Pups in Tea Cups: Tales of Littleness Overcoming BIG Odds Read online

  But no!

  Not only did he not faint, he survived the attack! They rushed him in to me.

  After washing the blood off of him...it turned out NOT to be his! There wasn’t a single scratch on him. He was busy wagging his tail and looking for treats!

  Even with his fragile heart, he won the fight! Now, that’s our “Ali.”

  We have no idea how much longer he will be with us, but he proved beyond a shadow of a doubt why he was meant to enter our lives. He quite possibly saved their daughter.

  So, here’s to “Ali!”

  He showed us that even with a damaged ticker, you can still show heart! #lovehim #bignesstotherescue

  Tales from the Tea Cup:

  Christmas – A Season of Miracles

  I know this book is called Pups in Tea Cups and that I have already wandered off into tales of “Bigness,” but this next story had such a profound impact on my life that I just had to share it with you. However, I must warn you that this is a TEN-hanky alert.

  I have been lucky enough to have witnessed so many miracles involving animals— Christmas and otherwise—but I thought I would share one during this season that is near and dear to my heart.

  Years ago, a veterinary assistant and good friend of mine was in a bad car accident with her sister. Her sister came away with a broken wrist and sprained ankle, but my friend had been thrown from the car.

  Even when the police and EMTs arrived, they simply couldn’t find my friend. It was a cold Christmas Eve, with snow on the ground, and everyone knew that if they did not find her soon (since it was clear that she must have, at the very least, been unconscious or unable to respond to the rescue team) we could lose her.

  Everyone was combing the thickly wooded area when my friend’s sister heard the tiniest mewing. While she wasn’t in the animal field, she had been around her sister enough to know that it was a newborn’s cry.

  So, even though the cry was coming from the opposite direction her sister should have landed from the accident, she simply couldn’t let a baby kitten die of the cold.

  But when she followed the sound, she found a tiny, white kitten curled up with her sister!

  Somehow, the kitten had found her! She was named “Christmas Miracle” right there on the spot (although we usually call her “Chrissy” for short).

  They rushed my unconscious friend to the hospital for emergency surgery as I got the call about the kitten. Even though the hospital staff was reluctant, after they heard the story, they allowed me to try to treat the kitten in their waiting room.

  With my friend’s entire family (she was Catholic, so there were A LOT of family members) gathered around, expressing their love and appreciation that the little baby kitten was cared for. But, sadly, no matter how hard I tried to save “Chrissy’s” pure soul, she faded. You would have thought that it would have been sad, but it was so joyous.

  We all sensed that the little creature’s singular purpose was to come down, save my friend, and then be called home. Tears flowed, but in gratitude (as they are right now as I write this).

  When my friend awoke from surgery, we told her the miraculous story of a kitten that lived less than twelve hours, yet had saved her life.

  However, she wasn’t shocked in the least. As a matter of fact, in her traumatized haze, she had heard that kitten’s cry—and thought it was God letting her know everything was going to be all right. She didn’t know what was going to happen, but she said she wasn’t scared.

  That was over fifteen years ago. Now my friend and I live states apart and seldom see one another. She has gone on to become a registered tech and a mom. I get a Christmas card from her each year, and each and every year, there is a tiny note at the bottom...

  “With ever loving thanks to ‘Chrissy.’ ”

  And each and every year, I cry, remembering that little white ball of fluff and how she saved my friend’s life.

  Even though I only knew you for a few short hours, I won’t ever forget you, either, “Chrissy.” That, I can promise you.

  Section Five:

  Simply Silly Tales

  So far, we have covered how “Littleness” affects nearly every aspect of our pups in tea cups’ lives—from how we feed them to how they can perch on our heads. We’ve also seen the miracles that they can bring into our lives.

  I thought it was time to bring in a little silliness! And when I say “little,” I actually mean a LOT of silliness! Enjoy!

  Tales from the Tea Cup:

  “Petar” – To Crate or Not to Crate?

  “Petar” is a Pekingese. Not just any Pekingese, but a Pekingese from a line descended from Emperors. No, really. An Emperor once owned his line. And boy, did he know it!

  As you can imagine, he leveraged his heritage in every way possible. One of the first was to convince his owners that crates were evil, evil places—and that he was “un-crateable.”

  Unfortunately, “Petar” housebroke super-easy, so his owners really didn’t see the need to crate-train. I tried my best to convince them, but alas, “Petar” was descended from Emperors, and I couldn’t compete with that logic!

  Years went by, and while there were times the owners wished that he could be crate-trained, “Petar” would throw an Imperial-sized tantrum, and they would back off.

  Then the day came when “Petar” started coughing. After x-rays and such, I diagnosed a very serious disease—heartworms. “Petar” was normally on preventative medication, but he had stayed with their in-laws, who had forgotten to give him his medication.

