Against All Odds

Story ID:	3827
Written by:	JANET KESSLER POLUDNIAK
Organization:	JUST ME
Story type:	Story
Location:	Lansing NY USA
Year:	1984
Person:	This is a story of victory and a change of heart.

I wrote this story several years after it happened, but it's based on actual events. I hope it serves to make people aware that God doesn't make mistakes. There are lessons to be learned everywhere we turn--if we're willing to have an open mind and willing heart. Enjoy.

The first picture is of Ebony when we first brought her home.
The second is Ebony when she had her puppies.
The third is a photo I selected to represent Stubby. Janet


AGAINST ALL ODDS
Copyrighted 2004, Janet K. Poludniak

My last image of Stubby was of her sitting proudly in the backseat of a bright red sports car; her sleek, black coat glistening in the sun; her long, pink tongue hanging out of the side of her mouth which fairly smiled with delight. Her big, brown eyes were shining—bright as diamonds. As the car backed out the driveway, she made a little “Woof” sound as if to say, “Thank you.” Her less than perfect form had been overlooked because of her loving temperament. I cried that day, tears of joy for her success, and of sorrow for the lessons she had taught me. But to tell her story, I first need to tell a bit of my own.

Often we pride ourselves on not having prejudices, so it amazes me that many of us look at those born “less than perfect” and cast a disparaging eye. Do we picture their future filled with failure or have thoughts of prophetic doom? Many of us may think these thoughts, but we don't allow our voices permission to speak them. We simply turn and walk away

Many a hopeful parent has become teary eyed in the delivery room over a long awaited infant, finally delivered, but born with a “birth defect.” That would be a challenge for anyone. Some parents, because of their disappointment and pain, have given their child up for adoption. Today, parents are often encouraged to terminate a pregnancy when doctors believe there could be complications or a severe disability, but if all life is precious to God, do we have that right?

I used to wonder how I would react if I had a disabled child. I was critical of those who could reject their own child. Now, I have a greater compassion for their pain and disappointment. I prayed during my pregnancies, “God, please don’t test me.” I’m thankful my children were born without serious problems. When my son was born, I counted his fingers and toes and checked him over carefully, then breathed a sigh of relief. When my daughter was born, she was extremely stiff and ridged. At four, she was finally diagnosed with a mild case of Cerebral Palsy. Physical therapy at home relieved much of the rigidity and her fine motor skills improved as she developed. Today, few would notice her disability.

God has a way of showing us our heart so we become willing to let Him change us into more loving, compassionate people. God used my children, and a puppy we called Stubby to teach me that our value has nothing to do with how we look or function.

Ebony, a wonderful memory now, was my son's amazing, intelligent, Black Labrador Retriever. When she had puppies, her selected nesting place, to my dismay, was the center of my son’s freshly made bed. When the kids arrived, Ebony was still delivering. There were already seven; so needless to say, we had to find a more suitable place for her. The closet seemed perfect, private, out of the way, and Ebony could still be near Joel. Thick layers of newspaper were laid on the floor and covered with old blankets. On top, we placed a clean, worn bed sheet.

Ebony was the perfect mother, quite willing for us to help. She seemed glad for our company. We all watch the last few pups being born. When we were sure Ebony was done, we moved them, counting one by one, into the closet: 1, 2, 3 . . . 11, 12, 13. Wow! I looked back at my reasoning, “It’s good for a boy to have a dog. It will teach him responsibility.” Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all, but that falls under the category of 20/20 hindsight.

Each day, Joel and I would change the sheet and arrange the pups on the fresh, dry bedding. After a few days, one puppy stood out, not because of her color, conformation, or personality; she was the runt. I watched as Ebony gently curled her body around the pile of sleeping puppies. It seemed like someone pushed an “ON” switch; her movements around them made the puppies instantly come alive. All were eager to nurse, struggling to get close, but the larger pups overpowered the runt. With eight nipples and thirteen pups, it didn’t stand much of a chance. After the other pups had gorged themselves and fallen asleep, she was still hungry—struggling to suckle, but Ebony was ready to get away from her brood.

