PEBBLES: THE WARRIOR PRINCESS
Tuesday, January 4, 2011 at 06:25PM “The Scent of Danger” (Written 1998)
Animals seem to be gifted with a highly sensitive cognitive ability. Impending earthquakes, unscrupulous human vibrations, and psychic anomalies have given us many heroes from those couch potatoes that we call pets.
We look into our pets’ eyes and wonder: What do they think about? How do they know daddy’s car just turned into the subdivision; they’re going to the vet for shots; they’re going to the boarding kennel this time, instead of coming on the trip with us; the salesman at the door is not to be trusted?
To those of us who have benefited from our pet’s gifts, the best answers are unselfishness, love, and loyalty
When Pebbles entered our lives, she was barely eight weeks old and topped the scales at two pounds. Most of that weight was soft, sparkling, snow-white fur. She was the image of an Angel, with the heart of a warrior.
As the only girl born in a litter of five, she pushed her brothers aside and fought to gain our attention. “Me! Me! PICK ME!” she seemed to say. We listened with our hearts, and she won.
Our warrior princess immediately took over our bed and our house, and took charge of our lives. Having recently lost a precious pet (Noel) to diabetes, we were easy pickings.
There was no prolonged housebreaking struggle. Pebbles possessed the greatest kidneys and bladder that God ever bestowed. Never before, in the history of animal domestication did (I believed) a puppy win the newspaper war with such great ease.
What Pebbles did not possess was hearing. When we realized she was deaf, many people advised that we return her to the breeder for a refund. Those suggestions fell on deaf ears. (Pun intended.)
We could not, and would not give her up. Sign language took the place of speech.
We discovered that Pebbles’ sense of smell became a psychic barometer to gauge friendly and unfriendly humans. And she always won at hide-and-seek. We also became suspicious that she read minds and lips, but it was her remarkable nose that put her into the canine genius category.
Whatever real or perceived abilities Pebbles possessed, we will be forever grateful that she was tuned-in on the night the burglars broke into our home.
We had just returned to San Antonio, Texas from a long weekend in Las Vegas. (Circa 1985) Pebbles was vacationing with our son in Austin, Texas.
When our plane landed, we opted to immediately make the one and one-half hour drive to Austin to recover Pebbles.
At the time, our decision was prompted by the desire to avoid the Austin trip the following day. My husband and I would be working a full day. Thus, recovering Pebbles that same night displayed good time management skills. It would be the best decision we could ever have made.
Pebbles was delighted to see us. Doggie wiggling, squealing, kissing and cuddling took a while. Our son rolled his eyes. We knew he would miss her, but we also knew he didn’t share any French fries with her...ever.
By the time we made it back to San Antonio and hit the pillows it was approximately one a.m. Exhausted and happy, we fell into a deep sleep.
Unusual for me, I chose to dump my purse, laden with cash, travelers’ checks, and jewelry, on the kitchen table. Normally, I would carry the purse directly into the bedroom.
In the darkest dark of that night, frantic barking and angry growls awoke us. Pebbles was tensed at the edge of the bed, and obviously upset at something.
In a half-stupor, my husband uttered, “What the hell is she barking about?”
Naturally, the first thing you think about is fire. But we smelled no smoke.
Being an unusually light sleeper, it was additionally strange that I had not heard any suspicious noises until the barking.
Hubby next said, “Why don’t you see what’s wrong. Maybe she just wants to go out.” (Here is where I’ll acknowledge the existence of my Celtic warrior ancestors.)
I got up and headed out of the bedroom with a still-barking Pebbles at my side. At the sight of an open patio door and broken mini-blinds, I screamed: “We’ve been robbed!”
Frantic, I grabbed a piece of quarter-round molding and ran out the front door. This was not smart, but it was the only action my mind could muster. Attempting to get those miserable thieves and teach them a lesson was such an illogical piece of logic. Pebbles, of course, ran outside too.
By this time, hubby was out of bed, and running towards me, as I turned and cursed that his company van had been stolen from the driveway.
The felons were gone, and we rushed back inside to phone the police. While we waited for the law to arrive, we shakily surveyed the damage and checked to see what else had been taken.
My purse had been relieved of its cash, travelers’ checks, jewelry and key cluster. The keys started the van and would open our doors. There were also keys to our two other vehicles. We were sitting ducks.
The police were kind and sympathetic. The formal report and fingerprint check was time consuming. Dawn was rising, and we still needed to secure the house and have the locks changed. The police figured that there were two, maybe three, thieves involved. We all assumed that only the van was taken because one car was blocked by our sports car, which was a stick shift. Young thieves, during the ’80s, apparently lacked five-on-the-floor stick shift skills.
Before the lead policeman left, he sat us down and explained how very lucky we were to have had Pebbles, and to have made the unconscious lucky blunder of leaving the purse in such a convenient spot. He made us aware that breaking and entering an obviously occupied house meant that the thieves were hell-bent on getting what they wanted. They were more than likely prepared to commit bodily harm. Perhaps even be armed. (Wow! Good thing I had the presence of mind to arm myself with the molding. *insert snicker here*)
My husband and I speak about that night quite often. We always agree:
Yes, our littlest Angel sensed the danger. Additionally, Pebbles’ big, brave, barking ability belied her size.
The handy location of the purse also offered an alternative to further invasion of the house -- especially the bedroom.
We will always choose to believe that Pebbles saved us that night.
I should never again try to win a battle with sticks and a loud mouth.
Pebbles is still with us. She is seventeen-plus years old -- still deaf -- blind from a sneaky stroke. But she is spirit-strong and feisty as ever.
We realize that her time with us is running short. Time, however, will never dim the memories, and time will never dim our love and gratitude for the warrior princess Lhasa Apso who saved us one dark night in 1985.
