The first thing that grabs your attention is his huge enormous paws; it would appear he spent his “formative” years standing in a wire crate, very likely in a puppy mill or similar environment (that he was intact when received by Rescue is also curious, considering his age). The nails are deformed and growing sideways rather than out in front – not because they’re too long but because the nail bed has formed that way. If you think you’ve got problems clipping nails on your dog, try it with Chance – I’d suggest a muzzle and extreme care – he kicks like a mule sometimes. He hates to have his feet or pads touched – just ask Charlie Brown or Cassidy – mud soaked paws sometimes get attention, but not on Chance! I have more success with a dremel tool when trimming his nails – slowly, easily, with lots of breaks and continuous low chatter with him to make him more comfortable.

The second thing that shouts out to you is the obvious pain he’s in with an advanced case of arthritis and what would appear to be deformed front legs. Have you ever seen show horses stepping or trotting with an unusual-looking gait – that’s my Chance, only his front legs don’t
appear to have any joints in them! He’s got some serious mobility issues – not quite as bad as Charlie Brown with his severe displaysia, but he’s not very coordinated. Going down steps presents a big challenge to him – he can’t slow down controllably, so he frequently ends up by the back door, looking at the hinges to get out…silly guy, the door opens from the other end!

Most people can tell you a dog’s age by his teeth and eyes; we’re only estimating his age at around 12 – it could be more, but it’s not likely to be less. He’s got cataracts, has difficulty seeing sometimes, and he’s not real fond of extreme bright lights. He’s losing his hearing – it takes sharp noises to get his attention, although sometimes I know he hears me – it’s the rabbit scent that’s more important. He’s extremely sensitive to being brushed – I’ve been his poppa since late October 2003, and I’m still very cautious brushing him. He’s not exactly fond of a bath either, but quite honestly, unless he really rolls in something nasty, he’s not going to get one (it’s his fur and how awfully difficult it is to brush it thoroughly – you should have seen the disaster it was trying to get him dried and brushed – it took weeks to get the tangles out…and I mean that!). It stresses him so much, that usually you don’t get done with one third of him before he’s lying on the floor of the tub…which makes it very difficult to finish. We haven’t done it but twice in 8 months.

His coat, although much much improved with a proper diet, simply will not stand to be brushed – and it’s gone curly near the fringe…try to figure that one out! He’s now tolerant of it – not receptive, but tolerant. I hate doing it, but when I brush him, he’s muzzled. He nipped me once – his skin is very very sensitive to being pulled and with his dense undercoat, it can’t be helped every once in a while. He gets brushed every couple to three days… and it takes over an hour of slow easy brushing, with him lying on the floor and me sitting cross-legged over him, that one eye looking back over at me. For the longest time, it was like having a frightened animal – you saw lots of white in his eyes. Now, he lies there, but you know he’s saying “get on with it and get it over!” Compared to Sugar and Charlie Brown (who’s got a huge coat!), it’s almost double the combined effort for the two of them to do Chance. No way is he going to a professional groomer!

He’s got a bark akin to a beagle’s…not exactly long, just a lot deeper than it should be. First time I heard it, I was looking for a strange dog…and believe me, he’s strange! The day after Halloween, I came home to two barking dogs and one muffled barking dog – he stuck his head in a candy pumpkin bucket, the strap fell behind his head so he couldn’t get it out, and I was presented with two Shelties and a sheltie pumpkin-head when I came home! I couldn’t take a picture – it would have been too embarrasing (and he was still very very new to me; he needed to have that bucket removed!)!

And those are his good points. His biggest fault is giving me a heart attack every morning – he sleeps extremely hard and every morning I check to see if he’s still breathing. Sounds that normally wake Charlie Brown and Sugar up don’t even register with him – doors slamming, the toilet flushing, the floor creaking right when you walk by him….none of that disturbs him at all. You’ve all seen doggy dreams? Sugar leaves scratches on my back sometimes, her dreams are so real to her – Chance, that I can tell, doesn’t have them. Occasionally I see his toes twitching, but not very often. And when he first wakes up, it’s obvious he’s not awake for a while. He runs into things, almost stumbles over himself and looks at me hoping I’d answer the question of “why?” he keeps asking me. And he sleeps with his eyes partly open…so you think you’ve woken him up, but you haven’t! And don’t touch him when he’s asleep unless you’re talking to him too…it’s not that he bites, but it startles him awake and then he’s grumpy. Until you feed him. After his first cup of coffee. Not really (the coffee part!).

