How is one motivated to spend 25 years in rescue? It starts with a dog and a situation that is unforgettable. I wrote this story years ago of the events that started me on this path and was the origin of TIRR Rescue. The story was published in breed and club magazines around the world before Facebook existed. I hope you enjoy this story, and it moves you to participate in the rescue of unwanted Ridgebacks.
The Survivor - A rescue story
Part I: The Long Journey
The Email arrived late that night two years or better past. It was from a respected member of the Ridgeback Community who had rescued many of the breed. It was a ‘forward’ of another Email, with no comment or explanation. The original was from a hunting interest mailing list, it read: “Purebred Rhodesian Ridgeback; won’t hunt. “For Sale, cheap”. A phone number was included. Calls were made, a prize agreed and a volunteer offered to purchase the dog and turn him over to our independent rescue group. Part of the deal was to secure all “papers” related to the breeding of this dog.
The next day a veteran rescue volunteer set out on the eleven-plus hour drive to South Texas. Being the middle of July, with afternoon temperatures well in excess of 100 degrees the early morning start was essential, but mornings were not a good time for this young woman in her first weeks of pregnancy. The trip to get there was not a pleasant one but what waited at the trip’s end was far worse.
Arriving in the early afternoon with temperatures approaching 105, the site before her was staggering. Fifty or more dogs were held in open wire pens. There was not a tree or even a blade of grass in sight. The only shelter from the sun and heat were 55-gallon metal barrels in a few of the pens. The barrel in the pen that held what was once a Ridgeback (now only a shadow of a dog with every bone in his body visible) was standing on end, offering no shelter. This was just as well, as the afternoon sun transformed the metal barrels into solar ovens, multiplying the intense heat. The owner, the one responsible for this disgrace to all humanity, commented; “He keeps hiding in the back of the barrel and it’s real hard to get him out. “He looks kind of thin, but they hunt better when they’re hungry.” The pen was ankle deep in waste and the smell of place and the person was overwhelming to the rescue volunteer. Undeterred, teeth clinched, this lady of gut and grit waded in, scooped up the dog and part ran, part staggered to her car. She threw the money out the window of the car as she headed for the highway. The drive passed the house in route to the main road and in the back, yard was a sight that sent a chill to the very sole of this brave saint of rescue. When she drove past another Ridgeback stood looking through the fence. In much better shape than “what” was in the back seat, but how long would it be before this dog was as bad or worse off? She knew this trip would soon be repeated, but this is another story.
The trip back was long and slow with many stops. The smell of unwashed dogs and feces was too overwhelming to keep the car windows up and the air conditioning was of little use with them down. Darkness brought some relief and the stomach, long since empty, required fewer stops. The trip was concluded near midnight with arrival at the Ridgeback Ranch. When I lifted what resembled a dog from the back seat, it felt like lifting a bag of dried leaves, brittle and dry with only a trace of life. The dog weighed less than fifty pounds and should have weighed in at ninety. Too weak to stand on his own, this shadow of an animal leaned against the garage wall and took but one small taste of water. Swallowing seemed to take all remaining strength, and he slid to a prone position at the base of the wall where he lay trembling. Did this dog have the strength to survive the night? I did not think so. I sat by him, placed his head in my lap, looked into his eyes, and found the hope so desperately needed, the promise of survival. In those eyes there was a spark, ever so faint but undeniable. In those eyes the fire of his African heritage burned. Look long and close into the eyes of any true Ridgeback and the character of the dog that was bred to never give up, never surrender the prey, never abandon the chase will be evident. Though faint and distant the character of his breeding was still there. The pulse of his strong and noble heart could be felt from the neck resting against my leg with a rhythm of distant drums that bore the message; “I will survive”.
The sun announced the new day with the dog and foster owner in the parking lot of the Veterinarian’s office. This Vet was an early riser and for over twenty years, had opened his doors early. Today was no exception. Now this crusty veteran on many years practice had seen his share of man’s inhumanity to animals, but the sight of this dog brought a muffled curse and visible shock to his face. His only comment was “not the worst I’ve seen, but by God he’s in the top five”! He went to work with a passion and dedication that has long been a trademark of this veterinarian and has won great respect for those who bring the rescue dogs others have rejected to his door. Two days later, Colby walked out of the Vet’s office. The name was given by a vet tech who was a fan of the “Survivor” TV series. The ribs could still be counted from across the room and the coat was still dry and dull. Nevertheless, the eyes were clear, the fire of determination evident and the step, though shaky, was deliberate. This dog would make it! Colby would be “The Survivor”.