  They were stricken. Heartworm disease is very dangerous, and can be life threatening. It can also be cured, but after treatment, the animal must be strictly rested, and I mean strictly rested for six weeks. If they are too active, it can be very serious. Or even in the most extreme cases, fatal.

  Crate training is an essential, vital component to treating for heartworm disease, yet “Petar’s” owners were terrified. If they could not do it before, how in the world could they do it now, under such tight time constraints?

  You see, it was Friday, and we were going to start the treatment on Monday, which gave them the weekend to crate-train “Petar.”

  But how were they going to do it?

  I told them that the first thing they needed to do was realize that “Petar’s” life depended on their ability to crate-train him.

  They needed to be completely, 1,000 percent resolved that crating was going to work. They could harbor no doubt, and no hesitation.

  The more resolved owners are, the easier the crate training will be.

  They squared their shoulders and went home.

  I expected a call over the weekend telling me the attempt was doomed, but heard nothing until they showed up on Monday morning—with “Petar” in his crate!

  He was perfectly content on his tiger-striped bedding with a chew toy, gnawing away.

  Luckily, “Petar’s” owners had taken my advice. They put everything that the little Pekingese loved into the crate. They made him eat in there. They loved him in there. They made the crate the center of their home life.

  After about a ten-minute tantrum (they never made it past the five-minute mark in the past), “Petar” settled down and figured he might as well chew on his toy if he was stuck in the cage. The rest is history.

  Now, I certainly hope you never run into this scary a situation with your pet, but how could “Petar’s” family have known that they would go on vacation, their in-laws would forget his medication, and he would be bitten by a mosquito harboring heartworm larvae?

  Most times that we medically need to treat are not this extreme, but are still vital to the healing process. Surprisingly, sometimes the ill animal needs to be out with the family, but the more rambunctious ones need to be crated to keep them from hurting the other animals.

  There are honestly a million reasons why crate training is the easiest way to help our four-legged loved ones.

  Another aspect of “Petar’s” story is importa
nt as well. It is the issue of resolve. My strong belief is that if “Petar’s” owners had that type of resolve the first time around, “Petar” would have been crate-trained nine years ago.

  The more you believe something, the more likely your dog is going to buy into the crate training as well.

  And BTW, “Petar” sailed through his treatment. Not even a fever. He spent his six weeks in his crate like a champ.

  Once I released him to limited exercise, his owners asked if they still needed the crate (they still had a negative connotation to the crate as something that reminded them of the dangerous and scary treatment protocol).

  I said, “You know what? Let’s just keep it up for a few more weeks, in case ‘Petar’ gets a cough.”

  Begrudgingly, they agreed.

  To their shock (not mine, but that’s to be expected), “Petar” now preferred to take naps in the crate. He really liked going into the crate when the grandkids came over. And that pesky cat, Cleopatra (yes, an Egyptian Sphinx)? When she was acting up, “Petar” would head to his crate and hole up there until Cleo calmed down.

  Tales from the Tea Cup:

  “Cecil” and his Near (Actually Pretty Far Away from) Death Experience

  I had another client who used to have Chesapeake Bay Retrievers. They would do their “business” in the ivy patch. It was perfect. The poopies acted as fertilizer, and the foliage covered up the unattractive doody.

  Then “Cecil” the Puggle, a Pug/Beagle cross, came along. Go in the ivy? Are you kidding me? There are bugs and spiders and insects in there!

  The first day that they brought “Cecil” home, they followed my advice and went straight over to the area they felt was best suited for “Cecil” to do his business, the famed ivy patch, and put their little baby down.

  He promptly screamed, jumped straight up into the air, and ran into the house. They rushed him into the office, afraid that a bee had stung him.

  I checked him out from stem to stern and found nothing wrong. They kept telling me how odd his behavior was and how high-pitched the scream. There had to be a stinger somewhere. Or…I suggested he was just afraid of the ivy.

  Maybe they could try another area of the yard, but they were very resistant. The ivy was perfect. The gardener didn’t complain about the mess, and they didn’t have to worry about the kids stepping in the poop on the lawn.

  I warned them that I thought “Cecil” was ivy-averse, but wished them the best of luck.

  So, after another half dozen failed attempts at training in the ivy patch, they brought “Cecil” back in. Clearly, he had a neurological disorder (catching this pattern?). Clearly, he was having mini-seizures. Clearly, he was allergic to the outside world.

  They lamented they would never be able to housebreak him (which, let’s be clear, was an unintended but added bonus for “Cecil.” He hadn’t planned it that way, but he’d take it)!

  After another, more thorough exam (checking light reflexes in the eyes, making sure his facial nerve responses were normal), I suggested, again, that they just go over to the other side of the yard, where there was lawn.

