Moose: The Story of a Lhasa Apso

Moose

The Story of a Lhasa Apso

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The Dog Writers Association of America named this true story the winner of the Maxwell Medallion, as the top individual feature article in a single breed magazine. It has been published in the Lhasa Apso Reporter (USA), the New Zealand Kennel Gazette, and the Lhasa Apso Club Newsletter (UK). The story is also included in the book Heart Dog Diaries. (Publisher: Azul Editions)

Eugene P. Maddox

It was an overcast and quite dreary mid-December Saturday in 1990. Although not as cold as a typical pre-Christmas day in East Tennessee, its primary feature was a cool, persistent, and uncomfortable rain. My wife and I had just returned home from a wedding in a near-by city. Little did we realize that a rather significant change was about to occur in our lives.

It began when Muffin, the more hyperactive and observant of our two dogs, began sniffing furiously at the inside of the front door. She then proceeded, in her own inimitable way, to work herself into a whirling frenzy. After observing her demeanor for a few seconds, we concluded that something of interest, at least to Muffin, was present on our front porch.

Upon opening the door, we found the most pitiful, bedraggled bundle of fur one could ever imagine. All we could tell for sure at that point was that the little creature was a dog, and that he was in very deep trouble.

As we stepped onto the porch, he wearily and with great effort raised his head. He slowly opened what had once, no doubt, been large and shining brown eyes, one now dull and unseeing, and the other matted with infection. His body was literally shrunken to skin and bones, covered with fur whose tangles and dirt spoke volumes about the elements and travails to which he had been exposed.

We brought a bowl of water, a cup of food, and a blanket, all of which he accepted with obvious and well-communicated appreciation. And we noticed that he had no collar.

Darkness was fast approaching, and the cold wind was picking up. There really was no decision to be made. We opened the door and invited him in. And as he slowly gathered his strength to stand and begin walking, we saw further evidence of his ordeal. One of his rear legs hung still and useless, as he limped on three legs, tail dragging, into our house and into our lives.

Who Might This Be?

We felt two distinctly opposite emotions as we led our little visitor inside. The first was concern for the very real possibility that he might not survive. The second, however, was the satisfaction of knowing that a pet owner somewhere might soon learn that his or her lost animal had been found.

But the first priority was the dog’s health. Although he continued to eat and drink with growing enthusiasm, an immediate trip to the veterinarian was in order.

The vet concluded that the little dog would likely recover. But he emphasized that our new friend had come to the very edge of perishing from the dehydration and near-starvation he had endured during a journey lasting many weeks. The fact that he had used his last depths of energy to come to a place where care and safety awaited was little short of miraculous.

The dog’s other ailments were serious as well. One eye, damaged severely by exposure to the weather, would never regain its sight. And X-rays revealed that he had apparently been hit by a car earlier in life, and his hip had required surgery. It was not likely, the vet concluded, that the dog would ever again walk on his crippled rear leg, as the necessary muscle did not appear to be present.

Our next priority was finding his owner, which we expected to be as simple as a call to the local animal shelter. To our surprise, no report was on file of such a dog being missing. We contacted every source we could think of, including veterinarian offices, the Humane Society, breeders, classified ads, and even the police department. There was no trace of a report.

We now realized that we had a new addition to our family. The little fellow had begun to ease his way into our hearts just as readily as he was eating his way through increasingly large quantities of dog food. The "iron-clad" resolve that our household’s dog population would never exceed two was quickly forgotten.

He now had a home, and he had the promise of recovery, so now he needed a name. We read off a long list of potential dog names, in hope that he might recognize the name from his former life. He reacted to none. We decided to call him "Moose," after a dog I’d had during my teenage years. And there seemed to be an element of strength in that name, which matched this little guy’s strength, courage, and tenacity.

We then turned our attention to his appearance. The groomer surely deserved combat pay for dealing with the tangle of dirty, matted, and damaged fur.

If Moose’s arrival on our front porch qualified as a miracle, then he soon proved that his reservoir of miracles was far from empty. Shortly after the veterinarian’s conclusion that Moose would never again walk on his lifeless rear leg, he suddenly proceeded to do precisely that.

He didn’t start on it slowly or gingerly, and he didn’t limp. He simply began walking on it full force, as though it had never had the slightest trace of a problem. He ran on it. He jumped on it. He stood on his hind legs to beg for treats. For the first time, he went up the stairs to the second story of our house. And he didn’t walk up the stairs… He ran at full speed.

Moose was now looking better, acting stronger, gaining weight, and beginning to acquire the first signs of an aura of self-assured happiness. He now carried his tail, erect and proud, over his back. We began to realize for the first time what a beautiful little dog he was. But as to what breed he might be, we hadn’t a clue.

And soon thereafter, someone knowledgeable in the intricacies of dog breeds exclaimed to us, "Why, what a pretty Lhasa Apso you have!"

Getting to Know Each Other

Dog tags jingled energetically from a collar in an adjoining room. Moose was waking up from his nap. Most dogs would have headed for the area of the house where our other two dogs were at play. But this was Moose, and we had quickly learned where he’d go after a nap. He’d head directly to find us.

