MARTHA WATKINS

Martha Watkins (Paul's Wife) with "Spike"

Martha Writes:

"My best friend, Spike, is a big, short-haired mixed hound of some sort, and he has been at my side for almost 18 years. He is older than my oldest child. I got Spike shortly before the birth of my now-nearly-16-year-old daughter. He was already perhaps two years old. The woman at the animal shelter said I should not take him because he was 'vicious.' When I asked her how she knew that, she said the folks that brought him him spoke only Spanish and said, 'Combative, combative.' I looked at Spike (a name he had already been given at the pound). He looked at me. I could tell by his face, there was absolutely no way this huge, muscular 90-pounder was a mean dog. After a while, in the cage with him, I said, this is my dog. He was too big to fit in my jeep with all the groceries I had just bought, so I had to drive the 30 miles home, leave my groceries, and drive back to get him. Before I went back for him, I bought a leash.

"Spike was my constant companion from then on. I had a little rock shop and ran the local Museum just outside Death Valley National Park, where Spike became a fixture. Bus tours would stop, and the tour guides would always bring a treat for Spike, much to the delight of the tourists. Spike also had a route where he knew the townfolk would leave little treats for him, and he absolutely adored the waitress in the little cafe next store. She would often save a piece of left-over meat for him. Sometimes, I would become very busy at work with a grant deadline, so I would try to 'hide' the fact that I was there by parking my car behind the building. I enjoyed talking with people, but sometimes I just had to lock myself in the back office and work. Without fail, people would still come around the back and stop in. Finally, it dawned on me how they always knew I was there: Spike was out front giving me away!

"My second daughter was three weeks old when her father was diagnosed with cancer. He was 35. While he underwent treatment in Los Angeles, I took care of two tiny girls and tried to maintain our business. Every four days for nearly a year, I would pack up my girls and Spike and drive the 300 miles to Los Angeles to be with my husband. During this ordeal, I would sometimes find I needed to sit on the floor with Spike and just hang on his neck and cry. He was a strong dog, and could easily support me. My husband got better for a few years, and, at one point told me, 'You like that dog better than you do me!' He was jealous! I didn't say it, but I thought, 'Maybe so.'

"My daughters were three and four years old when my husband was diagnosed with leukemia, caused by the radiation he had been given for the first cancer. I could not believe that God would be so unbelievably cruel as to make us go through this twice. Thus began the long days while my husband underwent a bone marrow transplant. Again, for nearly a year, I drove from Death Valley to Los Angeles once a week -- two little girls, Spike and me. I would be so exhausted, sometimes I wouldn't use my head. Once, around 3:00 a.m., in a very bad part of Los Angeles, I pulled over to get something out of the back of the truck. The girls were asleep, and Spike was lying down in the truck bed. When I got out, I saw a group of Hispanic teenagers, all young men, approaching me. As they began to surround the truck, I realized I certainly had made a mistake and was gripped with fear. At that very moment, Spike sprung to life, barking furiously. The men backed away immediately, and I quickly jumped in the truck and took off. Thanks, buddy!

"My husband died just short of his fortieth birthday, leaving me to fend alone with two small children. Again, Spike was my consoler, protector and constant friend. I moved to a larger town, which is where Spike began having a problem with female dogs. They would actually come to my yard in a pack. Spike got into some pretty bad scrapes. One day, I went outside to find him lying on the patio, not moving. I said, 'Get up, buddy! You gonna sleep all day?' Spike slowly struggled to his feet. As he stood, I was horrified to see a huge pool of blood under him. He had been shot, and the bullet had ripped a huge hole in his side. I yelled for my then-boyfriend (later to become my husband), who picked up the mighty dog in one fell swoop. We rushed him to the vet. The bullet had gone in just under his spine from one side, barely missed all his vital organs, and exited the other side, leaving a huge hole. When he recovered from this ordeal, at the ripe old age of 12, I had Spike neutered. It worked, and his problem with female dogs was solved.

"Later on, we built a dog run for Spike. My new husband wanted to make the fence six feet tall, as Spike was a champion jumper. I said, 'He's too old; he can't jump anymore.' After much debate, the fence was built five feet tall. As I watched out the back, my husband went around front and hit the side of the truck, which was Spike's signal to go for a ride. I was amazed to watch my 'too old' dog clear the fence from a dead stand-still with no effort at all.

"Now I have another daughter, age seven, and I am teaching my oldest to drive. Spike still occasionally goes for a ride with us, but he has to be helped in and out of the car. He is 18 and failing fast. I am faced with one of my worst fears -- having to decide if it is time for him to die. I often pray the decision will not be mine. But, as he struggles to move, I know it will fall on me. While contemplating this recently, I began to weep quietly. Spike was sleeping in the bedroom; he has lost much of his hearing and it is hard for him to move. Much to my amazement, he came walking in from the other room and put his head in my lap. How does he know?" Contributed by Martha Watkins, Pahrump, NV, January 2000.

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Sad update on Spike: "On January 20, 2000, I went out to call Spike in from the front yard, where he had been lying. I could see that he wanted to come to me, he just couldn't. My daughters and I carried him into the house, put him in his favorite spot (right by my desk where I frequently work) and covered him with a blanket. It was apparent the end was at hand. We all stayed with him, petting him. My two older girls were so compassionate, which, at ages 14 and 15, is not usual. My 7-year-old daughter simply wailed. Hearing her cries, Spike tried with all his might to get up to comfort her. I told the girls now was the time to say their good-byes and, one by one, they had a private moment with the dog who had been with them all their lives. Then I asked them to leave me with him a moment. I put my head on his mighty chest and told him it was okay to go. I said we would be fine, and I would see him when I came over. He took three breaths and he was gone. In the end, he had spared me my worst fear -- that of having to decide it was time for him to die. I had even made an appointment with the vet for the following morning. He didn't suffer and went peacefully and quickly. My husband came home to find us all weeping, and, when I told him Spike was gone, he began to weep also. Then he took a shovel and went out into the dark to dig the grave for our beautiful dog. I plan to plant a tree and some flowers near his grave in the spring. Our 4-year-old Rotweiller is listless and sad, wandering around as if to find Spike. Today I watched her go out and lay her head on his grave. After a few moments, she began doing something I cannot explain. She walked around picking up rocks and carried them to Spike's grave."

Update, April 12, 2000: "We did adopt a new dog -- a large Rottweiler and Golden Lab mix with a cropped tail. We call him 'Oberon.' He was at the pound and was terrified..... just cowered in the corner of the cage. It has been wonderful to see his personality unfold, as he is the subject of a great deal of affection now. We have all grown very fond of him. But there will never be another dog like Spike."

Article Submitted by Lynn!  Photos Submitted by Kimchi!
Thanks Ladies!  You ROCK!

http://www.srdogs.com/Pages/sdrl.s2.html

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