A Train, Tom Petty, and the Most Stubborn Dog in the World

So, that's what I wanted to do with Sadie last year. I was new here at PJ Media, and I was hesitant to write such a personal story for the site, but several of my colleagues encouraged me, and it seemed to resonate with so many of our readers. I received hundreds of beautiful emails and comments. I think it's the first time I truly felt like I was at home among friends here.   

But ever since then, I've felt kind of guilty that I've never written about my other dog, Gabby. Because without Gabby, there would have been no Sadie. And while Sadie was the sweetest, most unproblematic little dog I've ever met, Gabby was the complete and total opposite. She hated everything and everyone — everyone except me that is. So, I hope you'll settle in and indulge me as I honor her by telling her story. 

And yes, I'll probably go a little long here. But "by contrast with the Yankee, the Southerner never uses one word when ten or twenty will do" is one of my favorite quotes after all. 

As I told Jamie Wilson the other day when she was collecting stories about our favorite Christmas gifts from over the years, mine was a puppy. I don't remember exactly how old I was — I was living with my parents but old enough to work, so late teens, maybe early 20s post-college — and I saw a picture of a six-week-old puppy on a local animal shelter website. I can't describe how I knew, but I knew. She was mine. I wasn't even really looking for a dog at the time, but when I saw that little cross-eyed girl, I knew we were meant to be together. I knew she was what they call a "soul dog" these days.  

Just before Christmas, my mom and I went to the shelter to check her out. She was a tiny thing — barely six pounds — and she was there with her mother and sister. A rescue group was taking the mother sister, but not Gabby, who was in a separate cage. A couple there was checking her out and getting ready to ask the staff about her, but I went up to them and made some random comment about how she'd probably be over a 100 pounds and mean, and that prompted them to change their minds. 

When I finally got a staff member to help me claim what was rightfully mine, I was filling out some paperwork when the shelter director came running from an office and said, "No, no! That puppy can't go home with anyone. She's very sick and may die." I may or may not have dismissed all of this and begged, but the woman put her foot down. They told me if they sent her home with me and she died, it could open them up to all sorts of legal trouble. 

Instead, she told me to take a look at this dog named Honey. Honey was sweet and pitiful — a basset hound mix. She was the shelter resident who'd been there the longest, and I think they were desperate to pawn her off on anyone who would take her. They actually sort of guilted me into adopting her, and while I didn't really want to, I felt bad, so I did. I managed to get an appointment for her at my vet's office that afternoon, and then I took her home. My mom also had a little dog at the time, and she and Honey got along at first, but we were being very careful about introductions. However, the next day, I had to go to work, and they somehow ended up together. Honey nearly ripped out my mom's dog's eye. 

I got a call at work telling me that Honey was going back to the shelter and that my mom's dog would need very expensive surgery. Now, before you go feeling bad for Honey, I will tell you that the receptionist at my vet's office ended up adopting her after hearing the story. She'd fallen in love with her when I'd taken her to get her shots. 

But while Honey got a happy ending, I didn't, at least, not at first. I was so sad on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day — I felt like I'd lost a part of my soul. 

On the day after Christmas, my mom told me to get in the car, and we drove back to the shelter. When we got there, she explained that the director had been so upset about the whole situation that she'd called the house on Christmas Eve and told my mom we could come back and get Gabby if we signed a waiver promising that if she did, indeed, die, we would not hold it against them. 

As it turns out, she was fine, but Gabby was so stubborn, even as a baby, that I'm pretty sure nothing could have killed her. Little did I know... 