We had been around dogs all our lives, but we had soon realized that Moose was quite unlike any dog we’d ever encountered. His most distinguishing and endearing characteristic was a powerful attraction to people, and a strong desire to be with them at all times. He had no problems in getting along with our other dogs. It was that he simply had no interest in them. He wanted, instead, to be around people. Even as we exercised on the treadmill, he’d try to climb on behind, ending up befuddled as to why the machine persisted in depositing him, bottom first, back onto the floor.

Yet it was something more than just wishing to be in the presence of people. He seemed to have an unusual ability to fathom when one of his human companions was sad, tired, or happy, and it was as though he could communicate sympathy or celebration in response. And as we learned more about the Lhasa Apso breed, we realized the ancestral origin of his strong companionship trait.

As we began to let him meander on a leash through the neighborhood, he met, made friends with, and got along famously with our neighbors, friends, and relatives of all ages. But older persons of 70-plus years elicited a particularly special response. After observing his joyous reaction to the arrival of my parents one day, we realized the likelihood that his previous owners were an older couple. Perhaps their passing had led to his long and grueling journey to our doorstep.

Moose’s Lhasa Apso heritage was also obvious in his skill as a watchdog. If his eyes were now less than perfect, he more than made up for it with a particularly acute sense of hearing. As soon as we’d head the car up the driveway, we could hear him begin his neighborhood-rattling bark inside the house.

His continually high energy level never ceased to astound us. But when he decided to sleep, it was as though a light switch had been flipped. He’d immediately fall asleep, with no transition whatsoever, and he wouldn’t move until he woke up. And when he did wake up, he’d immediately leap from deep slumber to full, joyful energy. His impatience with us, as we rubbed our eyes and attempted to awaken enough to face the day, was obvious.

A Taste for the Good Life

Moose’s sheer exuberance for life involved activities common to most dogs. He loved to play ball, and could do so long after his human friends were panting with exhaustion. He loved his walks through the neighborhood, and greeting his acquaintances. He enjoyed playing with his basketful of toys. And he’d sit on the deck with us for hours on end, at rest and content as the breeze blew through his fur.

But his love of one aspect of life was truly amazing in its intensity: I have never seen any living creature enjoy any activity to the degree that Moose enjoyed eating.

At least an hour before time for his meal, Moose would become ecstatic in anticipation. He’d dance. He’d jump on all fours. He’d howl, he’d bark, he’d talk, and he’d sing. He’d beg the clock--and us--to hasten matters along.

And when the magic hour arrived, it was usually hilarious to behold. The routine was supposed to begin with a human opening the pantry door, scooping Moose’s dog food from a large sack into a metal cup, and transferring it to his bowl. But if we weren’t careful at the pantry door, he’d slip inside and try to climb into the food sack. As we transferred the food in the metal cup, he’d lock his vision onto it, causing him to bang into us, bounce off the walls, and sometimes even fall into his food bowl.

And once the food was in his bowl, it was only a matter of seconds until every morsel was gone. He virtually inhaled it, in a motion reminiscent of a powerful vacuum cleaner. Afterward, he’d literally glow with satisfaction at the joy he’d just experienced. He’d then scour every inch of the carpet for several minutes, searching for any kernel of food that might have fallen aside during the transfer.

One day we’d carried groceries in from the car, leaving several bags on the kitchen floor. A neighbor distracted us for several minutes, and as we returned to the kitchen we heard strange sounds. Moose had chewed through a paper grocery bag, he’d eaten an entire loaf of bread from it, and he was now eyeing another bag in hope that it held another loaf. His trim little figure now resembled the shape of the bread loaf he’d just devoured!

Coping With the Shadows

Moose’s love of eating may well have stemmed from the weeks in which he was lost and had nearly starved, yet it seemed a genuinely positive and motivating force in his life. But a negative impact lingered from those lost weeks, and that was his strong fear of storms. If we flipped the television channel to a station which had gone off the air, he’d hear the rain-like sound of the static and become concerned. A strong clap of thunder could cause him to tremble for hours.

We were also concerned that, despite his energetic and robust demeanor, those weeks of ordeal might have caused damage which would later pose challenges to his health. These and other challenges did indeed arise. But it was his response to them that frequently left us speechless and grasping for an adequate explanation.

It began with the need for Moose to have surgery for bladder stones. The vet reminded us that Moose was no longer a young dog, and that the recovery period would be neither short nor free of pain. But when we brought him home, he immediately resumed his regular activities at full energy level, as though he were having a perfectly normal week.

A few months later, as my wife walked him through the neighborhood, a large dog spotted Moose and decided to attack. In the flash of an eye, the dog ran toward Moose at high speed, hitting him with full force, hurling him into the air, and knocking the leash out of my wife’s hand. Moose landed hard, and found himself unable to stand or walk. As my wife carried him home, and as we prepared for the emergency trip to the vet, he cried non-stop at the top of his lungs, the only time we ever knew him to do so.

Yet as we prepared to carry him to the car, he suddenly became silent. He stood, looked around, and, without limping, began walking away as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Then came the day that we noticed swelling in Moose’s body. As we drove him to the vet’s office, we realized that he was sicker than he’d been since his arrival.

