.

When Buffer was a baby, one of the first phrases he learned was "Momma Help". I used it when there was a kibble under a piece of furniture that he literally would have eaten through to get the prize. When he broke toenails that needed doctoring. I used it when he had a face full of porcupine quills and I needed him to not rub them in further on the way to the vet. It was a universally accepted "I've got it" that we had relied on literally hundreds of times.

In Buffer's style he stayed true to who he was to the end. He lunged at the tech who gave him the sedative.  He fought the euthanasia. Minutes passed, the vet checked and rechecked his heart and assured me it had stopped. I explained that this is who he was. Through heartbroken tears I whispered "Momma Help" and he let go.

The hardest and yet kindest thing is helping them pass.