Part II: History and Reflection
A few days after Colby returned from the Vet, his “papers” arrived in the mail. There were copies of the pedigrees for both the sire and dam and forms supplied by the breeder for registration. The sire was an African import with a Kennel Club of South Africa Pedigree, a recognized international champion. The dame’s pedigree was even more impressive. On this five-generation document, not one single name appeared without a “CH” in front of it. One generation back, the list is a Who’s Who of Ridgeback aristocracy. A little investigation and a history of this dog’s life took shape. Labeled as “pet quality” by the breeder (color too dark??), he was sold at six weeks of age. His early life was spent in a back yard and barn. He soon became “too much trouble” for the owner and was given to a relative who knew someone who had “Hawg Huntin’ Dawgs”. This “hunter” trained his dogs with one simple principle. “If they get hungry enough, they’ll hunt”. This well-bred dog was less than a year old when he came to the RR Ranch.
The very best of breeders with the most honorable of intentions cannot hope to maintain control over what happens with every puppy when they produce multiply litters over the years. No matter how strong the contract there is always someone, without conscience, motivated by greed and mired in ignorance who will ignore the “no breeding” clause in that contract. Puppies will be produced and sold without reservation or restriction. These pups will grow and they in turn will produce even more. Many will end up beside the road, in shelters or in the packs of “Hawg Hunters”. With no consideration for physical health or temperament, these offspring of the well-bred will deteriorate and the quality and image of this most noble of breeds will suffer. Cross breeding is becoming ever more popular with the misinformed and the totally uninformed. These mutant misfits seldom fulfill the intent of their breeding and there is no well-organized breed rescue for their salvation. They are abused, abandoned or killed outright when they do not possess the ferocity and intensity envisioned by the self-proclaimed “hunter” who breeds them. The few who are dedicated to the rescue of mixes are totally overwhelmed. For every dog saved there are a hundred more who die beside the road, in shelters or worse, they produce even more unwanted mixes. If each breeder would foster and place just one unwanted dog (mix or purebred) for each litter they produce, the problem might not be solved but the load would certainly be lighter. When a dog with the credentials of Colby falls through the cracks of breeders’ control and rescue’s best efforts, the outlook for those of lesser linage is dim at best.
Part III: Hope and Promise
Weeks passed and physical recovery was slow. Even slower was the emotional recovery. The steps, now steady, were taken with caution when approaching other dogs and even more tentative with humans. The head was never raised; the tail, held low, never wagged. Colby ate, he slept, he exercised alone and lived in a world that was his own. He kept his promise to survive but life seemed to hold little promise for him. The decision was made to take Colby to the weekend PetSmart Adoption. The excitement and exposure to new people might just spark some interest in life for Colby. There are a few, very special people who visit dogs at these adoptions, that are looking for a dog truly in need. These special people look for the dogs most in need, those who need special care and attention. One such couple visited the Ridgebacks of TIRR Rescue almost every week. They had already adopted a couple of Dalmatians, two Grey Hounds and a Ridgeback from various rescue groups and shelters. They often brought their dogs, but this Sunday they were without the pack. Upon seeing Colby cringing in the back of the oversized wire crate, this well-dressed lady of distinction opened the crate door and crawled into the crate with the quivering dog. There she remained for almost an hour. Colby responded to her presence, relaxed and was soon asleep in her arms. When she woke him to leave the crate, his tail wagged for the first time ever in my sight. The tear in the eye of this caring lady and the trust on the face of Colby told me this dog had found his forever home. The application was filled out, references checked, and a home visit completed. Colby was accepted by his new pack and given a new name. He would be called Themba Obasi, in honor of his linage and African heritage.
Many months passed and on a busy Saturday at the Southlake PetSmart adoption a store customer had expressed an interest in the breed. We stood talking about thirty feet within the store, with my back to the entrance. There was a sudden silence. Background noise ceased as all eyes turned to the store entrance where I sensed a presence radiating calmness and confidence, a presence of authority. I turned to see a distinguished couple with a pack of six dogs entering the store. Standing head and shoulders above the crowd, framed in the light of the store entry was a vision of magnificence. The dog stood straight and tall. The wrinkled brow expressed curiosity and the eyes blazed with confidence. As he surveyed the room, his eyes met mine and the big head tilted and nodded as if in recognition. Stepping forward, he led his pack, human and animal, before me where he rested; legs extended before and head still erect, totally comfortable and confident with his surroundings. The crowd pressed forward to observe, to touch, to admire this most noble of creatures. He acknowledged not their presence with his gaze fixed on my eyes. The man with whom I was speaking asked “that dog knows you; what is it?” I answered, “that sir, is a Ridgeback. His name is Themba Obasi, he is all of what his breed can be, and his name means what you see before us.
Written by Roy Hughes
Tirr Rescue
All Stories and pictures contained herein are the exclusive property of TIRR Rescue.
Reproduction or reuse, in any form, without the expressed written consent of TIRR Rescue is prohibited.