A Plea For The Love Of My Life, My Dog

Self

My Dog, Ferrell aka My Boyfriend, is sick. He needs your help. Please.

A plea for your help...

I never write dog stories. I’m busy penning bits about unrequited love. So please be patient with me here as I give you one of those weepy, sappy dog stories about love, or is it a love story about a dog. Oh whatever. You be the judge. Because this divorced mother is just too tired from crying.

I met him, this scrawny and wild chihuahua mix, over six years ago, when I didn’t know a dog could be feral like a cat. In fact, that was/is his name, Ferrell. I thought my son, Jake, named him after one of his favorite actors, Will Ferrell. And that is why it is Ferrell, and not Feral. But to me, he is simply my Ferry, my Ferrylita, my Ferrylena.

Jake and his roommate rescued this little guy off a New York City beach. My son was reluctant to tell me about this little fellow. I had three dogs at the time, Milo, Happy and Fenway. Fenway had been my kid’s before he moved to New York City, leaving us behind in a small Hudson Valley town. It was a good decision made, but that’s another story.

Jake was worried that I would be upset with him, saying, “Another dog. I’ll end up with him.” Reader, I love dogs so much so that I can’t even watch doggie movies because I’m too afraid I’ll go all teary. And I’ve had enough crying for a hundred and one dalmatians, but that’s another story. I was simply not ready emotionally or financially to take in another dog, another lost soul.

The day my child came clean and introduced me to this little guy, I was shocked that this beast was ready to kill me from underneath the bed where he was hiding. I never met a dog who didn’t like me, jump all over me, lick my face. And here was a guy who Jake told me “fits in the palm of his hand,” who was as mad as I was.

Yes. You heard right. Ferrell came into my life as we were both hurt. I was angry at the world for the cards I allowed it to deal me over the past years of money, health and men troubles. And Ferrell, who had probably been abused and kicked out, saw blood when he looked at me, just another human.

To win Ferrell’s heart, I brought him chicken, turkey and hot dogs from Katz’s Deli and cupcakes from Cake Shop. Finally, Ferrell thought it was ok for me to walk him when I visited. And when Jake and Ferrell made the train trip up to Putnam, the little boy ran into my arms. I didn’t know then that this would become the man I’d nickname my boyfriend, because sometimes he’s good, sometimes not.

I left upstate. Jake moved. I got the dog. Ferrell, my Ferrellena, stayed with me through my stint on the Lower East Side, a summer in Tivoli, a City Island bungalow, the Westchester woods and back in the Hudson Valley. The dog, who I couldn’t figure out who he is until I recently saw a dog bark like him, stayed by my side. I try to tell myself this half chihuahua, half rat terrier, half something else was devoted to me for more than just some vittles.

While in City Island, Ferrell’s personality would sometimes turn back to menacing, much like the early days when we first met. In the Westchester woods, along with the angry snarl my man became very sick. Bloody vomit. Bloody other stuff. I learned after he became dehydrated that he had Addison’s disease. Once a month shot. Steroids every day. My Ferry became another man. Healthy. Husky. Lovable.

Fast foward to today. It all started when I prepared to move us to the Catskills. City woman in the mountains. It’s nice here. After living in the woods for four years, I’m finally in a community. But Ferrell saw me move boxes out of our garage apartment, and had this worried look. A reminder here, he’s a rescue. I think he was afraid I’d leave him behind. Never, Ferry, never, EVER.

Behind closed doors, where no one could see. My loving boyfriend became vicious at the sight of food and wouldn’t eat. Not only was he losing weight due to that. He wasn’t getting his medicine that I’d hide between the doggie yuck. He became dehydrated from throwing up not only old food still left in his stomach but also the huge amounts of water he’d consume.

Finally, when at six in the morning in the middle of deserted street I looked over to closely examine blood in his stool I became worried. Not for me. But for my man. Eight visits to doggie docs in less than one month. The old vet an hour away. A new vet up here. Emergency vet that I almost didn’t find in the middle of the night. And a second opinion an hour away.

Too much steroids. Loose teeth causing an infection. Possible problems with the esophagus. Alot of money spent so far, that I don’t have. My ex husband who adores this dog has been paying for the shots, the fluids, the wear and tears. And the blood tests show all this effected his kidneys, his liver, his potassium levels.

The love of my life, this little rat named Ferrell, who curls up next to me to sleep, who is the first one to jump and scream, “Mommy’s home. Mommy’s home,” needs me to help him. The doctor, a nice, smart woman, said he needs three days of intravenous fluids and surgery to remove teeth. I got the financial estimate. Almost 2,000 bucks. But with this Ferrell should be all right enough to start caring for all his medical issues.

I cannot afford 2,000 dollars. Don’t have it. Won’t have it until I sell the book I’m writing. That’s another story. Ex husband, who’s been very generous, is like everyone else these days strapped for money, especially that kind of money. I’m hoping for a fairy gdmother to step up with pennies from heaven.

If anyone can help, or knows of someone who can -- please contact me. I’m afraid time is running out.

Thank you for reading this.

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This article was originally published at . Reprinted with permission from the author.

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