Otherwise known as the Rat Bastard, Ben is a purebred Chihuahua who was also rescued from death row at the local shelter. He was surrendered with his female companion, Muffin. The shelter required that both Muffin and Ben (then named Rascal) be adopted together. Everyone was interested in Muffin, but no one wanted the fat, old guy in the corner.
J and I were working in rescue then and were put in charge of finding a female Chi for my supervisor’s parents. I promised we’d find one, but I had no idea we’d stumble across one just twenty minutes later.
By the time we got them out of the shelter, it was too late to have them checked out at the vet’s. My supervisor said she’d keep the girl overnight to see if they were as bonded as the shelter claimed (they said Muffin wouldn’t eat without Ben). We took him home for the night, and the next morning we got a frantic call saying Muffin was at the vet’s for an emergency spay. She was suffering from pyometra–an infected, pus-filled uterus–which could have been prevented if her old owners had opted to have her spayed sooner! Pyometra was the reason for Muffin’s poor appetite, not Ben. In fact, the two were rather indifferent toward one another.
Muffin’s spay surgery saved her life. Had we not pulled her from the shelter then, she most likely would’ve died in the next 24 hours. Bottom line: SPAY AND NEUTER YOUR PETS!
After recuperating from her illness and surgery, Muffin was adopted by my supervisor’s parents. Ben was still in rescue and was found to be a resource guarder. We found him to sometimes nip without warning, which means that we could not (under good conscience anyway) adopt him out to the general public.
J’s mom fell in love with the little bastard–and I say this affectionately– and begged to keep him. However, Ben decided he loved Ginger too much to not see her on a regular basis, so he splits time between his two girls, Gin and Peaches. It’s Jerry Springer shit, I know. Good thing he doesn’t still have his balls because he’s definitely got a thing for the ladies!
Ben is actually quite cuddly, until he decides to hatch a lick attack on the closest nose, ears, or mouth. Ben suffers from short-man disease. In his mind, he’s a hundred times his actual size. He thinks he’s a badass, and for the most part, we let him continue to think that. Occasionally though, I get the urge to dress him in pink polka dots to settle him down, but I haven’t found the proper accessories yet…
