Welcome to Sheba's Pawprint in Cyberspace

Wednesday, 23rd July, 2008 - A Little About Me

Woof-woof, woof-woof to all canine lovers out there! My name is Sheba and I am a Staffordshire Bull Terrier cross Australian Red Heeler (Cattledog). I am 14 years old though I don't exactly know when my birthday is because no one really told me. You see, I come from a bit of a mixed background. I was born in North Queensland in 1994 where I had a sister named Laverne. My original name was Shirley, and I really have to ask - what were my owners thinking?? Laverne and Shirley? Anyway, my owner bred a variety of animals namely snakes from what I can gather. Eeeeewwww! He wasn't very nice to me though I can't really remember what he did but I think it involved something like broom handles because whenever mummy or daddy pick up a broom I tend to shake in my paws.

I was still only a pup when I got a kind of new lease of life and moved to Victoria with my new family. Laverne stayed behind, though rumour has it I was supposed to have eaten her. Hmmmm. My new family had a spunky male dog who was part Bull Terrier (not sure what his other part/s were), but who cares? We had a ball. His name was Ripper. Together we had two boys - Knuckleboy and Caleb. Don't ask me where my new owner came up with Knuckleboy, but I think it was something to do with "do you want a knuckle, boy?" They were good boys, placid but very playful. Knuckle was the spitting image of me - you could see he had my gorgeous face. Caleb had my disposition. We lived down the Peninsula on the Westernport side where I apparently got into loads of mischief. Who me? I is as innocent as a new-born lamb. I gave my new owners a bit of a rough time because I was so boisterous, but that's part of my charm, isn't it? After all, I am predominantly Staffy by nature despite my Cattledog markings. But it seemed the lady owner didn't like me very much. The male owner was a tad aggressive at times too. There were talks and it was decided. I had to go. So in the middle of the night he took me to the local RSPCA shelter and tied me to the fence and left me there. I didn't know what I had done wrong. I waited and waited for him to come back....but he never did.

When morning came the shelter staff found me there and took me in and gave me food and somewhere to stay. I wasn't there long however. This old man came shuffling in, took one look at me and said "I'll take her!" He was a little crotchety and cantankerous at times but he had a soft spot for me, and I didn't care because he took me home. He kept calling me "Sheba" even though my name at the time was Shirley. He had words with the nice people there and then I was given a jab and I went to sleep. I don't know how long I was out for but when I woke up there was a bald patch on my lower tummy and it was a little tender. AND I had to take yukky tablets. I hate tablets! Then the nice old man took me home, but when we got there, the news didn't seem to be good. Where he was living already had four dogs - two indoors and two out - and the lady of the house there was less than impressed. Not with me, but that the sweet old man had brought me home, and she was saying that his son (her husband) would be livid when he got home and found another dog there. Uh-oh. Don't tell me I was going back to the pound. I got a little snakey at the thought and gave a chomp on the ear of the three-legged dog, which only caused me to be locked up. So that didn't work. Then there was talk , phone calls and lots of whispers. Then lo and behold, a young couple's head appeared over the makeshift fence used to separate me from the other two. They were sweet-looking, smiling at me and making goo-goo noises. What am I? A baby? The man was super smooth - I liked him. The woman just wanted to cuddle me, but there was no time for cuddles. I wanted to run around and play! And where was my ball?? Did I mention that ball was life? Where ever I went so did my ball.

Anyway that is how life began for me because when all is said and done, I may have lived 4 years before that but my life truly began when that nice young couple stuck their head over that makeshift fence. They fell in love with me, and I with them. And they became my new mummy and daddy. Well my only mummy and daddy really, because I was just a "dog" to everyone else I'd lived with. These people took me and made me comfortable. Didn't take me long to train them but it took a lot longer for me to teach them that I actually belong indoors and not outside! Once they accepted that fact it was smooth-sailing from there. *g* Mummy was the easiest to win over, but I didn't care. She is the best. She looks after me so well like you would not believe. And daddy? Well, he yells alot, especially when he's tired but he's special. I love my daddy. I love mummy too, but daddy is just special.

