Spratts World - The Diary of a Downbeat Dog

I'm sure most people will have already heard of me. I've been at the sanctuary for over a year now and I'm quite famous. My picture has been in the newspapers, people come to see me and there's always an article or two about me in the newsletter.

If you want to know how I came to be the most important resident, (editor's note - one of the most important residents) it's because I was in such a bad way when they found me.

Most dogs I've talked to are pretty mushy about their puppyhood, their mommy, feedtimes, fighting with their brothers and sisters. Being fussed over and petted when they go to their new home. I can't remember any of that. The first thing I remember is waking up at the vet's surgery.

There were bright lights and shiny walls and strange instruments and it smelled horribly of disinfectant - ugh! It was pretty uncomfortable too. I was on a hard table, hooked up to tubes and drips and with needles stuck in me. I didn't try to move - everything hurt. What was even worse was that I could hear the vet saying that he didn't expect me to make it. To tell you the truth, at that stage I agreed with him.

The Dog Wardens had fetched these people from the animal sanctuary (they call them the pet samaritans) to see me. They had to find out if these folk wanted to try to save me. It was all to do with Big Bill, whoever he was. I could see from everybody's faces that if the pet sams gave in to Big Bill, it was a one way ticket to the Canine Valhalla. But I didn't have to wait for them to answer -whatever it took, whoever they had to square up to, they wanted the vet to do his best.

The pet sams were real nice, they fussed me and told me I was going to be o.k. and whoever Big Bill was, they weren't bothered about him at all. They just wanted to know when they could take me home with them. I felt heaps better straight away and tried to lick the nearest hand. I knew right away that they were my friends and were going to do their best to pull me through.

What had happened to me? To tell you the truth I've done my best to blot it out. I wasn't very old when it happened, only a little tyke, still a puppy really. They've told me since that I was just over four months old when they found me and that I was dehydrated and emaciated. I was a bit worried about that till I found out it means very thin. I thought it sounded a bit terminal at first.

But it was bad enough, I had a fractured pelvis, two fractures in my right hind leg and my front leg was missing from the knee down. Bad people had done bad things. Hmmm. I don't bother it about now. What's the point of why me? What good would it do? I'm a survivor and I've made some real good friends - I wouldn't have met them if this hadn't happened. I'm a buddhist by the way, did I tell you. (ed's note - only some of the time!)

Anyway, I think the vet must have given me some painkillers and maybe sedation (thank's pal) because the next thing I knew I was lying on a feather cushion in a cage in front of the lovely warm stove in the sanctuary kitchen. While ever there was a chance, my rescuers weren't going to give up.

I spent around four months in the kitchen and confined to quarters - I wasn't allowed to move while my bones healed. It wasn't so bad. In fact, after what I'd been through, it was pretty darn good. The pet sams kept giving me dishes of food and warm milk and making a real fuss of me. The only thing I didn't like was when they kept putting a bandage on what was left of my front leg. O.k. I know it was a pretty raw wound but each time I fetched it straight off. Why didn't they know it made me itch?

When it was time to come out of the cage I had to learn to walk again. At first I felt a proper mutton-head - I kept falling over! Try putting your leg down when your leg isn't there. See what I mean? It's a balancing act alright, but I gradually got a bit better at it and could get around. That's more like it.

I could have just stayed lying around on a blanket for the rest of my life, these softies would probably let me. But I had a pretty good incentive to get going again. From where I was, I had a clear view of the cat's feeding dish. This feline creature is called Peaches. Peaches - I ask you!! If ever there was a wrong name, this is it. Lucretia - that would be more like it. She's got claws like razors and what a show off! Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth when there's people around - she turns her head and hisses die-you-dog at me when she thinks they're not looking.

Bits of chicken, sardines, minced meat - you name she gets it. I don't like her. You could tell already couldn't you? If she'd just eaten her food up and gone on her way it would have been alright. That isn't Peaches style - every time she took a mouthful she'd turn her head and slather it down going mmm, mmm, mmm for my benefit. Drama queen or what? That cat has real problems.

Then she'd come and rub up against my cage, flicking her whiskers up and down on the bars, not in any friendly way, just so I could get a whiff of the tasty meat and gravy she'd been packing away.

I'm on a schedule but she's ad lib. Tell me why this is? I had to wait till dinner time and she knew that. I do have a bit of a fixation about food, I'd be the first to admit it. If you'd been starved nearly to death, you'd be the same. So, when I get this aah-bisto smell wafting from cat-land in the corner, I wouldn't have minded having a mouthful or two.

Let's be honest, I wouldn't have minded having a mouthful of the cat as well, but she's too quick for me. That's something I'm working on. As you've probably guessed, I don't like cats. Or rather, I do like cats. I just wish I could catch 'em!