A Rescue Story

A Tribute to Duffy, a True Diehard

By Ginger McAfee

In July of 1999, the call came in that a shelter in northern Alabama had rescued a Scottie out of a back yard, and that he was in pretty rough shape. I called a friend who lived near-by and she went to get him out. The volunteer vet at the shelter said that he was in such bad shape, we should just put him to sleep. My friend said she still saw that Scottie spark in his eyes so I asked her to take him to her vet and do a Heartworm test. If the test was positive, we would help him to the bridge because in that condition, he could not stand the treatment. Fortunately, the HW test was negative. So she drove him straight to me in Nashville (where we were living then). When she pulled his emaciated little body out of the crate I cried. This dog weighed 11 pounds, his paper thin skin was hanging under his belly, He had very little hair, both his ears were  split, probably from fighting. We named him MacDuff, but his friends just called him Duffy. His teeth were worn down to nubs. (My vet later told me that starving dogs chew on rocks and dirt to try to find some sustenance and in doing this, he had worn his teeth down to nearly nothing. When she sat him out of the crate, he could barely walk, kept his head down, but when I looked in those eyes, I knew we had to try to save him. He was covered with fleas, which had so depleted his body that his blood count was dangerously low. With some IV fluids, high-energy supplements, hand feeding, and lots of TLC, things started to turn around. By day three, he wagged his tail, and within a couple of weeks, we heard him bark for the first time. That was a day we celebrated, because when a Scottie feels like voicing an opinion, we knew he is on the way to recovery.

After about two more months of TLC, Duffy embarked on his next round of adventures. Libby Gault and her two sons came to visit him on Sunday afternoon, and it was love at first sight for both her 11 year old son, Jordan, and Duffy. Duffy would chase the ball as long as Jordan threw it for him. We didn't feel that Duffy was quite ready to leave our vet's care, but we knew that when he was well enough, Duffy would be going home with Jordan.  A few weeks later, we packed his little bag and off he went for his 'happily ever after'.

But Duffy's story does not end there either. A few days later Libby called me with tears of joy in her voice. Unbeknownst to me, Jordan had been having lots of trouble adjusting to some changes in his life and had been have horrible nightmares, and doing some dangerous sleepwalking.  I knew Duffy was far from being housebroken, and cautioned Libby to allow Duffy to continue to sleep in a crate until he could be trusted. However, Duffy had other ideas. The very first night, he made him self at home in Jordan's bed and Libby did not have the heart to make him move. The next morning, she realized that Jordan had not awakened screaming as had become his pattern. Nor did he do it the next night, nor the next. In fact for the next five and half years, Duffy and Jordan were partners, sleeping peacefully together.

Still Duffy's story continues, about three years later, the family was transferred to Bahrain, and was there for a couple of years, then  they were transferred to Germany. A few years after that,  I heard from Libby at Thanksgiving that Duffy was not doing so well, and that they were very afraid they were loosing him. Another letter shortly there after said he had seemed to rally and that it looks like another Duffy miracle was in process. However not long after that, the letter came that I had dreaded every time I saw her name on the e-mail. Here is Duffy's final chapter;  written, I am sure with tears of sorrow.

"Hi Ginger, I'm hoping this message finds you well and that you had a wonderful Christmas and New Year's.  I had hoped to write you sooner and let you know how much better Duffy had been doing since Thanksgiving.  I didn't write you soon enough.  Duffy passed away today very unexpectedly. 

I say unexpectedly because over the month of December he had really perked up.  He was walking and trotting well on his own, eating much better, and interacting with everyone much better.  Dr. Adam had lowered his insulin thinking that was the cause of Duffy's problems, and it seemed to do the trick for a while.  So the holiday season was very nice for everyone, including Duffy.

Bill left on Wednesday of last week to return to Africa and every day after that Duffy seemed to do a little more poorly.  Loss of appetite, rapid weight loss, inactivity, everything essentially.  He spent his evening lying on my Nannie's feet or my feet or in my lap.  This morning Nannie left to return to Tennessee and I made sure before we left the house that Duffy was comfortable on his bed in the kitchen.  He had an extra lovey (blanket) and soft music and Slippers for company.  Even though I knew he wasn't feeling great I really didn't think that today would be his last.   I was planning on coming home and just holding him in my lap for a while.

