CHAPTER 1

The story of Sweet Pea is an incredible rescue story, one that transcends the typical pet-rescue stories that people are sometimes fortunate enough to be a part of. Sweet Pea's rescue brings us to a place reached only through love and trust.

My first introduction to Sweet Pea took place one intolerably cold, early-spring afternoon in the small town of White City, Oregon, during my drive home from work. A little white, emaciated dog,—with only three useful legs,—hopped in front of my car on the main street leading to my home. I rolled down my window and said, "Hey, Sweet Pea, where are you going?" The name "Sweet Pea" was a term of endearment I often used, and later it became her lifelong name.

At that time, however, this dog wanted nothing to do with me or my heartfelt greeting. She scurried into a familiar hole that she knew would take her to safety. The hole dipped under a fence at the edge of a large, long lot upon which sat a dilapidated, abandoned, single-wide house trailer. The wobbly structure had broken windows and insulation hanging beneath it, but Sweet Pea was safe there.

The next day I encountered Sweet Pea again, only this time she was trapped, in a circle, by three boys on bicycles. They were hitting her with sticks and throwing rocks that they'd stored in their pockets.

I hollered at them. "Stop hurting that little doggie! How would you like it if someone did that to you?" Sweet Pea took advantage of the pause in their abuse, hopped as fast as her three legs would allow, and slipped back through her hole into the fenced lot.

The entire fenced area including around the trailer had no trees to shade Sweet Pea, and the temperature could exceed one hundred degrees in the summer months. In the winter and spring months, everything was frozen. Without trees or foliage, the ground became an ice rink. The dog's only protection was the dilapidated trailer with its insulation hanging down.

Sweet Pea foraged in the neighborhood garbage bags and cans, eating whatever her little teeth could chew. She even ate paper from hamburger wrappers and tossed-out, slimy-looking foods. Part of her foraging involved crossing a busy, four-lane highway a block away. I would follow her to the grocery store and watch her forage in the store's garbage debris.

My meetings with Sweet Pea took place daily for nearly three years. I saw her while driving to work in the mornings and on my way home in the evenings. At each encounter, I talked to her, calling her Sweet Pea.

At our home, we had two dogs and four cats, all rescues. My heart yearned for Sweet Pea to be part of the family, but Sweet Pea wanted nothing to do with humans. I observed that her abuse from the boys seemed to be a weekly thing. It is rare to see a homeless dog for such a long period of time. Usually stray dogs are killed on the road or picked up by the local animal shelter. I've picked up a few strays myself, locating their families by the collar tags or taking the animals to the shelter. Sweet Pea did not want to be caught.

I called the animal shelter. An officer called me back, informing me that the little white dog in White City "could not be caught." They had tried many times. Poor little Sweet Pea.

One year Sweet Pea had another dog friend that roamed the neighborhood with her, searching for food. They were an odd pair. Sweet Pea, with her short legs and long body, appeared to be a Corgi-Labrador mix, and her friend was a very large, shaggy brown dog. I'm not sure where the large shaggy dog slept. He surely could not fit into Sweet Pea's small hole that led into her lot. During the day, I would see them together, crossing the busy highway. Their friendship lasted about six months as they foraged for food together. Then one day, Sweet Pea was alone again.

During her homeless years, Sweet Pea may have had puppies, because I heard a great deal of barking going on inside the broken-down trailer. A year after hearing all the barking, I noticed that her belly was rubbing the ground when she ran across the road to scurry under the fence to her safe place. It looked like she was ready to have puppies. When I didn't see her for a couple of weeks, I thought she might have been run over.

On my way to dinner one evening, a friend and I saw Sweet Pea hobbling across the street in front of my car. I said to my friend, "There is that little white dog, Sweet Pea. I think she's pregnant". My friend said, "She's not pregnant. She had her puppies,—eight of them." I was surprised that my friend knew that Sweet Pea had had eight puppies. We went to a nearby restaurant, but I was not able to enjoy my meal because I was thinking about Sweet Pea and her puppies.

We hurried home after dinner, and by then it was dark. I got my flashlight and binoculars and went to stand outside the fence that surrounded the old trailer. I flashed the light under the trailer, and to my absolute astonishment, Sweet Pea jumped up, barking and hopping as fast as a little white dog could. Under the trailer, eight puppy heads extended, sucking the air as though mommy's milk would be there. I was surprised that Sweet Pea was running and barking instead of staying with her pups. I found out later that "wild" dogs behave this way to distract predators from their young.

I couldn't sleep that night, as I was brainstorming how to rescue the pups and Sweet Pea. The next morning, I located the man who owned the lot. He told me that she had been around for a couple of years and had had a litter of pups once before, but he didn't know what had happened to them. He gave me the combination to the lock on the gate to his property—and I went into rescue mode.

This rescue was different from any I had ever done before, and it gave me cause for concern. How would a wild dog like Sweet Pea react to my intervention? My first step was to go inside the gate and take a look at the pups in the daylight. Sweet Pea ran off, barking again. The puppies barely had their eyes open, but they were very large for Sweet Pea to have carried inside her skinny little body.

The joyous rescue began with my calling the local Animal Shelter and Humane Society, seeking advice and asking for a humane trap. There were no available traps for her estimated size, so I called around to the pet stores,—with no luck. Then I called the Havahart company, and they located a metal trap in Coos Bay, Oregon, that fit the estimated size of Sweet Pea. I ordered it.

While I waited for the trap to be shipped, I went to a friend who had the largest chain-link kennel I had ever seen, and together we constructed a safe place inside my fenced yard to protect the puppies and Sweet Pea,—if I could trap her.

I stayed in communication with the local Humane Society. We made an agreement that they would help me adopt out the puppies through a local pet store where they had an adoption kiosk. Because of the intensity of this rescue,—and the fact that I worked full-time—there was no time to name all eight puppies. So I just called them puppers.

Each day, twice a day, I pulled each puppy out from under the dilapidated trailer. I instilled in each of them some sense of self-worth, saying, "Puppers, someday, someone is going to pay fifty-five dollars for you to be part of their family. Can you believe that? Fifty-five dollars!" At that time, that was the going rate to adopt a dog.

It was mid-October. The weather was heading toward a freeze, and heavy rains were imminent. I prayed daily for strength to help this little family of dogs, as I waited for the trap to arrive. Each morning before work and every evening after work, I made up a gruel of soft foods and supplements, pulled the pups out from the trailer, and syringe-fed them food and water. Each night, I slept in a T-shirt—to get my scent on it for the puppers and Sweet Pea to get used to,—then each morning, I placed it in their nest under the trailer. Sweet Pea needed no help keeping the nest area clean. She instinctively knew how to care for her young.