Now that I am in my twilight years, at 14 I have had a wonderful life with mummy and daddy. Except when we go in the car. I don't like the car. When we moved up to Sydney from Melbourne some years back mummy gave me a little yellow pill (yuk, another tablet) that made me feel very dozy and spaced out. So I just sat curled up on the backseat for the journey and just chilled out. They probably thought just as well, or I would have been barking for the 10 hour drive. But the little yellow pill started to wear off and I began to feel a little brighter. Not enough to bark and cause a ruckus while mummy and daddy were driving, but when we stopped for a pee-pee break (for daddy) I tried to follow him into the mens. But mummy stopped me because she couldn't go in there...and she was holding the leash. hehehe

Ah, what fun. What memories. I've been with mummy and daddy for ten years now and I have loved every minute of it. I'm sure I bring them as much joy as they've brought to me. They are not mean or cruel to me, but loving and gentle. They treat me like one of the family, because let's face it -I am one of the family! And now I live indoors sleeping most of the time, because that's what we retired dogs do. I have three beds in the house - a doggy bed, a cot and a portacot - and the whole back room is my domain - well, I like to think so but I can't get about to claim it anymore. Age catches up with the best of us, and as a once active Staffy X, I gave my back legs and hips hell with all that running and twisting and jerking. I started to lose strength and muscle tone in them about 18 months to 2 years ago. I would still go for walkies with mummy and daddy, cause I loved walkies with all those smells! But the walks got shorter and shorter until I remember once when mummy walked me around the block behind our house. I got partway up the road and my legs just didn't want to go any further - but I did! I tried to keep going but I kept stumbling. And mummy, God bless her, picked me up and carried me for the rest of the way. So some walk it turned out for me, eh? Mummy having to carry me instead. But she does those kind of things. Now, I can't walk at all, and she carries me where ever I need to go.

I was still walking when I had my first stroke 18 months ago - a week before Christmas in 2006. I gave mummy and daddy such a fright, they didn't know what was wrong. I didn't know what was wrong! Everything seemed to be moving really fast and I couldn't get it to stop. I heard daddy on the phone and mummy was almost crying with worry. Then Aunty Tracy from next door came over to see me. I love Aunty Tracy! She's fun and loves animals so she's alright. She has plenty of furry and feathered children herself. She told mummy it looked like a stroke and mummy was so worried I could tell. Daddy slept with me on the sofa bed I had claimed 6 months before for a while and then mummy stayed with me for the night. They took me to the vet the next morning which meant THE CAR, but I was still a little confused and getting stressed myself because I didn't understand what was happening. On top of all that, I was feeling sick. But the vet lady is nice so it wasn't too bad. Her name is Aunty Bernice and she is the best vet I have ever met. She told mummy and daddy that it was a stroke and that she would look after me that day and overnight. She gave me a needle and I went for a long long sleep. I dreamt of walkies and chasing bees and playing ball with daddy. Aunty Bernice told me that mummy and daddy called every couple of hours to see how I was doing, and the next day they took me home. Aunty Bernice said I was doing well enough to go home with them because she knew they would look after me. That was when I got my new cot and my portacot. I'm not overly struck on being in the cot but when I'm tired and sleeping it doesn't really matter. And mummy says it's for my safety so I don't fall off the bed. Because when I had my first stroke I could still walk. Not very steady mind you, but I still could. Mummy and daddy even bought me little booties for my back paws to help me stand and not to scuff them too much when I dragged them. They even embarrassed me by taking photos of me wearing the things. *g*

I had my second and last stroke in August last year, though it was only a mild one. Another overnighter at the vets, but it wasn't so bad because Aunty Bernice is nice. And through it all mummy has taken care of me all the way. She is a very special lady - a different kind of special to daddy - but still special. I never used to bark, although I could, I just didn't. I would "talk" instead. But now I bark alot, and I know it drives mummy mad sometimes, but I don't know how else to let her know I need to do a doggy job, I'm thirsty or hungry or whatever. I can't always reach my water bowl though mummy puts it near me. And she doesn't leave my food dish on the day bed with me because I ALWAYS knock it over sending bikkies all over the floor. I wake her up in the middle of the night because I've peed my bed. She has loads of washing to do every day for me - isn't she just the best? And sometimes I just keep barking long after mummy has changed my bed, cleaned it and gone back to bed herself. But mummy knows and understands I can't help it and let's me bark if I need to. I think she closes her bedroom door so that she CAN get back to sleep. My barking must be really loud. But these days more often than not, I don't know why I bark all the time - or why I am barking. I just know that I must. Mummy says its Doggy Dementia. Well whatever it is, its very frustrating sometimes. But then, I wouldn't change a thing, because I know I have the best mummy and daddy in the world looking after me. And if I had still been with my other owners when I had the stroke or my legs started to give way - I wouldn't be here today. I may be old, and tired, and a little confuzzled, but I'm still happy. I have a good life. Who could want for more?

Till next time - Woof-woof from me!