Nancy Williams: We didn’t want a Blue Healer, but got one anyway

One of the ways I’ve changed the most over the last 20 years is my feeling toward animals. I’ve never disliked them, but for the first half of my life, I didn’t connect. I do now. I really, truly, deeply do.

God gave my family a dog. I honestly think he sent us one a couple of Christmases ago. We’d put our elderly dog down and still missed her enough nearly a year later, we weren’t likely to get another dog soon or ever.

Younger Son, home from college, was working volunteer hours at a Christian Ministry. I could leave it at that so it sounds like he’s such a prince. However, they were hours he was working to offset some misbehavior.

A lady came to the place where my son was “volunteering.” With her were her four young sons and a young puppy, given to her by her former boyfriend. She said she’d come to Asheville with the boyfriend who had since taken off and now she and the kids were living in a hotel. She was doing food delivery for money, not even barely getting by, not able to take care of the puppy. All she wanted was for the pup to have a good home. Would anybody there take the dog?

My son, typically not an empathic type, said the four young boys were sitting stoically, watching their mom give away their puppy. Tore him up. He said he’d help. What could be done? What did they need? The mother simply wanted to know the pup would be cared for. My son said he’d take it and keep it or find it a home.

After they left, my son dug around in the clothes donations and found a tiny infant coat, put in on the pup and texted me a picture. Can I have him? I’ve named him Bozeman.

Caught me off-guard. Um … OK, I guess … if you’ve already named him, there’s that. Lots of practical things racing through my mind. Didn’t want to rain on College Son’s parade. Bozeman was a little blue heeler, thoroughbred, but without papers. I liked that part for sure. Pedigree without proof. I could relate.

It took our whole family, both households of divorced parents working together, juggling schedules to take care of the pup. Coordinate food, exercise, vet visits. Some of the surprise of the pup is what he brought to the relationship between my son and his usually unemotional father. Dad connected to the pup like some do to a grandchild, I suppose. My adult son and his dad talked more. They laughed more. They swapped Boze stories. Everybody grew closer as we worked together to manage puppy chaos.

Our Blue Healer.

I’m not a grandma, but acted like one when I bought the grand dog a pack of the most expensive treats. Potato and duck formula with, according to the package, “real, high quality duck” as opposed to average quality duck, I guess. The treats were grain-free, probably organic, non-GMO, gluten-free and all that clean eating stuff. Treats turned out to be too blue-blooded for our blue-collar blue heeler. He didn’t like them. Boze likes the cheap stuff. Makes me sorta proud.

We managed Boze several months during the pandemic. Then Boze went off to college. Lived as contraband in a triplex (which didn’t allow dogs) with nine other college boys and whatever college antics they were up to. Probably better I don’t know.

There were visits back and forth during for a year or so. If College Son needed to travel, Boze relocated to Asheville. When Boze was in town, my son’s dad, the dog grandpa, hurried home from work every day to pick him up, so they could spend time together hiking, followed by just hanging out listening to bluegrass together. Boze is an ideal companion for Dad. Half outdoor canine athlete and half indoor lap cat.

One afternoon, when Boze was in town so College Son could have less dog around during exam week, Dad called me. Barely able to talk, he said Boze had been injured. “It’s bad.” I called ahead to the vet and met him there.

After he carried Boze’s limp, still body in to the examining room, Dad collapsed on the counter sobbing.

They’d been playing fetch, Dad threw a huge stick and Boze jumped to catch it mid-air. The stick landed with one end in the ground and Boze landed on top of the stick with the other end in his mouth, his weight pushing the stick through the bottom of his mouth, into his throat. Because the dog’s airway was now blocked, Dad pulled the stick out, knowing that doing so might cause him to bleed to death. The drive to the vet’s office was the longest 10 miles ever.

Older Son came to the vet’s office to sit with us. As we waited, afraid of what we’d be told. Went to get sandwiches, which nobody ate. When they gave us the word Boze was probably going to live, I called College Son and told him what had happened. He said he was coming. His friends put together a snack bag to keep him awake for the drive home.

Hours later, after vets had done what they could and we were back home, College Son walked in the door. Boze, laying in the living room floor thumped his tail once. His pitiful eyes found his boy and his boy got in the floor beside him and held him. No medicine in the world like those you love by your side.

Texts came in all through the long night. Boze’s college friends were worried and checking on him. Next day, College Son went back to get the dog collar we’d left at the vet’s office. The vet staff asked, “How’s Boze?” Touch and go. “And how’s … your dad?” Same. Touch and go.

Boze turned a corner after a few days. We celebrated when he could drink some water from a bottle. Celebrated when he ate some egg from our hand. A few weeks passed and he was back to mostly normal. Seems like only permanent damage might be to a saliva gland. He drools slightly more than he did pre-accident. It’s OK. If your miracle is a slobberer, he’s still your miracle.

Some of the times that have squeezed my heart the most the past few years is when people have posted in social media about loss of a beloved pet. Old cold-hearted me has had tears for people I don’t know, losing a dog I didn’t know, because of what the owners have written about their love for their four-footed companions. And I’ve treasured the photos which show sweet fuzzy pups changing through the years with their families until they are grey around the muzzle, then finally put to rest. Finally, I get it. Perfect love.

This is the opinion of Nancy Williams, the coordinator of professional education at UNC Asheville. Contact her at nwilliam@unca.edu.