While Ebony was off getting exercise and timeout from the pressing responsibilities of motherhood, I went back to the closet to examine the pup. I picked her up and held her close. She sniffed against my neck looking for a place to suckle. I knew she was hungry. When Ebony came back in, I coaxed her up on Joel’s bed, putting the puppy on her mother’s belly to nurse. It was then that I realized what was wrong; puppies use both front paws to nurse, but this puppy used only her right paw. I picked her up, this time examining her more closely and saw that the lower part of her left foreleg was missing. That loss inhibited the puppy’s ability to move about as quickly as the others. She couldn’t compete to eat, nor could she press adequately with only one paw to nurse, so she wasn’t getting enough nourishment. My immediate thought was to have her humanely put to sleep. I glanced at the clock. The children were due home any minute. The dastardly deed would have to wait. I put the puppy back with the litter, finished cleaning up, and went out to greet my children.

We came back into the house and like a bolt of lightening, the kids headed for the bedroom. Before you go in to see the puppies, “I have some bad news.” Joel attempted to bolt and run to the puppies, but a quick grab kept his attention a moment longer, “One of the puppies has something wrong with her. We need to have her put to sleep.” Children have to see to believe, so he pulled away and ran to the bedroom closet. Rachel and I followed. I continued my explanation, “I don't know how it happened, but the runt has lost part of her foreleg. She can’t nurse and she’ll starve. She won’t be able to run and play. We should have her put down; it’s not fair to let her suffer.”

Joel was eleven. He turned to me with tears in his eyes and said, “You can’t Mom; you just can’t!” He picked up the runt and held her close to his cheek. Then came the words that pierced my heart, “I suppose if I’d been born with a handicap, you’d have had me put to sleep, too!”

I argued, “There’s a difference between humans and animals,” but he wasn’t buying it. He wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. He began sobbing, turned his teary face to the puppy, telling her that he loved her, even if she wasn’t perfect. He held her against his chest, stroking her tenderly. I protested, “Joel, no one is going to want a three-legged dog.”

Joel looked up at me with pleading eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks, “It’s not fair. It’s not her fault. We have to try something. Can’t we get some formula? I’ll feed her; I’ll even get up in the night with her. Please, Mom, just give her a chance?”

I learned that sometimes we win more when we lose an argument. While my head told me it was impractical, my heart was moved by his pleading and determination. We got in the car and drove to the pet store nearby. I explained our situation to the clerk. Within minutes, we left for home armed with all kinds of nursing bottles, nipples, a small funnel, and lots of special puppy formula. To be honest, I didn’t have much hope, but Joel was sure a miracle lay ahead.

When we got home, we mixed some formula with warm water, poured it into the tiny bottle with the funnel, selected a nipple, retrieved the pup from the litter, and our attempt to rescue was in full swing. I made it clear that I was the one that would make the final decision about whether or not to let the puppy live. She was small and weak, but all I had to do was let her smell the milk and she displayed renewed vigor. My doubts found no support, and Joel’s miracle was a whole lot closer to reality. The little puppy latched onto that nipple like she had done it since birth, nursing with a vengeance. She sucked away until her little tummy bulged. The bottle was a success! The puppy was content! Ebony watched with great interest and bathed the puppy when she was returned to the litter. For now, the decision had been made to give this little, imperfect puppy a reprieve. The next big test would come when the pups were old enough to walk. I had known of other animals that had survived with three legs after accidents. I couldn’t help but wonder how this little puppy would do, but only time would tell.

Joel announced, “We need to give her a name! Let=s call her Stubby.” I resisted naming the puppy; I’d always been taught, “You never name anything you don=t intend to keep,” but Joel won that round, too!

The name stuck. While Stubby grew in body, she grew in our affection. We always let her try to feed with the other pups so she would struggle and get stronger, but when Ebony had her outing, Stubby had her private banquet. We set the alarm to get up at night to feed her at least once. As time passed, Stubby grew so fast, she was catching up in size with the other puppies.

