It’s been a year since my Annie was poisoned. She was caught up in a game that happens every year around this time. Some local farmer, high on some power trip of dog-hating goes out into the world and drops off poisoned meat for the wild and abandoned dogs here in Portugal in an attempt to get rid of how many ever they can hit. Annie wasn’t abandoned though, and she wasn’t wild. Well, she was at heart, but only when she got to run free.
Annie was a Posovac hound mix, though she looked pure to me. In her heart, she was pure. After a life of abandonment in the Balkans, being sent to a kill center, and having puppies somewhere along the way, my little girl arrived in a shelter for dogs. She was sterilized without the benefit of anaesthesia, taken to a new shelter, and put up for adoption. She came to me at a time when I didn’t really NEED a dog, but I did need a friend.
A lady I knew in England was part of the Balkan animal rescue group, Balkan Underdogs, and she paid to have Annie brought over to England in the hopes of finding her a home. The moment I saw her face I knew she was mine. The problem was, we were soon going to Portugal. We’d planned to go back to England but once here, decided life would be better for all of us here.
So, how was Annie my service dog? The day we got her, I had a seizure. I live with a seizure disorder and Annie, perfect little companion that she was, didn’t freak out, she didn’t run away, she just laid beside me and stayed there until it was done. After that, she learned to let me know when it was time for me to have a rest, to let my partner know when I needed him, and to stay with me until it was done. She had no formal training; she went purely on instinct and love.
Her favorite things in the world were running, me, swimming and food. Daddy was in there somewhere, but I protected her from the Thunder Monsters, I gave her loves when she felt bad, and I played with her when I had things to do. Because, it was Annie that led me to ghostwriting.
We’d left her in England with her first foster mother, awaiting our return. When we decided to stay, I had to pay for a very expensive trip from England, through France and Spain, and down to Portugal. I found a website where writers were needed, and started raking in money as fast as I could type. I’m still doing it, though my typing is much slower now.
Annie loved Portugal, she loved the warmth, she loved the wide open spaces, and she loved sniffing to find out what was hidden from her view. She was a hunter, after all. We moved to a farm nearby, for Annie’s sake. She wanted to run, she wanted to explore, she needed room. We found a place, took her there, and life had never been so good for her.
We had no idea it was the stupidest decision of our lives. We had no idea people would come up so far to poison dogs. You see, Portugal has a problem, a huge one. Dogs and cats are allowed to breed as they choose, people throw the puppies away, and don’t worry about it. Sometimes we even find pregnant dogs abandoned on the road. Shelters and vets are overrun. Some people take that as an invitation to poison the ones they deem unnecessary, not caring if they kill a beloved pet in the process.
I took Annie to the vet the day she died. Poison, he told us, she’s been poisoned. He thought he’d saved her but she died as we discussed taking her to the nearest animal hospital for further treatment. My dog, my friend, my service dog died because of stupidity.
The picture below is where Annie now rests, keeping an eye out for Mummy and Dad, wherever they may roam.
It took me a long time to get past the grief. Annie was just more in every way and I felt as though a part of me had been ripped away when she was killed. Life will go on, even if you are changed forever. Six months later, Freya came into our lives. A huge Portuguese mastiff, abandoned on the streets, found by a vet, sterilized, and slated to be put right back out on the street the same day.
We couldn’t allow that. She’s eaten her way through our shoes, plug sockets, clothes, socks, and anything else she can dig up but she’s ours. Then came Amy, because the local shelter had far too many dogs and had run out of room. Amy chews, but she’s sweet, skittish, and oh so lovely. I’ve learned that rescue dogs will love you in ways that dogs bought from shops can’t. They also require care, patience, and love far beyond what you think you should have to give. They have seen the worst in life, but they’re willing to forget it, if you give them just the right care.
In the end, Annie died and that left a huge hole in my world, not just my heart. It’s still not filled, it can’t be, Annie was unique. Our two other girls will continue to grow, and maybe one of them will learn what Annie did on instinct alone. Maybe not. All I know is, she’d be happy I saved two of her brethren from the kind of horrors she saw. And try to find solutions to the problem of dog populations out of control. Any advice?