Bouncing back

The impact of being hit by a moving vehicle while walking to work on a sunny Friday morning might cause anyone’s life to flash before their eyes. But in my case, it was my dog Puddin’s life that flashed before my eyes. (Yes, I was that girl.)

However, as the shock from the impact settled in, the happy images from my trauma-induced flashback faded away to reality.

When I came to, we were sitting in the grass near the crosswalk with EMTs offering me a ride in the ambulance. I declined. My mind could only focus on Puddin’. During the chaos, my pup lost control of her bodily functions, as if the nasty road rash and mangled ankle weren’t enough.

For some reason, I found myself more worried about finding the poo bag to clean up her mess than my potential broken bones. Symptoms of shock, I guess. (Thank you to whomever got my green baggies scattered in the highway and picked up the mess.)

After the police finished their job, my knight, Asa, took us directly to the vet clinic. Upon arrival, I collapsed on the floor of the canine examine room. Did that really just happen? Tears started to flood after kissing my baby goodbye so she could begin her round of check-ups and I could begin seeking mine.

A local urgent care, knowing that I got hit by a car, told me to go to the emergency room after charging me $123 to take my blood pressure. Bumped, bruised, whip-lashed and feeling generally abused, I eventually got sent home with pain pills, ice and a script for lots of rest.

I tried to ignore the fact that I was missing the best – and possibly only – powder day of the season. On the upside, at least I got to re-watch the entire season of “How to Get Away with Murder.”

Since that fateful day, I’ve been working on my physical recovery through various therapies. Puddin’, however, is a bit more sensitive. Her mental recovery has been another story.

It’s easy to assume Puddin’ had a traumatic past prior, which would help explain her separation anxiety and emotional confusion. Getting plowed down by a Jeep Wrangler in a sketchy crosswalk was the last thing she needed.

So let me take a moment to give you a little adoption history about this sweet lil’ terrier mix, also known as a pit bull.

I knew I wanted Puddin’ from the second I met her at the La Plata County Humane Society in the summer of 2013. A friend, whose loving pit passed away the year before, spotted her on a tour through the kennels and wanted her, but the timing wasn’t right. In a feat of doggy match-making, she encouraged me to check her out instead. “Ahhh, she’s so sweet, you have to get her,” she urged. “Did you see she’s missing a toe? Poor girl.”

Like many strays, the story of Puddin’s toe was a mystery. Apparently, she had been picked up roaming the Southside, hungry and pregnant. Taking one look at this sweet, half-bald, white, gargoyle-looking creature, an officer for animal control decided to name her Puddin’.

Immediately, I knew I must rescue her. That is after I convinced my landlords that I really, really needed this particular dog, of course.

With their blessing and the doggy matchmaker picking up the adoption fee, I arrived at the shelter three days later to proudly proclaim, “I am here to adopt Puddin.’” But in the few days it took me to get my affairs in order, someone else had adopted her. I lost her.

Devastated, I was about to head to the door when my luck suddenly changed again. “Wait, you can still get her, she’s on her way back,” one of the Humane Society workers exclaimed.

Turns out beneath her sweet demeanor, little miss Puddin’ is quite the talented escape artist, although certainly not graceful. She blew through an expensive picture window at the home of her supposed new family after being left alone. Fortunately, her last straw turned into our second chance.

I knew deep down she wanted to be with me, and obviously she knew it, too.

No matter her sordid past, Puddin’ has not only captured my heart, she has done so with most people she’s crossed paths with. My downtown work locale has most likely contributed to her fan base, thanks to a boss who also has a soft spot for pit bulls and lets me bring her to work. If dogs had Social Security numbers, Puddin’ would most likely be on the payroll.

Meter readers on Main Avenue will visit Puddin’ throughout the day. Her favorite (you know who you are) happens to also be conveniently sponsored by Zukes. The bank tellers adore Puddin’ and love seeing her smiling face. The nearby coffee shop is also a popular stop on her treat route. The barber shop fellas have a big Puddin’ crush. The next door brewery crew, my customers and so many more all seem to love Puddin’.

And, yes, the rumors are true. There are a few dozen Puddin’ calendars around town. She’s a celebrity. From the diver here at the Telegraph, to the cover girl of the other paper – twice – Puddin’ is a darn cute pitty-pig that has a tendency to change the minds of people who hold a certain stereotype about this special breed.

Sure, I’ll admit that I spoil Puddin’, but in her defense, she’s earned it. New toys, lots of bones and a million kisses a day. Naturally, my friends call me the crazy dog lady. Fine. It may be true. I am totally obsessed with my princess, my Puddin’ pot pie.

After the accident, many folks offered up their services for Puddin.’ A local pet store even sent Puddin’ a care package.

However, her emotional scars ran deep. After several weeks, she still wasn’t herself and had stopped obeying me all together. After exhausting most of the obvious options, I sought out the help of an intuitive healer. Yes, an animal psychic.

“Puddin’ is saying that whistling will help,” the intuitive advised me. Tease me if you must, but turns out, it worked – as well as a host of other tips she gave me.

After a few sessions, Puddin’ listens and can now cross the street without pulling away or cowering in fear when a car approaches. Though we will never cross at that stupid flashy-light crosswalk again, at least I now know how Puddin’ lost her toe.

– Stacy Falk