Gabby's dramatic adoption set the stage for her life. She may very well have been the worst dog I've ever known. All the training in the world couldn't help her. She wasn't just stubborn; she was smart. She could escape any room, gate, fence, car... no amount of training helped. And once she escaped, she terrorized everything and anything in her path. She hated most people, and she hated all other animals. She could also lock herself into things. I've had to call the police to get her out of my car, and I once spent hours chasing her through a strange neighborhood because she slipped out of the car when I stopped for a yard sale. She even once chewed up my brand new, very expensive leather jacket that was so high up on a shelf that I have no idea how she got to it. I tried having other pets, but my parents would end up taking them home because she wanted nothing to do with these animals. She wasn't exactly mean or anything, just a major diva.     

Related: An Empty House and a Broken Heart: Saying Goodbye to My Best Friend

Sadie is actually the only other animal she ever tolerated. Gabby ended up being my first pet as an adult, and she moved around with me several times throughout my young adult life. More often than not, it was just me and her. 

One day, I came home from somewhere, and she was sitting alone in my living room, howling like she was in mourning. I swear it was one of the only times she'd ever signaled that she had a heart. That's actually why I adopted Sadie, to try one last time to find someone to keep Gabby company when I wasn't home. It had to have been a God thing because Sadie had the perfect personality to complement her big sister's ornery one. They fought twice during their time together, but when Gabby was old, blind, and deaf, Sadie would lead her around the yard, making sure she knew where to go and when to come back home.  

Despite all of this, I loved her more than anything in the world. 

When Gabby was around 10 or 11, the three of us moved back in with my parents, who already had two dogs. My family had many acres of land, and their dogs (and Sadie) were able to roam leash-free without even thinking about getting close to the street. Gabby was the exception to the rule, and my poor dad didn't know that. On the first morning after we moved in, I woke up and realized Gabby wasn't in bed with me. She'd slept with me almost every night since I got her, and it made me feel uneasy that she wasn't there, but I was so tired from moving that I fell back asleep. 

An hour or so later, my mom came running into my bedroom, screaming, "Gabby was run over by a train."  I jumped up, frantic yet heartbroken, realizing my 60-pound soul dog that I'd had for a decade was gone, but when I went into the living room, she was sitting on the floor. I thought it was some kind of sick joke. 

Long story a little shorter, my dad had taken all the dogs out and Gabby had not only headed straight for the road, but crossed it and ran into the woods to the railroad tracks, stood and watched as a train came barreling toward her, and ignored my dad who was running and screaming at her at the top of his lungs. He said he watched her disappear under the train and felt sick. But when the train was gone, Gabby was still there, sitting on the tracks in one piece, looking at him like "what just happened?" 

She had a little scratch on her nose, but otherwise she looked fine. The problem was that she couldn't stand up on her own. Her backside seemed...dead, but she was very much alive. I called my vet and told them she'd been hit by a train, and they told me to hurry and bring her in. They had the surgical suite all set up and ready for her, but when I carried her inside, they looked at me like I was now the one playing the sick joke. 

As it turned out, she did have a fractured pelvis, but the entire staff at the vet's office was amazed that she'd even escaped the ordeal. The problem was that due to her age and the severity of the fracture, my vet decided that surgery wasn't an option. He told me the only thing might help her heal would be to keep her very still for three months and then after that she'd need a lot of rehabilitation. Even so, she may never walk again, and most people didn't have it in them to go through this. He said what he had in mind would be intense and I might want to buy stock in ibuprofen, or we could consider euthanizing her. I told him I'd do whatever it took. 

My parents put a twin-size mattress in their living room floor when I brought her home the next day, and that's where Gabby and I stayed for the next three or four months. My dad would relieve me for an hour or two when he got home from work so I could take a shower or get some exercise, but otherwise, it was just me and her on that stupid mattress, day in and day out. I had to keep her clean because she couldn't get up and go out to use the bathroom. I worked from that mattress. We ate there. Many people have told me they would have just put her in a cage, but I think that would have crushed her spirit. 

After a few months, the doctor finally cleared her for light activity. She couldn't walk, but she could drag her back legs. They'd get  scratched and bloody on the terrain, but my mom would make little socks for her, and I'd buy her little boots meant for hunting dogs. We tried wheelchairs, but the best option ended up being putting a towel or sheet under and holding her back legs up while she walked. Let's just say I gained a bad back and some major upper body strength that year. 

