By Bobbi Helton

It was a cool, crisp evening when the rescuers pulled up in front of the small, gray house. A woman, head down, quickly approached the car. She was carrying a box that was once home to a kitchen blender. The contents now were seven puppies…stacked…one on top of the other.

These were the lucky ones. They were on their way, after vet check-ups and shots, to a no-kill shelter in New Jersey to be placed for adoption. That is, they were all on their way, except one. One little fellow, the runt of the litter, was rejected due to a large patch of missing hair on his right side.

    THIS IS WHERE WE ENTER THE PICTURE.

The first time my husband and I spied this little reject, a four- pound, brown bundle of pit bull/boxer mix, he was staring out from behind the bars of a dog cage at the vet’s office.

Would we, could we, foster him until a permanent home could be found? Could we? Would we? Was there any other answer but yes? On our way home, this little guy with the pinched, wrinkled face and hairless right side, curled up in my lap, didn’t utter a sound.

    We named him Jimmy.

We noticed right away that Jimmy never made eye contact with us and there was absolutely no response to his name. As the days passed, we couldn’t get over how Jimmy walked or should we say "marched" with his two front legs stiff and straight guiding him around the front yard. He looked like a drum major leading a parade.

    We renamed him Major.

Major would bring a smile to the face as he "goose-stepped" around the property, but our concern was growing as he could never find the front steps…no response to his name or our commands…and he lacked muscle and motor control in his back legs.

Knowing that he must have a sight and hearing problem, we jettisoned the name Major in favor of Tony – pronounced Tone-neeee in the highest and shrillest decibel we could deliver. (It didn’t seem to attract his attention anymore than Jimmy or Major did, but we loved saying Tone-neeee at the top of our lungs.)

    Therefore, the name Tony stuck.

Tony celebrated his first birthday a few months back. (Do you think we could have ever given him up?) During the course of the past year, our worries were confirmed as he was diagnosed with an underdeveloped cerebellum (that accounts for the weakness and lack of control in his hind- quarters) and very limited sight and hearing.

Countless times we all hear stories of families raising children, with whatever label you choose – disabled, handicapped, mentally or physically challenged, or special needs- and how their hearts burst with love, pride, respect and admiration for these children. In each case, they always proclaim how much more they have received than given.

The same can be said of our challenged four-legged family members. As we watch Tony adjusting, adapting and persevering with his limitations, it makes our hearts sing with joy. He has enriched our lives immeasurably and reinforced our belief in the quiet dignity, strength and courage of not only "man", but the companion animals that share our lives.

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               October 08, 2007