Spike

I found Spike abandoned at a dumpster by the side of the road in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands. Only weeks old and less than five pounds, the vet said he wouldn't live. But he did, and how. Over the next 12 ½ years, Spike traveled more widely than most people. Spike was with me through a divorce, five hurricanes, two cats, numerous jobs, boyfriends, a doctorate degree, a new marriage, and five moves.

Spike's survival was due in no part to me - but entirely to Julie and Rita. Julie and I saw him for the first time on the same day. When Julie got to her office she immediately called to see if I'd seen him and his sister at the dumpster. I had. "Someone should rescue him - we should tell Rita," was my response.

Lucky for me, Julie was more proactive. She rescued the malnourished, dehydrated scrawny mutt. Unable to catch the female, she called the Humane Society and Hubert set a trap, but he was never able to catch the pup's sister. Julie kept Spike, raising him along side her four cats. Those six weeks with Julie made a permanent imprint on Spike and he spent the rest of his life somewhere between cat and human, with an occasional bit his dog-ness showing.

Rita, too, went above and beyond in rescuing Spike. Even Julie's help wouldn't have been enough for Spike if Rita hadn't come to Julie's every day and made chicken broth for the puppy and hand-fed him. He grew and thrived, bonding with his cat siblings and driving Julie crazy. She diligently tried to find a home for him, and refused to call him anything by 'the puppy'. I didn't want the responsibility, so insisted I couldn't have a dog - the landlord said so.

Then Julie went off island for two weeks and I babysat the cats and the puppy. Within days, he went from 'the puppy' to Spike, from spending nights in the bathroom to the bed, and from an orphan to my baby.

Spike spent his first year on St. Thomas, going through normal puppy 'trauma' - obedience school, vaccinations, and neutering. He made his first doggy friend - Tessa, Randy's parent's Doberman. She was tolerant of his puppy antics and energy, and even joined in for digs in the sand and chases around the yard.  Spike's lineage (greyhound, pitbull, date-rape) showed itself as his legs grew long - matching his too big nose and ears and giving him his greyhound profile and powerful jaws. When he broke into a screaming run, up and down the driveway, he was a racer through and through.

After his first year, a few hurricanes and a couple boyfriends, Spike and I moved to Puerto Rico so I could attend grad school. Spike came into his own in La Parguera. He developed his unique people-personality and mannerisms - taking the end of the leash to walk his best friend and love of his life, Huracan, grabbing the top of a water bottle to let me know when he was thirsty, pressing the door handle with his paw to let himself in and out, carrying his Frisbee to the park during Little League practice to play with the kids, and tugging at my hand or bringing me his leash when he wanted to go for a walk.

It was in PR that Spike started to enjoy beach outings - digging up ghost crabs, being alpha-dog to Huracan, and chasing waves. He learned to swim at Boqueron when he wanted Calcetina's ball badly enough to jump in the water and swim for it.  He loved the muddy water in the fish ponds at Mike's, where he learned that it was okay to chase birds, but not to catch them.  He also learned that some birds, like the big gray goose across the street, chase back. He also learned what all those obedience classes had been about - protecting him. He ran into the road and was hit by a car. Luckily, it scared him more than it hurt him. From then on, Spike was a champion 'heeler'.

After two years in Puerto Rico a job opportunity brought us to Charleston. He loved our outings to Sullivan's Island, where he could race up and down the beach to his heart's content, dig up ghost crabs, and roll in the occasional dead fish. We lived in Mt. Pleasant for a year, and that's where we met Spike's new "Dad", Matt. Then we moved to Summerville, where Spike spent the longest part of his life. For the first time ever he had his own yard. He loved digging up moles, chasing birds and squirrels away, and patrolling and defending it - this was his home.

Five years later, we moved to Stuttgart, Germany, the most dog-friendly place you can imagine. Spike loved his big yard and his long walks through the fields and woods. No ghost crabs to dig up, but there were moles and mice. We couldn't help but laugh at the smile on his face as he deer-leaped through the tall grass and wheat fields, his over-sized tongue lolling out to the side.. He had a new babysitter, Theresa, who he adored. I think Spike actually looked forward to 'Mom and Dad' being away - he knew Theresa was going to take him "bye-bye car-car" every day for a walk around the lake.

While in Germany, the tumor on Spike's leg grew from marble sized when we arrived in May 2005 to tennis ball size a year later. We had it removed and it was diagnosed as malignant.

Spike's vet in Germany, Dr. Annette Richters, was Spike's favorite vet. He would take treats from her, shake her hand, and only cower slightly. She gushed over him as if he was the most amazing and special dog she treated, as I expect a vet to do. Dr. Richters had counseled caution with treating Spike's cancer - thinking of his quality of life first. I appreciated that. When she finally decided it was time to remove the tumor, she warned me that, although the surgery was successful, it was only a matter of time - weeks or months - before the cancer returned and spread. Despite the odds, Spike continued to lead a full and active life in Germany for our remaining two years there.

When it was time to return to the US, I took Spike to upstate New York to visit his "Grandma" for a month while we went through the chaos of moving. The airlines won't fly pets during the summer (May 15-Sept 15) because of the heat and we weren't scheduled to return until June. We would pick him up after we were settled in our new house some time in June.

"Be a good boy for Grandma, and you stay alive until we come and get you," I told him. I couldn't say good-bye even though we'd be apart for at least a month. I was too afraid that it really would be good-bye. Would I ever see my baby boy again?

Aside from a rote bedtime prayer, and that more from habit than sincerity, I don't pray. But I prayed as I drove away that day in May. "Please let him live to see his new home." I didn't bargain, didn't promise to return to church or be a better person. That was too cliché and it would be a lie. I wasn't making a deal, I was asking, begging for a favor.

Miraculously, my prayer was answered and five weeks later Spike came home to his new house. Our furniture wasn't there yet, but he had his pillow and his favorite blanket, the one that Nancy made and that went everywhere with him, so he was happy. He explored the new smells and met the neighbors' dogs. He thumped his tail and smiled at us, and at night he curled up on the air mattress next to me.

And then he stopped eating and drinking. He paced through the night, too uncomfortable to lie down. IV fluids and pain medicine didn't help. Ten days after coming home, we made the decision we'd known was inevitable but dreaded none the less.

Spike died on July 7, 2008. We were blessed to have such a great travel companion, loyal friend and loving and lovable family member, and to have him for these last two 'bonus years' after his surgery.  There will never be another dog quite like him.