Inky, in early stages of illness, before much hair loss or blindness

Inky, my husband’s dog, is blind.  She wasn’t born this way; in fact, this is a fairly recent development for her, thanks to a very rare and unusual autoimmune disorder.  We noticed her holding her head oddly one night, but thought it was just the light.  By the time we realized she was having trouble seeing, it was progressing very fast.  We estimate she lost most of her vision within two weeks.

Inky’s had a tough life.  I took her off the street at what we estimate was about two years of age, when I got a call about a stray Doberman.  In fact, she was a Rottweiler so ribby-thin that her breed was mistaken.  She was starving for both food and affection but fearful of many people, leading to conflicted fear-aggression, and very reactive to people in hats.  She cowered whenever an object was overhead, and a broom or stick was enough to send her fleeing or growling.

We were supposed to foster her for just two weeks until Rott rescue could take her, but Inky and Jon made a deal behind my back.  She stayed.  We started working on the fear-aggression and the extreme resource guarding, making significant progress over time.  Inky soon proved that while strangers and hat-wearers were suspect, she was one of the world’s most child-friendly dogs ever, and she lived for visits from friends’ kids.

Inky had a bit of an odd gait, but she wasn’t exactly picture-perfect conformation anyway, so we didn’t pay much attention.  A year later, however, it began to worsen, until she was dragging her feet and knuckling over, finally barely able to walk at all.  We suspected CVI, but a myelogram revealed a ruptured disc, likely from physical trauma.  All those cowers and growls made sense.  Inky underwent spinal surgery.  Now she travels hunched over, shuffling, occasionally unstable, and her run is anything but graceful, but she’s able to walk again!

Inky also developed a heartworm infection, despite being on preventative, and underwent treatment for that.  It was successful.

All was well until Inky began to lose hair on her back in October of 2009.  Vets and specialists were confused, and biopsies were sent around the world.  We determined she had an extremely unusual, not-yet-wholly-identified auto-immune disorder.  We opted to leave her be, as treatment was uncertain and she didn’t seem to be in any discomfort (aside from the whole going-bald thing).  With her shuffling gait and her half-bald body, I began calling her the Zombie Rottweiler.

And then this winter she went blind, almost certainly for the same reason.  Now this unstable, shuffling dog had to learn to navigate without sight in our house of steps and stairs and our multi-acre farmyard.

So What?

I am sharing Inky’s story because of a stinging comment made the other day by someone who should know better.  Upon hearing one of my dogs had gone blind, she immediately said she hoped it was Inky.  When I blinked and managed to ask why, she lightly answered that Inky was a “disposable dog.”

Now, no one mocks Inky more than I do.  I call her Stinky, I threaten her with explicitly outlandish and ridiculous fates, I pretend to be offended that she prefers Jon to me.  I have absolutely cornered the market on picking on Inky.  But she is far, far from being “disposable.”

In Reaching The Animal Mind, Karen Pryor describes realizing that a great ape’s comic personality was real, individual, creative, unique — “there was a person in there.”  This is someone which is often missed; animals are just as individual as humans.  And they deserve to be viewed as such.

For all her many disadvantages in life, Inky has one of the very best attitudes I have seen in any species, including human.  She has never sat moping and feeling sorry for herself when it was difficult to walk or when the world went dark; she simply tried the best she could to move about with us.  When extreme cold causes her muscles to lock up, literally freezing her in place, she patiently waits for someone to come and assist her, grumbling a bit at the necessity.  She still explores and even runs about the yard, usually managing to navigate safely — and when she makes a mistake, striking a tree or parked car, she doesn’t respond with frustration or aggression, rather a simple “Oops!” and she tries a new route.  How many humans have you seen age or become infirm so gracefully?

I have long thought Inky’s plucky attitude would make her one of the best therapy dogs for ill or disabled kids.  In addition, as I have mentioned, Inky adores children.  Unfortunately, aside from the difficulty finding a reputable and competent therapy group, I think it doubtful that most hospitals would allow a Zombie Rottweiler into their facility; she looks pretty frightening and perhaps unhealthily contagious (she’s not).  As important as it is to teach children not to judge on looks alone, most hospital staff would do just that in her case.

Here’s the thing — the woman who called Inky “disposable,” who flippantly expressed it wasn’t a problem if Inky went blind or suffered another tragedy, works with troubled and at-risk kids.  She sees every day the devastating effect of giving up on an individual, of neglect, of generalization, of prejudice.  If I were to hear a school was on fire and comment, “I hope it’s XXX, because your kids don’t read anyway,” she would be (justly) outraged.

She has exactly the kind of disadvantaged kids who might connect with an unlucky dog.  The more I hear first-hand stories of troubled kids whispering to confide in dogs, or reluctant kids summoning their courage to try a new skill with a non-judgmental dog, the more I realize what potential a well-run therapy program can carry.  Animals can teach quite a bit, even when they are simply being themselves.

In my next post, I will share some of what Inky has taught us about training and specifically about training a newly-blind dog.  I hope it’s helpful to someone.