His name was Tyson
I have always been a person who deeply cares for all dog species and animals in general. Maintaining an approach of gentleness and kindness toward them, no matter what species.
In 2001, after purchasing my first house, I adopted my first fur friend, a precious doggo, a doggy buddy. I didn’t judge on age, sex, or colour; all I knew was that I needed to rescue someone who was in trouble, someone who was struggling to find their very own forever home.
I am confident around animals, so I thought I would rescue a dog that desperately needed help and rehabilitation. So, I proudly went to the local animal shelter near where I lived then—rows of dogs behind double-fenced pens. I looked at all the faces, read the information on the sheets pinned onto the front of their cages, and wondered why humans had let them down. I wanted to take them all.
The seniors, the puppies, the tall and the short, the sad, the lost and lonely; after looking and feeling so confused, a staff member approached me and asked if any dogs interested me. I told her I was confused but explained, “I don’t want the youngest or the cutest, the most playful or the most fluffy.” I asked her, “Who here is in trouble, who here has the least chance of being adopted, who here needs the most help and rehabilitation?”
Without a thought, the lady replied, “Come see this boy.” I followed her to a small paddock where they let the dogs run and stretch their legs.
In the paddock, stood a young, strapping, blue-black male Doberman. The shelter had named him Tyson. He was two years old, and seemingly, at a glance, he looked stunning, perfect, beautiful, and visually as though nothing was wrong, but time would tell a different story.
Tyson came home with me to live his life. He was my very first dog, my very first rescue dog. I was a proud dog mum. Then came bonding time, and getting to know each other’s personalities. Tyson instantly bonded with me. I was his one person, his go-to in any situation.
Sadly Tyson’s tail was docked, and it was a mess; a small bone fragment was poking through the end of where the rest of his tail used to be, which stopped the skin from healing over, so off we went to the vet to have surgery on his tail. The vet shaved off some bone, and then the skin was stitched over; from here, his tail healed quickly. I felt sad seeing his tail like this; it must have bugged him, as he was living with an open wound where his tail used to be.
He was animal-aggressive and went to dog classes in his earlier days. I did all I could to integrate Tyson, but it was not to be. He lived his life as a sole doggy, and after attempting to socialise Tyson, I could see the pure fear and stress it was causing him, so I decided to let him live as he was and accept him for his quirks. I also thought someone did this to him; someone made him this way, which wasn’t his fault.
A few months after Tyson began living with me, a friend and I were giving him a good scratch all over his body. During this moment of pure bliss for Tyson, we found underneath his beautiful blue-black coat, round scars on his skin where the fur had not grown back. These scars were over his sides, his shoulder, his hip, and his spine. They were cigarette burn scars.
After a few years, he started to limp on his left rear leg; I noticed his paw curl slightly, as though he was walking on his toes rather than his paw. Tyson visited a vet in Melbourne, where scans and X-rays were done. The vet informed me that Tyson had severe scar tissue around one of his main leg tendons. The vet made an expert assumption that due to the location of the scarring and the thickness of the scarring, it was consistent with a human kick.
As Tyson aged, the damage done to the tendon in his back leg began to show. He slowly started to struggle with walking. As the scar tissue became harder with age, the back paw began curling in a fist style instead of the dog paw we are used to seeing.
After spending ten years with Tyson before his passing in 2012, it seemed that I kept finding evidence of the life he had lived before I rescued him from the shelter: the scar tissue on the tendon of his back leg, the burn scars on his body, the animal aggression, the tail docking and protruding tail bone fragment.
I could have only guessed what Tyson went through in his earlier life, but he spent ten years of healing, love, good nutrition, and a soft bed to sleep on. Tyson had ten years of never being alone and never knowing rejection or pain again. I did all I could within my power to be his hero, and I was his hero. I saved his life, and that is now a part of history, but this one dog, Tyson, opened my eyes. He was also my hero. Maybe we taught each other.
I learned never to judge a book by its cover, his beautiful exterior hid an underlying reality of his past, Tyson taught me that we are all important; we all matter.