One morning, about six weeks after I adopted him, he had an epileptic seizure. I pray none of you have to go through that – for those who have, you can understand the feeling of complete helplessness while your dog lays there, twitching and whining, and there’s nothing you can do about it. In most situations, I’m fairly collected and can deal with a lot of curves. That morning, I went to pieces. Why? I mean, I knew, logically speaking, that it wasn’t the end of the world and when the seizure was over, I had to get him to the vet. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what to do or couldn’t do it (I did have to get a ride to the emergency vet and then on to Heritage, but…). But I was not emotionally ready to handle that kind of trouble – to me, he was dying and I wasn’t going to let him go!

I spent the whole day agonizing about my furry friend – even the doc could see there was something wrong – he’s never been an active dog, but he’d always acknowledge your presence – it was like watching, waiting for the breathing to stop. He just laid there, a limp shell of a dog. I knew he was on the way out and I couldn’t let him. That night, I started a nightly routine of sleeping with my hand out, just resting against his head or back, so he would know someone was there who wouldn’t just throw him out or leave him alone.

That furry old guy had most insidiously wormed his way into my heart. No warning, nothing. Sugar’s my baby girl (okay, not a baby girl, but my firstest dog, the alpha dog, and the only one who sleeps on the bed at night or on the couch in the day), and I love her dearly. But Chance is my heart dog, my velcro shadow. He never leaves my side, except when I’m up and he’s sound asleep or at work. I take an extra walk, just for him, because he can’t go far or fast for long (and can’t keep up with Sugar or Charlie Brown long enough to get them the exercise they need).

He’s got the greatest smile you’ve ever seen…I wish I could take a picture of it to show everyone, but I never can – that would take away from the moment. It literally runs from ear to ear! When I come home, Charlie Brown’s at the door, barking his little man bark, Sugar’s two steps away, sitting sometimes, spinning others, and giving her hello bark. Mr. Chance, on the other hand, is circling the living room in wide show-ring circles (well, maybe not, my living room isn’t that big), got that grin on his face, a little occasional bark and a prance. Yep, my oldster half-crippled dog is actually prancing! And after I get the quick head pat for CB and Sugar, he comes right up to me and crashes into my legs broadside, pretty much demanding I say hello. Believe me, there’s no way I couldn’t not say hello, fella!

When I’m watching the news, he slams his head into my knees, which, if I ignore, results in him trying to jump up onto the couch – the good thing is it’s on the other side of me from Sugar, and that he only gets his front paws up; she’d clean his clock but good if he actually succeeded in getting on the couch.

And that dog - for all his cataracts and vision troubles; he’s got the sparkliest eyes I’ve ever seen. It’s like watching miniature Fourth of July sparklers going off forever, when you look at him. I thought it was trick of the light, but it really isn’t – he’s just a very intense and personal dog. When he looks at you, with that big smile and those sparkler eyes, you know it’s right, that he’s The Dog You’re Supposed To Have.

So, as I sit here typing this, I see Sugar over in the corner giving me the evil eye and making that panting noise that means it’s time to pay attention to her Highness and go to bed (where she’ll spend the next five hours digging holes in my spine). Charlie Brown’s curled up three inches away from my feet, making sure I’m not giving away any *T*R*E*A*T*S* or anything. I can’t see Chance, but I know where he is. He’s laying right next to the night stand, with his head on his pillow (an ex-my-pillow), sound asleep.

So he’s a Senior Sheltie. That means he may be old and very long in the tooth, arthritic and sometimes grumpy, hard to awaken and sleeps too much. It means he’s a nightmare to brush and groom and he’s not happy when he wears the muzzle. And although I know his time with me isn’t going to be overly long, he’s still my bestest friend. That he’s a Senior Sheltie isn’t a problem at all; you should see that smile!!