Chihuahua Hero

Chihuahua Hero-
By Ann Notare
Jackson, New Jersey
There are two kinds of dog lovers—little dog people and big dog people. I’ve always been one of the latter. Our family dog when our sons, Chip and Louis, were growing up was a stocky 140-pound Newfoundland. I felt so protected with him patrolling our acre lot and watching over the boys. Little dogs? They seemed more like accessories. Who could they protect?

So you can imagine my reaction when Chip came home from college cradling the smallest ball of fur I’d ever seen. “His name’s Hunter,” he said. “He’s half Chihuahua and half rat terrier. Isn’t he great?”

“He’s, well…little,” I replied. Sure, he was cute but he looked more like a mouse than a dog. Chip had gotten the puppy for himself for his college graduation.

Now he was about to enter the police academy. He’d need help taking care of Hunter. My husband, John, worked demanding hours running his own business, but my schedule as a high school special-ed teacher was pretty flexible. I knew I would be the one spending the most time with Hunter. Yet, I wasn’t sure what I would do with a dog that could fit into the palm of my hand. What if I accidentally stepped on him?

Of course, God gave puppies the power to melt your heart. And though Hunter may have been small, his personality was outsized. Soon my little buddy and I had our own routine. Our favorite thing to do? Take long, and I mean really long, walks around the yard. I loved watching Hunter in his element—and you couldn’t beat the exercise! He’d cover the entire acre, sniffing every tree, every leaf and bush, every blade of grass, really. I could never seem to get him to come inside. Freezing cold weather, even thunderstorms, didn’t faze him. (Our giant Newfy used to cower at even a distant rumbling of thunder.) Sometimes I wondered if he’d stay out there forever!

That Sunday afternoon two years ago was typical. Chip was at work—he’d gotten a job as a police officer by then—so I clipped on Hunter’s leash and led him out the front door. The January air was crisp, but not frigid. A perfect day for one of those extra-long walks.
Hunter seemed to have the same idea. He immediately put his nose to the ground and sniffed a trail from the front walkway to the side of the house around to the backyard. We got pretty far from the house.

All of a sudden I felt dizzy. Really dizzy. My knees buckled and I could hardly stand up straight. John was home but he wouldn’t hear me calling for him all the way out here. I need to get back to the house. I’d only gone a few steps when my vision went blurry. I was in trouble. Lord, I can’t get back there on my own, I prayed, trying not to panic. You’ve got to help me. Just then Hunter ran up and nudged me. I nearly toppled over. Not now, Hunter; it’s not playtime.

Then I felt a tug from his end of his leash. Strong enough that it pulled me forward a little.

“What is it, boy?” I managed to whisper.

Hunter started walking. Fast. Each of his quick little steps tugged me along. The house was a fuzzy shape in the distance. It felt a million miles away. But Hunter kept going. Step after determined step he pulled me, occasionally looking back as if to check on me. We made it around the side of the house. Across the driveway. Up the walkway. I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision. We were at the front door! It took all my strength to pull it open.

“John, I don’t feel so…” I mumbled. Hunter’s leash hit the floor and he darted inside. John scooped me up into his arms and laid me down on the couch. “I’m calling an ambulance,” he said.

That’s the last thing I remember.

When I came to, I was lying in a hospital bed. John leaned over me. “Annie, you had a ruptured brain aneurysm,” he said. The doctors performed a craniotomy and discovered three additional aneurysms—all on the verge of rupturing. They used a surgical clipping method to close off each leaking vessel.

“Most cerebral aneurysm patients have severe cognitive impairment,” the head neurosurgeon, Dr. Nosko, told me. “But the fact that you were able to get here right away made all the difference.”
I looked at my husband. “Thank God you called the ambulance,” I said.

“And thank God for Hunter,” John added quickly.

Hunter! If he hadn’t brought me back to the house so fast, I might not have even been at the hospital, I thought. The dog who never wants to come inside knew right when he needed to do just that.

I spent nearly three weeks in intensive care. Dr. Nosko sent me home with clear instructions: Take it easy. No strenuous activities for at least six months.

Still, I thought I’d be back to my old routine in no time. But taking it easy wasn’t, well, easy. Even simple tasks like getting dressed and fixing a sandwich required a Herculean effort. It was depressing. What if I become a burden to my family? I worried. What if this happens again?

Some days those dark feelings took over and I didn’t feel up to doing anything. Hunter seemed to sense my mood. He’d paw at my feet, scurry back and forth and jump up like a windup toy until I said, “You need to go out, boy?” Then his stubby black tail wagged till it vibrated and I couldn’t help but laugh. I’d take him for walks—not far, nothing like we used to—but just being in the fresh air lifted my spirits. Hunter seemed to understand when I needed to rest too. He’d crawl down under my blanket, make his way to my feet and fall asleep—his velvety ears sticking up like antennae.

Before long, we were spending less time resting and more time outside. I felt energized again, and hopeful. By summer we were back on our long strolls around the yard. That fall, just eight months after the aneurysm, I returned to teaching.

I still spend a lot of time with Hunter. Only now I don’t see him as just my son’s little dog. He’s my big hero.