The veterinarian called the following day with sombering news. The immediate cause of Moose’s illness was a serious case of pancreatitis, and the internal swelling caused by it was extending dangerously close to his heart. In addition, the X-rays had shown a large tumor growing in his chest. And, most serious of all, blood tests had uncovered a case of advanced leukemia, which we could expect to soon be fatal.

Many prayers were said in the following hours that this wonderful little dog might somehow be a part of our lives for a while longer. Yet logic indicated that his situation was without hope. I cringed as the telephone rang the next morning. I knew it would be the vet, but I wasn’t prepared for the news he conveyed.

Moose was recovering from the pancreatitis with dizzying speed. The swelling was nearly gone, he was feeling much better, and he could soon come home. The blood tests had been sent to another lab for verification, and it had been discovered that the original tests were in error: Moose’s blood cell count was normal, and there was no leukemia. And as for the tumor, the radiologist had concluded that it likely would grow so slowly as to not be a hindrance to a normal life span. Much later, X-rays would show that it never grew at all following its discovery.

But it was impossible to ignore the fact that our friend was getting older. The vision in his remaining eye gradually faded, to the point that he could make out only shadows and shapes. His once-so-acute sense of hearing was gone, and now only loud voices could be discerned. Instead of running up the stairs at full throttle, he now walked up them one step at a time. And, although Moose never exhibited discomfort or pain, the vet began mentioning spinal arthritis with increasing frequency.

But despite the decline of his body, it was apparent that the inner energy of his spirit had not diminished at all. There were times when he seemed able to fully overcome his infirmities, such as when he awoke in the morning, or at meal time, or when my mother would come for a visit. We grew even closer together. It was obvious that this little dog still enjoyed life, and that his zest for it remained strong.

And whatever force it was that seemed to heal and protect him continued unabated. I was preparing to herd all three dogs down the stairs during his final year, when one of the other dogs brushed against Moose, sending him tumbling. For what seemed like an eternity, he bounced off step after step, as I mentally planned an immediate trip to the vet’s office to deal with his injuries.

At the bottom of the stairs, he hit hard against a wall. He stood up and looked at himself and then at me. He shook himself off, and then proceeded, nonchalantly and none the worse for wear, toward the door to the yard.

A Final Journey

As the Spring of 1997 arrived, we somehow knew, and we sensed that Moose knew, that our days together were drawing to a close. One Sunday afternoon early in May, he began limping on one of his front legs. The next day, X-rays indicated to the vet that, rather than having a mere knee or shoulder problem, his skeletal structure was entering a state of collapse. "Horrible arthritic lesions" were now present on his spine.

This being Moose, we had expected his last days to hold at least one major surprise, but we were quite unprepared for what actually transpired. Somehow, in all respects other than his arthritis, Moose’s body clock seemed to suddenly roll back by at least three years. Both his eyes became bright and shining, and we were astounded to discover that the vision in his better eye had returned. Sitting several feet behind him one day, I spoke his name in soft tones, which he hadn’t been able to hear in many seasons. His ears perked up, and he turned around.

His fur acquired a soft and shiny luster, and he became almost radiant with a healthy glow. The vet was stunned to discover that a long-standing internal infection, which had seemed impervious to treatment, had suddenly disappeared. His level of alertness and mental energy became as high as it had been since we had known him. Our quality of communication and closeness became, I believe, as great as is possible for a dog and a human to achieve.

But his ability to stand and walk quickly deteriorated and disappeared. We were determined not to let him suffer, yet his fighting spirit and determination appeared to remain strong. As a last-ditch effort, and in continual consultation with the empathetic veterinarian, we fashioned a rehabilitative device by cutting leg holes in a towel, placing him in it, and pinning it at the top.

With the help of this device, which we nicknamed the "zoot suit," and with Moose’s warrior spirit in full fighting mode, we were gradually able to teach him to stand, and to walk in short, tiny steps. If he could do this consistently and without discomfort, we might be able to share a bit more time together. Moose was even prouder of his accomplishment than we were. A portion of his much-cherished mobility had returned.

On the afternoon of May 20, he was able to stand and walk better than on any day since his illness began. But that evening his strength began to slip away. By morning, it was obvious that no further miracles would be forthcoming. To the end, his alertness and communication with us never faltered.

One last dog treat and a final hug; and then it was over.

A Place To Rest

We buried Moose under the outside stairs leading up to the deck where we’d sat together so many times. A beautiful setting, it permits sunlight and rain to reach the flowers which surround the grave, yet the stairs shield him from the worst of the storms which he so dreaded. The grave marker bears his name, the date of his arrival at our door, and the day he left us.

Around the little grave mound, we placed river rocks in the form of a horseshoe. The horseshoe is a symbol of good luck, and it represents the Tibetan legend that for one to be given a Lhasa Apso is a sign of great honor and good fortune.

The legend is correct.

The author, Eugene P. Maddox, has had more than 100 articles published, primarily on computer-related topics. His E-mail address is gmaddox@tricon.net