The first time I saw him, he was just another mixed-breed dog barking feverishly as he jumped against the front of his pen at the animal shelter. Yet there was something compelling about the bright-eyed, fox-eared mutt in front of me, an unmistakable sense that this dog, of all the dogs in the shelter, was special. As he looked up at me with shining brown eyes, something between us clicked; a connection had been made. I named him Studs, and it seemed to fit. He was tiny and tenacious and utterly adorable.
My family had always been one to take in stray dogs, cats, injured birds, and other species of all furs and feathers. Into this menagerie came a dog called Studs. Despite his size, Studs assumed that all other animals would naturally yield to his leadership. He learned to ride in the back of my pickup with his front feet perched on the wheel well and his ears streaming behind--and heaven help any other dog who tried to take his place. He became an expert at catching pine cones in mid-air. When sticks were thrown, Studs raced dogs twice his size to retrieve them, and often won. Larger dogs occasionally lifted Studs off the ground trying to get a stick away from him, but once he had his teeth into something, they stayed put. Studs was good natured and got along with everyone, but he never backed down from a challenge of any kind.
During my college years, Studs and I lived with my parents in southern Mississippi. Studs was quite at home in the spacious yard under the live oaks draped with Spanish moss. The property was fenced and I knew that Studs would be warm and safe in the Mississippi sunshine. I soon learned that sense of safety and security could be a fragile one.
I will never forget the horrible night that Studs was poisoned. It was only by chance, late that evening, that I happened to wander outside to check on the dogs. I found Studs and Justin, a beautiful golden retriever belonging to my younger sister, on their sides in terrible, rasping convulsions. While my father phoned the family vet, my mother and I rushed them to his office. Studs and Justin were in critical condition for several days, but with around-the-clock care the vet managed to save both dogs. In their stomachs he had found the cause of the poisoning: hamburger laced with strychnine, thrown over the front gate into my family's yard.
We soon learned that other animals had been poisoned that same night. Someone in the neighborhood, for reasons known only to them, had decided to rid the neighborhood of dogs. Pets up and down the street had been tempted with poisoned hamburger tossed over fences and into yards. Unlike Studs and Justin, most perished, crawling off in the night to die horribly painful deaths. Despite a large reward offered by our family, despite posters on street corners and articles in the newspaper, the dog poisoner was never identified.
In time, Studs made a full recovery and the incident became only an unpleasant memory. But three years later, just when my family had started to relax and forget the incident, the same cowardly technique was used again. I was on my way out of the house on a date when I saw Studs down on the ground, writhing in pain in that awful and now familiar way. Again Studs was rushed to the vet. For three weeks he lay paralyzed, body stiffened as if by rigor-mortis, able to do little more than occasionally lick his lips with a swollen tongue. His eyes followed me constantly as I moved about the room.
After months of rehabilitation, Studs was able to get on his feet, but physically he was never the same. From then on, he always walked with his body canted noticeably sideways, head turned to see where he was going. In time, as we grew accustomed to this strange manner of travel, the sight of Studs could occasionally be almost comical. When Studs got in a hurry, he tended to go off course entirely, his legs and body carrying him on a tangent while his head turned further and further to compensate, eyes widening in dismay as the angle increased. Yet the little dog's spirit never faltered. After stopping to turn himself back in the right direction, Studs tried again and again until he reached his objective. He still loved to fetch, sometimes falling head over heels but always emerging with the stick held high in his mouth as he trotted victoriously sideways back to me.
Studs and I lived all over the United States for the next ten years. I had grown used to his afflictions, but occasionally through the eyes of others I could see how hard things were for Studs. Once, as Studs and I spent the night in a campground, he was almost shot by a fellow camper who thought that Studs was a rabid fox. The man apologized, but I could see his point: to those unused to his appearance, Studs did look like some sort of wild animal.
Studs remained full of life even as his body began to deteriorate rapidly in his 13th year. Actions which other dogs took for granted, like rolling over, required a major investment in strength and concentration. But no matter what happened to him, no matter how pitiful his position in life, Studs never lost his pride. Although nearly everything was a challenge for him now, he always retained his dignity.