We have decided to have Duffy cremated in order to bring him home with us when we finally return to the states.  The facilities that I've chosen are to be highly commended.  I think regular funeral homes would do well to be as considerate as this gentleman was.  Duffy will be transported to Strasbourg, France to be cremated under quality controls, returned to us, and then sealed in an urn of our choosing.  I thanked Herr Meinhard profusely as I felt like this was a proper and fitting ending for Duffy.  I could not have borne it if he had been just thrown in a truck and hauled off to the pound.  He had been treated like garbage once in his life and I just didn't feel like he should be treated that way at the end of it.

I gave, and still give, thanks that God chose to bless us with his little life.  I hope I have been as much a blessing in return.    And I thank you, Ginger, for what you do in service to these souls.  They have hearts that are as much deserving of love and respect as any human and you have been such a blessing to all the scotties that you have helped rescue.

Thank you Ginger, for all you have done.  I'm sorry to relay sad news but I knew you would want to know.  Please take care.

With much love,

Libby     

So it is with sadness, over his loss, but with joy over his life, that I write this tribute to a true Diehard, what a little trouper he was. I would love for his first owners to know what a wonderful life he led for five and half years. He became a world traveler, and a much prized family member.

Scottie Coat Colors

Coat Colors

by Ginger McAfee

McDuff always struck a handsome pose. Anytime we were out together, people would comment on how ‘old’ he looked. Or ask what kind of “Schnauzer” he was. Actually he was a beautiful silver brindle Scottie. When you mention Scotties, most people automatically think of black. Many are amazed that they even come in other colors, and ask, “Are they like ‘real’ Scotties?”

There has always been controversy over what was the original and natural color of our Scots. I am of the opinion that the original working Scottie was not kept at all for the color of his coat but how he performed his duties.

 Dr. Fayette Ewing, author of “The Book of the Scottish Terrier”, copyright 1932, revised edition 1949 states that in Volume I of the Stud Book of the Scottish Terrier Club of Scotland, published in 1895, there were 531 registrations, only 56 were registered as black with no other markings. Being very careful to identify each color, the registry had 39 color variations of which were descriptions such as ‘Grayish brindle, Brownish brindle, and ‘Nearly’ black.

The Standard of points of the Scottish Terrier Club of America, adopted in 1993  states  color as follows:
            Black, wheaten, or brindles of any color. Many blacks and brindle dogs have

            sprinklings of white or silver hairs in their coats which are normal and not to

            be penalized. White can be allowed only on the chest and chin and that to a

            slight extent only.

So how do we get these colors and why do we never see a spotted Scottie? According to Jill-Marie Jones’ article “Coats of Many Colors”, Dog Fancy magazine, May 1991,  Dogs have two major types of pigment, yellow and black. The color of our dog’s coats, is determined by genes controlling the amount and extent of distribution of these two colors. 

Pigment is formed by the interaction of two types of substances. First is the chromogen, or the color base. The second is an enzyme or catalyst; it can be limited, varied or inhibited in it’s effect. Together these two form the granules of pigment called melanin, which is distributed in differing amounts throughout the hair. The variations in this distribution are what account for the different colors and patterns in our Scotties.

Mrs. Dorothy Caspersz who contributed to the written history of Scotties was quoted by Muriel P. Lee in “The Official Book of the Scottish Terrier”, copyright 1994, page126. Ms Lee states, “Mrs. Capersz noted that there are three absolute self-colors in the breed; black, red, and wheaten.”

Black seems to be the dominant color in most any color scheme. And is the color that most first time Scottie owners seem to prefer. Black Scotties are also quite dashing in the show ring or out on a leisurely stroll, with their person. I think too, that because we see Scotties in silhouette so often that the public gets the image of Scotties as being black.