The time of testing came and passed, almost without notice. Somehow, Stubby learned to use her stump. She never complained; she never wanted to quit; she was full of vigor—always eager to do what puppies do. When Stubby ran, she did so with the stump of her foreleg moving in perfect sequence with her other legs. When she played with the other puppies, there was no obvious difference. She would run and slam her shoulder into one of them—bowling them over, tackling them, and chew on their ears—just like the others did. At first appearance, as a baker’s dozen of fat, fur balls frolicked in the yard, the average onlooker would never guess that one was imperfect. In fact, sometimes, we forgot she was different.

As the pups reached that wonderful age when they are totally adorable, irresistible to all, we placed an ad in “The Shopper,” screening families who wanted to adopt a puppy. One by one, the litter shrunk in size, dwindling until only one was left—Stubby, of course. I worried about how we would find a suitable home for this sweet, loveable puppy that was viewed by most to be less than perfect. Time passed.

A few weeks after our final ad, just when it looked like Stubby would be a permanent part of our family, the phone rang. Two sisters who had just graduated from a local, private college, were moving back home. They had seen our ad. I told them about Stubby and her valiant struggle and wonderful way with people. I expressed that because of her handicap, she must be spayed and never forced to carry the weight of puppies. I tried everything I could to discourage the girls, but they insisted on coming to see our treasure.


When their shiny, new car drove into the driveway, I figured Stubby didn’t stand a chance. Joel and Rachel reluctantly brought Stubby outside to play. As they romped nearby, I bragged about my son’s hope for Stubby. I introduced the girls to my children, then to Stubby. One of the girls dropped down on one knee; Stubby quickly got acquainted by licking her face and to my surprise, she didn’t pull away or resist that long, wet tongue but begged for more. Finally, the sisters said, “We need to think about it. We’ll call you and let you know what we decide.” As they drove away, I figured it was the last we would see of them. It looked like Stubby would always be rejected by those who didn’t know her. The kids were delighted. To celebrate, they stayed in the yard to play with Ebony and Stubby and the other two four legged canine members of our family. From time to time, I’d pause to glance out the window to see the performance put on by the six characters in the play: two Chow Chows, two shiny Black Labs, and two wonderfully, happy children.

A few hours passed when the phone again demanded my attention. To my surprise, it was one of the college girls calling back with their decision. She told me that they had gone back to their dorm to pack, but they couldn’t get Stubby out of their minds. They assured me that they had their parents’ permission, and begged to come and get her right away. They were leaving for home the following morning and wanted to take Stubby with them. They explained that they had already arranged with their vet to have Stubby examined, to get her remaining shots and get her spayed.

I called the children in to share the news. It was a teary time. Before we had even finished sharing, the girls were knocking at the front door. A flood of emotions ran through each of us as we loaded our little treasure into their car. Stubby had made it. She’d overcome her handicap—against all odds! It felt like giving up part of me, but I knew Stubby was moving on to a new chapter in her life, a new dimension of love and acceptance with those who were able to look beyond her imperfection—to see her qualities and potential.

A month passed and each day we’d reminisce about Stubby. Then one day, among the collection of bills, I spied an envelope with a large, ink paw print on the front. It was addressed to “Mom” in care of our address. I waited for the children to come home so we could open it together. When the school bus pulled up, I was waiting, letter in hand. I told them that Ebony had gotten a letter. When they saw the paw print on the envelope, they knew it was from Stubby’s new owners. Joel snatched the letter and ran for his room with Ebony, Rachel and I just a stride behind. We all climbed up on the bed and got settled—just as we had a few months before. Joel silently looked at the envelope and carefully opened it. Removing the hand written note, he read it aloud. Stubby was doing well, busy looking after her new family. She had a new name: Cayuga, because she was born overlooking Cayuga Lake.

That experience taught me to look for value beyond outward appearances. Some of the things we want to ignore, maybe even throw away, have a rare potential to become rich treasures of the heart.