Scooter vs. Old Scratch

The Devil came down to Dixie two weeks ago and he was looking for a pug to steal. He was in a bind cause he was way behind and he was willing to make a deal.

I coulda spared him the trip ‘cause my boy Scooter won’t ready for no deal.

‘Cause Scooter  has had more dances round that Devil than any dog has a right. When he was a tiny handful of glossy black pug puppy, four, count’em FOUR vets in Virginia said “Put him down.” But somehow a kindly couple saw past his malformed legs, they saw his immense spirit and ran Old Scratch off. And delivered the tiny guy they crowned Scooter into the hands of Midatlantic Pug Rescue.

Scooter on the day he arrived at the MacHardy house.

But no-one remembered to tell Scooter he was different. His front legs had no “elbows” and they couldn’t support the front end. His back legs, were in better shape and held up his little rump and curly tail up at an awkward angle. But boy could he get around. He looked like a bit like a grasshopper and his powerful back legs pushed him around - so he scooted here and there.

Yep, Scooter arrived with legs out of whack but with so much personality that dear husband said within two days of his arrival “If (Dr.) Monce can’t fix him, I’ll carry him around on a pillow the rest of his life.”

At Scooter’s first assessment Dr.  Kevin Monce and I stood looking at the xrays of Scooter’s malformed limbs. “Is there hope?” I asked worriedly. Kevin replied “There’s always hope.”

And so Scooter, the wonder pug, began his quest to have four functioning legs. Dr. Monce put pins through the top and bottom of each leg (external fixators), banded them together and over time pulled the bones together. Scooter’s body did the rest - making bone out of what had been cartilage and creating function where before there had been none.

You might think “Oh, poor little puppy!” Save your breath. Again Scooter wasn’t interested in the details of his deformation. The day after his first surgery he was up and walking on his casts - “sticks” my son, Zack, called them. At his frequent day visits with Dr. Monce he was “too good” for a kennel and settled down in his own dog bed positioned behind the receptionist's desk.

Scooter walking on his "sticks." 

He grew and so did his personality. He quickly became the alpha of our household pack, an imp who delighted in annoying the older dogs and a vocal opponent of delayed meals. He insisted on the best lap and being the first one out the door for walks.

And so after many, many trips to the vet, many orthopedic exercises, we became foster failures. He and we were so bonded the very idea of placing him in another home was unthinkable. We made it official. We adopted him. Or maybe it was the other way around.

So nine years later, which was two and a half weeks ago. Scooter got sick. He started throwing up at 11pm and didn’t stop. By 4 am I was at the emergency vet to see if he was dehydrated. And this guy, this sick, sick, sick boy - perked up at our arrival like we were visiting a steak house. No, they said, but get him into your regular vet pronto. By 8:00 am we were at our local Durham vet, New Hope Animal Hospital, where he was soon sent back to the Veterinary Speciality Hospital with an IV already in place. I had imagined a simple GI upset, but somewhere along the way his immune system went into overdrive and destroyed his platelets - within a few days he had 0. Dogs can’t live with zero platelets. Old Scratch was coming.

But somehow, with the dedication of round the clock nursing and round the clock vet care and round the clock credit card charges,  little Scooter said “Get Thee Gone Satan!” And, somehow,  with the administration of one, then two steroids and finally an immunoglobulin infusion, Old Scratch started to doubt his chances. Oh, it was dicey for a while and it was close.

Our family decided together not to go to visiting hours because we didn’t want to upset him. We needn’t have worried, because while Old Scratch was knocking at the door, Scooter was playing the field, he was jumping into the arms of the vets and vet techs. He was being hand fed. He was wagging his tail. He was Hugh Hefner at the Playboy Mansion.

Finally, Old Sctatch just plum gave up and went back to whatever Hell hole he climbed out of.

Scooter returned home after five days and nights in the hospital with five different medications and the need for close supervision and much followup. But we give it willingly. It’s why I’m up at 4:12am writing- to give him a tummy protectant an hour before he eats breakfast.

Because he’s family. Because he believes himself whole. Because he is the love of our lives and we see courage and strength and humor in him everyday. Because he is truly a life-affirming gift from a divine Creator.

So, we’ve got a message for Old Scratch: when Scooter’s time comes, don’t come sniffing around here again. Because, this one, this little black pug with the hobbled-together legs and the oversized ego?

He’ll be going to Heaven.

Scooter recuperating in prime real estate.