The Brindle pattern, which can be loosely described and having more than one color in the coat,  is quite complex in it’s action. The brindle coat is usually harsher and easier to maintain. Some coats seem to have a brindle genetic base but because the two colors involved are closely related, the brindle is hardly visible. I have seen Scotties who only show their ‘brindle’ when clipped very closely on the back. Other brindles have almost a distinct pattern that is nearly evenly distributed over the entire body. McDuff has a very even pattern to his coat, except around his face which is much darker. From a distance his coat looks gray but on closer inspection you can see the different, individual colors in the coat.

The brindle gene is recessive. Generally speaking either one parent must be a brindle or both parents carry the  gene in order to produce a brindle Scottie. There is still much research needed to positively identify all the modifiers and possibilities of other genes that could determine the different colors of brindles that we see in our breed. It does appear that certain dogs have the tendency to pass on genes that produce certain colors. There are also some who think that the receptors and mutations to the brindle gene can cause the different color patterns.

Wheaten, according to the AKC “Definitions of Unusual or Special Colors”,  is “a dull, lowly-saturated yellow.”  Not a particularly attractive way to describe our beautiful ‘wheatie’ Scotties. I prefer to call them, ‘the color of golden, ripe wheat’. All colors of wheaten are acceptable but the lighter, nearly white, coat is undesirable. The wheaten gene is also  recessive,  meaning that in order to produce a wheaten, both parents must carry the gene. The parents could be black or brindle but each have a wheaten gene to pass on to the offspring, creating a wheaten puppy. This is called heterozygous, each dog having two different type genes. Or you can breed a homozygous wheaten ( one who has two wheaten genes) to a black or brindle and produce a wheaten puppy. It still amazes me that you can breed a wheaten Scottie and a black Scottie and not get spots or stripes, but then it is all mapped out in that genetic code that we hear so much about these days.

It is my humble opinion that the color of your Scot’s coat is not nearly as important as who he is. Beneath those ‘coats of many colors’ beats a heart that is as true and loyal as the rugged Highlanders of old Scotia.

Many thanks to Dr. Rick Oliver, medical technician, in Nashville, TN for his help in putting together this article.

Little Black Dog

Little Black Dog
by Elisabeth Elliot (Author and Missionary)