My grandfather lived next door, and he had a pool. He didn't allow any of us to bring our dogs in, but when he'd go to bed at night, I'd sneak Gabby down there and hold her in the water for therapy. She loved swimming as much as I do, and some evenings, she'd fall asleep in my arms. 

When summer rolled around, my grandfather rented a house in Florida as he always did, and invited us all to come if we wanted. My parents didn't go, but I really wanted to go to the beach with my family. However, I couldn't leave Gabby. She'd become extremely clingy, and my parents weren't really capable of taking care of her the way she needed. My grandfather, who was not an animal person, reluctantly agreed to let her come, too. 

My cousin had an eight-month-old baby, and we joked that I had more equipment for Gabby than she did for her son. Gabby and I spent our days swimming in the pool and walking on the beach. It did us both a lot of good, but especially her. By the end of that trip, she was doing things we never thought she would. As a matter of fact, one day, I came out of the shower and she'd climbed up on the chair in my bedroom. She was even starting to walk again. 

My grandfather was so impressed with her progress that he suggested I start allowing her to swim in his pool to continue her therapy — little did he know.  

I think I've told this story here before, but as it turns out, that house we rented wasn't just any old beach house. I was on a float in the pool one day when a maintenance man came to fix something. He kept talking to me, even though I was trying to read, so I finally gave in and tried to make polite conversation. "How old is the house?" I asked. 

"Well, let's see. Jane and Tom Petty built it in such and such year..." 

Wait, what? Did he just say Tom Petty? I tried to play it cool, but I remember my aunt coming out to the pool and me dramatically mouthing to her, "This is Tom Petty's house!" without letting the maintenance guy know that I was impressed — which is an understatement. If Gabby is my soul dog, Tom Petty is my soul musical artist. I can't even put into words how much his music means to me. No wonder my girl experienced a miracle there. We also found it fitting that she'd lived this crazy rock-star-like life and had now weaseled her way into recovering at an actual rock star's home. 

My Facebook memory today was this: Gabby hanging in Tom Petty’s guest room. I miss everything about this. 😕 pic.twitter.com/0jhlQH9RMr

— SarahDownSouth (@SarahDownSouth) June 1, 2018

Gabby did end up walking again, though she was never the same physically, and she developed a lot of other issues over the next few years, like frequent bladder infections and kidney damage most likely brought on by the train incident, plus she was mostly blind and deaf.  She basically became the most high-maintenance creature on the planet. She wanted to be by my side 24/7, and I did everything in my power to make that happen for her in her final years. 

One July 17, 2016, Gabby was a little on the wild side. I'd taken her outside, and she somehow got loose and found my dad swimming in the pool and hopped in to join him. That night, I was eating tacos and watching a movie, and she sat at my feet, waiting for me to share. After, I washed dishes, and she thought she was being crafty by sneaking into the pantry and taking treats off the bottom shelf when I wasn't looking. 

It was like any other night she had, maybe even better. 

After that, I carried her upstairs to my bedroom and got her settled in and sat down at my desk to try to get some work done. She was antsy, but I didn't think much of it. By around 1 a.m., I finally gave up on writing and climbed into bed with her. She'd get up every 20 minutes or so that night and try to sleep on the floor, but I kept putting her back in bed. Finally, around 4 a.m. or so, I snuggled up to her and wrapped my arms around her. We both fell into a deep sleep for a few hours, but then she woke up and got off the bed again. 

By this point, I was exhausted and just let her stay on the floor, something I hadn't done since that morning she was hit by the train. When I woke up an hour or two later, she was dead. 

There will never be another like her, which might be a good thing. But I learned so much from that dog, and when I do get to heaven one day, I hope she and Sadie are the first things I see.