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German shepherd - Zoomies

Pets, in sickness and in health

February 27th 2009 11:29

I have had some bad luck with dogs.

Murphy the German shepherd, a big, arrogant, obstinate dog who was incredibly handsome and knew it, had sensitive skin. All his life we tried to find out what caused him to lose hair, scratch constantly and suffer regular ear infections, but our money bought little except the knowledge that there are two general categories of skin allergies: food and environment.

If your pet has the first, you have some hope of discovering, by a process of elimination, what it is they are allergic to. If it is the second, it could be anything from your perfume to the fibres in your sofa, and pins in haystacks will be easy to find by comparison.

Murphy, of course, had the second.

Gentle Jumbo

The story of Jumbo, another German shepherd, was told in an earlier Zoomies post (link). Jumbo was even bigger than Murphy but he was a gentle giant. He had lived all his life outdoors as a guard dog, but it was probably a good thing he was never called upon to protect his patch of property from an intruder because I doubt he would have known what to do.

Jumbo was dumped by his owner when he got too old to even look like a guard dog, and I adopted him, aged 13.

Gentle Jumbo got to see the inside of a home, along with its warmth and comfortable sleeping places, for the first time. And promptly developed severe skin allergies to something in the environment in my flat.

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Scratchy

Scratchy is a greyhound of aristocratic breeding. Well, any greyhound bred from a famous Australian racing mother and a famous Irish racing father, with the semen from the latter introduced to the former after being frozen and flown, probably first class, between the two countries, surely qualifies as aristocratic.

Scratchy (yes, he has a sister named Itchy, for those who watch The Simpsons) was one of a litter of eight and he was both larger than average and slower than average. Scratchy was retired early and came to live with us and, I am pleased to report, two years later, there is no sign of a skin allergy.

Instead, he has epilepsy, and watching the violence of his periodic seizures is every bit as distressing as watching first Murphy and then Jumbo try to deal with permanent skin irritations.

So, you see, I have had some bad luck with dogs.

But nothing is perfect and taking responsibility for a pet means exactly that, in sickness and in health.

It might have been cheaper, and it might have been easier, living with Murphy and Jumbo and Scratchy if they had been perfectly healthy dogs, but it wouldn't have been better. It was (is, in Scratchy's case) a privilege living with these beautiful animals, and I would do it again in a heartbeat.

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Posted By: Chris Champion - Category: German shepherd, Greyhound, Canine epilepsy, Canine health

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Gentle Jumbo gets a soft bed at last

September 1st 2008 11:03

In a village on an island in the South China Sea there lived a dog named Jumbo. He was owned by a local man who used him as a guard dog. Deterrent dog may be more accurate. Jumbo spent his days, all day every day for 13 years, in a small, tiled yard, underfed and bored. It’s a common story in these parts.

One day in 2005 the man, now old himself, decided to sell his house and move into something smaller. So he took Jumbo to the SPCA and said, "Kill him, I don't need him any more." Or words to that effect.

However, someone from the island recognised Jumbo - not hard as he was a pure-bred German shepherd - and Jumbo was brought back to the island by the person who recognised him, and given to a local animal welfare group, run by a semi-retired English doctor named John. John had been fully retired, but now took in some patients again to help fund his real work - taking care of and trying to find homes for deserted animals.

John already had 10 dogs at his home when Jumbo was delivered to him, and if the do-good-rescuer was expecting thanks, he was short-changed. In John's world of ceaseless, selfless working on behalf of abandoned animals, a 13-year-old dog dumped at the SPCA should remain the responsibility of the SPCA.

Not that Jumbo was turned away. John now had 11 dogs looking for homes.

It was obvious, however, that Jumbo was a bit special. He was particularly gentle and sweet-natured, perhaps partly due to his age of 13, shown by the forms filled out and papers supplied by his former owner when handed to the SPCA. And he was a pure-bred German shepherd, pretty rare in the area. It didn't mean he was any more deserving of a good home than any other homeless dog, but it meant he was more marketable in terms of finding one.

So John did what was necessary. He washed Jumbo (five times - he needed it) and put up posters around the village streets.

At this time - in late 2005 - I lived in that village. I had heard of John, both as a doctor and an animal carer and activist, but I had not met him. I saw the posters about a gentle, old, pure-bred shepherd looking for a caring home for his limited remaining life, but I had no intention of doing anything about it.

Fate had other ideas, however. Fate took a hand - or a foot, really. Or an ankle, to be absolutely precise.

Something - later thought to be a centipede - bit me on the ankle, which swelled and became so painful that I was immobilised. After spending a sleepless and utterly miserable night, I rang Dr John. "I need a house call," I told him. And it was while he was examining my angry ankle and rummaging through his bag for antibiotics and anti-inflammatories that the subject of the homeless German shepherd came up.

I have always loved German shepherds. My first dog, given to me for my seventh birthday by my mother, was a German shep/collie cross. I have a big soft spot for collies too, but after Marty died about 12 years later, I had no doubt my next dog would be a German shepherd. It took more than 10 years to get everything in place: first, a wife who was organised enough to, second, save our money and, third, buy a home with a, fourth, big back yard. And so we got Murphy (an Irish name given by a Scottish friend - long story).

I worked night times on a newspaper in those days so the Murph and I went to a day-time doggy obedience school. For a year, almost every other dog in the class was a poodle. In Grade 3, they’d sit in a neat line while their owners tried to walk 20 metres away. The poodles learned quickly to remain motionless. Murphy learned to remain motionless until I got about five metres away. Then, every time, he started crawling forward on his stomach. “Most obstinate dog I have ever met,” said Bert, the trainer. He was 75 years old so he’d seen a few.

Murphy was only six when he died one night of a twisted bowel.

"Come down to the shop (when you can walk) and meet Jumbo," said Dr John.

It was left at that, and I still had no intention of taking it further, but as I said, fate had different ideas. First, my ankle got quickly better. Second, to get to the gym, which I attended on occasion, one had to walk right past the animal welfare centre .

"Hello," said John, emerging from his shop a few days later just as I passed. "Come to look at the dog?" "Err, just going to the gym actually." "Ah," said John, "I could go home and get him and you could say hello on your way back.”

"The thing is," he said without missing a beat, "that I've got 11 dogs at my place at the moment and what we really need is someone who could foster him for a little bit while we find a home for him. He really is a lovely old fellow."

There was something about the last sentence which got to me, and I said okay. An hour later, I found John busy talking to someone in the body of the shop, where they sell pet products and donated bric-a-brac to raise money for the animal welfare activities. John saw me and simply pointed at the door to the small corner office which he uses as his consulting room. In there, sitting quietly on the floor, surrounded by prescription drugs and syringes and patient records and mobile phones and a laptop computer, was a rather large, rather old German shepherd.

And rather typical in his arrogance. Okay, he said, giving me an appraising look as I came in, if you insist in sitting on that chair and massaging my neck and stroking my ears and scratching under my chin, I'm not going to stop you. What else are humans for?

I patted and chatted and stroked and scratched him for 20 minutes until the door opened and John came in to claim back his office. I agreed to foster Jumbo until they could find a permanent home. Two days later I went back and said I'd like to adopt him. "Yes," said John, "that’s how we find homes for 90 per cent of the animals.”

Jumbo lived with me for more than a year, the only time in his life he knew what it was to have enough to eat, and was allowed inside out of the sun and the rain, and had a soft bed to sleep on, and lots of hugs and neck massages.

He was very nearly 15 years old when he died peacefully.