  Certain that I was the one with neurological problems, “Cecil’s” owners went home and, before going to a specialist, decided to try this crazy suggestion to put “Cecil” down on the grass.

  They were ready for anything—except him nicely squatting and peeing right then and there.

  As a test, they tried to take him over to the ivy, but he started squirming and whining before they got within ten feet of the patch.

  While he might not have been allergic, he was in fact ivy-averse! Which, in my line of work, I actually diagnose far more frequently than true neurological disorders!

  Clearly, in the world of Puggles, ivy is a harbinger or evil, to be avoided at all costs.

  As an epilogue, “Cecil’s” distrust of the ivy was lifelong. No matter that the kids would run around in there. No matter that ten years had passed, and nothing evil had crawled out from under the green leaves, “Cecil” always gave that patch a wide berth.

  So wide a berth that when a new Schnorkie (Schnauzer/Yorkie) puppy, “Delilah,” came to live with them, he refused to let her use the ivy patch, either.

  They were hoping that “Delilah” would take to the ivy and finally convince “Cecil” that it wasn’t so bad.

  Unfortunately, that first day, when they tried to put this new precious little puppy in the ivy, “Cecil” freaked out, ran into the ivy (how brave is that?), and grabbed a very startled “Delilah” by the nape of the neck—and carried her right out of there!

  Were their parents crazy? Offering a sacrifice like that to the evil ivy patch?

  From then on, “Delilah” avoided the area like the plague as well. And when it was her turn to train a new puppy, she too took a firm stand against the vines!

  Tales from the Tea Cup:

  “Diva” – Housebreaking? Not!

  Over the past three decades, I have given a lot of housebreaking advice. And I thought I had heard it all. Each permutation of every trick of every puppy that ever tried to fight housebreaking.

  I thought I had heard every excuse, rationale, and obfuscation of every owner resisting doing the work needed to housebreak a stubborn puppy.

  Boy, was I wrong.

  “Diva,” the cutest ever mini-Cocker Spaniel puppy, and her owners, surprised even me.

  Which is funny, because her owners were really good clients. They really listened and took my advice consistently. That is, when they had Australian Shepherds.

  Then, like many, many clients these days, after losing their precious friends, they decided to get a smaller dog. A dog that could easily travel with them. A mini-Cocker.

  I tried to warn them—I really did. I told them how much tougher a two-pound puppy is to train than a herding dog. They, of course, scoffed. Their dogs were field-trained. Working dogs. Herding dogs.

  So at their first appointment, in which they were already over the moon and gaga over “Diva,” I did my best to describe the crate-training/housebreaking technique, although I do admit that they probably didn’t hear much of it over all the kisses and nose snuggles they were doing with “Diva.”

  Back they came in two weeks for “Diva’s” next visit for vaccines. I asked how everything was going. “Great!” was the answer. Then I asked about housebreaking.

  Eyes darted. Cheeks got red. Mumbling occurred.

  “Okay, out with it,” I said.

  They then admitted that the pup was not housebroken at all. She went wherever she wanted.

  I asked about the crate training.

  Again, blushes and stammering. Turns out they hadn’t even bought one.

  Shaking my head, I told them it was their call. If they didn’t mind “Diva” doing her business all over the house, I was cool if they were cool.

  But, of course, they weren’t cool. They had worked hard to build a nice home, and they were big entertainers, having dinner parties at least twice a month.

  Accidents were definitely putting a crimp in their style.

  So I reiterated the technique, and they solemnly swore to try it with consistency and patience.

  Two weeks passed, and “Diva” was due for more vaccines. I didn’t even have to ask the questions before their teenage daughter burst out, “She hates the crate. She just screams. It’s cruel!”

  Everyone was distraught. The mom, the daughter, and the dad (which, of course, was exactly what “Diva” was shooting for!).

  Wasn’t there any way, any way at all, to housebreak without the crate? “Of course there was,” I told them. “It just takes even more vigilance.”

  They swore they could do it. They would do anything to avoid the crate. They left, and two weeks later, everyone seemed so happy! They had done it! “Diva” was potty-trained!

  I have to admit, I was shocked. Seldom does the non-crate training method work, especially after the puppy has had so many accidents. But I congratulated them and thought “Diva’s”
tale was over.

  We had several more visits, and everything seemed fine. Then the last appointment for “Diva’s” rabies shots came. Only the mom came in. Her daughter’s high school had started again, and her husband’s job had him back out on the road.

  After a nice chat, I talked to her about “Diva’s” spay surgery and implanting the microchip, when my client burst into tears.

  Assuming she was afraid of the surgery, I began comforting her, reassuring her that “Diva’s” risk was so slight. Just a fraction of a percent of danger, but she kept crying.