It is a late October morning of glorious sunshine in New Hampshire and I sit in an antique rocking chair by the window of an old house which was once a barn. The gray rocks on Mount Lafayette's broad summit are dusted with snow, and the sky is as blue as a sky can be. All that is still green today is the evergreens. Between them are the black line drawings of the thin leafless maples, wild cherries, aspens and birches. The feathery tamaracks are dark gold. Little yellow apples hang on one of the gnarled old trees of the orchard. I keep hoping a deer will come for them.
My friend Miriam and I drove up yesterday from Boston for a few days of quiet at my brother's place. Both of us brought a load of desk work. No one else is here except Daisy, Miriam's new friend, a little white Pekingese. (Her old friend, Pity Sing, died a few weeks ago.)
MacDuff, my six-year-old Scottish terrier, is not here this time either. We went for a short climb yesterday afternoon, up a rocky wooded trail that he used to love. He would race after the chattering chipmunks, bound up the steep granite slabs, and wait, panting, at the top for us to catch up. I missed him yesterday on that trail. I miss him today when I look out of the window.
MacDuff died of cancer last week. I knew he was sick during the summer when his routines changed. He sat in the middle of the back yard one morning, instead of in his usual place by the fence, looking bewildered instead of in charge. One rainy day he was not on his chair in the screened porch, but I found him lying in a hollow place under a bush. He no longer leaped for his Milk-Bone at the breakfast table. But he kept his ears and tail up, and thus kept my hopes up.
The vet said he had an infection and gave us pills. MacDuff got very cagey at detecting where those pills had been hidden in his food, so I had to try ever sneakier methods of getting them into him. They worked fine. He was well again--for a while faithfully putting in his self-appointed barking time each day, letting neighbor dogs know who was in charge, and keeping off trespassers, some of whom must have been demons since none of us humans could see them.
But I saw that he was losing weight. I could feel the shoulder blades and spine through his heavy, ragged coat. I bought new kinds of dog food, special hamburger, yogurt. He was apologetic when he couldn't eat it, his eyes limpid with a plea for understanding, his stiff brush-tail quivering to explain.
"Little Duffer, little black dog--could you try this?" I would ask, offering some tidbit that would surely be irresistible. He would lift his black nose, take it slowly and delicately in his teeth, hold it for a moment hoping I would look away, and then place it on the floor as tactfully as he could. He did not want to disappoint me.
His suffering was a hard thing to watch. He was alone in it, as all creatures, human or animal, are alone in their pain. "The toad beneath the harrow knows exactly where each sharp tooth goes." There is no qualitative or quantitative measurement for pain. It is simply there sharp or dull, shooting or stabbing, bearable or excruciating, local or general, it is unexplained, uninvited, unavoidable. It takes command. It is all-encompassing, implacable, exigent. But of course I am speaking only of what I know of pain. How was it for MacDuff?
He expected no special treatment. He did not pity himself. He took for granted that he would be able to go on about his accustomed terrier business and when he found that it was somehow not working well, he made his own adjustments as unobtrusively as he could. It was still the supreme object of his life to see that I was happy. I think he lay under the bush in the rain not in order to wallow in solitary self-pity, but in order that I might not see him in trouble. He liked to please me. He delighted to do my will.
Is animal suffering different from human suffering? I hope so. Animals surely must not suffer the agonies of anxiety which accompany much human pain. "How shall I carry out my duties? What am I to do if this doesn't clear up quickly? Can I bear it if it gets worse?" The element of time is not a philosophical torment to them. They live as we have to be told to live--one day at a time, trustfully. I don't know whether it is accurate to say that "faith" is required of them, but if it is, they fulfill the requirement perfectly. They look to God, the Psalmist tells us, for provision for their needs. They are watched over and cared for by a kind Father. Not the least sparrow falls without his notice. Surely MacDuff was of more value than many sparrows!
I watched him try to lie down on his side, but something obstructed his breathing. When he was asleep he would begin to pant and would waken to change his position, sometimes with little muffled groans. This fellow-creature, I thought, formed by the Hand that formed me, suffers for my sin--for I am of the race of men who brought evil into the world, and without evil there could be no pain, no death. A Scotty would not have had cancer.
His wonderful face bearded, with tufts of eyebrows springing and black eyes shining--had reminded me of George MacDonald's belief that dogs always behold the face of the Father. MacDuff knew things--what did he know? What were the mysteries he saw--too deep or too high or too pure for me to be entrusted with yet? I think they helped him endure the pain. He was not bewildered, of course, by the questions that needle my mind--the origin of evil, God's permission of an animal's or a child's suffering. He was a dog, and to ponder such questions was not required of him. What was required of him he did, in an authentically, thoroughly dog-like style.
I will not weep more for him. I will be thankful for such a gift of grace. He was, I am sure, "assigned" to me. When life seemed a desolate wasteland, MacDuff was there. Jesus, the Bible tells us, during his temptation in the wilderness, was "with the wild beasts." I used to think of that phrase as descriptive of one of the elements of his dereliction, but it may be that the wild beasts, like the angels, ministered to him. Is it mere sentimentality to believe that? Is it too much to say that Duffer "ministered" to me? He did. He was my little wild beast in that wilderness.
The Bible does not speak specifically of the destiny of animals but there is a promise in the Letter to the Ephesians which surely must include them, "Everything that exists in heaven or earth shall find its perfection and fulfillment in Christ" (Eph. 1:10 Phillips).
Paul expresses his hope in the eighth chapter of Romans (verse 21 Phillips) "that in the end the whole of created life will be rescued from the tyranny of change and decay, and have its share in that magnificent liberty which can only belong to the children of God!"
Copyright© 1979, by Elisabeth Elliot
all rights reserved.
Elisabeth Elliot and her husband Jim, were missionaries to Ecuador. Jim was killed by the Auca Indians while attempting to take the Gospel to that primitive tribe. Elisabeth continued her work among the Quichuas and later lived and worked among the Aucas. She wrote several books about this time in her life, "Through Gates of Splendor" was made into a movie.