Last week, on one of our explorations into the mountains, our route took us past a derelict house with a dirt track leading to it. Two big, scary dogs came running out and towards us, barking. Being fairly remote, I thought we were in for a spot of bother. Two angry dogs, no-one in control.
It fairly quickly became obvious that the only bother we were in would be death by licking. Two overgrown young dogs of no more than 6 months old were absolutely bowled over to see us. But so thin, and so starving. Clearly abandoned. Tragically not unusual around here.
We gave them our lunch as we contemplated the dilemma. Two big dogs. What on earth would we do with two big dogs? We have a campsite - two dogs barking all night, lots of poop to clean up, children to consider, people cooking, scrounging dogs? No. High costs, a constant tie? No. We couldn't cope with two big dogs, one maybe, but two? How can we? What happens when we find more abandoned dogs on the mountain (and we will)? We can't save all the dogs in Abruzzo, (if only we could). But how can we leave them either?
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| Close to where they were found. A beautiful, but bleak, terrain in the winter. |
So they came with us. Taking a semi-tough line, we took the decision to neither discourage nor encourage them. If they came with us, fine. If they didn't, fine. If they came and were still with us when we got back to the car, we keep them and deal with the consequences. If they weren't, then so be it. We moved on, they followed. But we hadn't planned for what happened next.
We had to cross a river in the gorge, easy with stepping stones, one dog followed the other didn't. "Keep walking" we said, not our problem. By the time we got to the top of the gorge on the other side, our heart strings we being pulled by the crying of the young dog trapped by the river. Dammit. To leave both dogs to fend for themselves would be hard enough, but to leave one, all alone? The weaker of the two? Nope, couldn't do it. So KP, with the braver of the two dogs, returned to the gorge to encourage his mate to cross. He returned alone. She wouldn't come, and the braver dog chose to stay with his sister. Decision done, decision made for us. We continued our walk, which was no longer such a happy walk, both of us secretly hoping we'd bump into them on the way back. But we didn't.
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| The two dogs unexpectedly, and so sadly, captured by the camera not far from the river that they wouldn't cross |
We drove home not happy with what we'd done, but not knowing what we could have done either. 10pm that night we were stumbling back down to the gorge by torch and moon light, our consciences not allowing us to do otherwise. With heavy hearts we returned without them, no-where to be found.
Should we have saved them? Who knows, but it's not something either of us are proud of, or will easily forget.
So, pondering the sad tale, we decided if we couldn't save those two, then we would save another. Monday this week saw us driving home from the wonderful and devoted Canile di Lanciano with a skinny, shaking, terrified rabbit of a hound throwing up all over the back of the car. Welcome Finn.
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| Finn |
Saved from the "lifer's wing of the rescue centre. Shut away with the problem dogs unable to be homed (too neurotic, too dangerous or just too damned mixed up), we thought we'd give him a chance. We went to choose a puppy, but came home with a young, no more than a year old, bundle of bones, energy and neuroses. Puppies will always be chosen, but he was almost certainly confined to a lifetime in a metal cage, bouncing, literally, off the walls - mad, full speed dash to one side, bash against the wall, dash back. Again, and again, and again. All day long.
Whether this story will have a happy ending or not, we have no idea right now, but we hope with all our hearts that it will do. But we will give him a chance. Time (and plenty of it) will tell. As always, it helps to write, so here begineth the story of Finn...
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| A rare, calm moment - his butchered tail clearly visible |
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| Each venture outside is a major trauma guaranteed to send him, at best, shaking under the nearest hidey hole or, at worst bolting for his life. |
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