As told by Paul Jolly, PETCO Foundation Executive Director
Emily Dickinson once wrote, “Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul.” For me, Hope was a little dog with fur – a hope that a small four-legged creature might somehow create a little bit of magic; might somehow heal my brother, Peter. He had undergone surgery for a brain tumor the year before and at first he seemed to recover, but then he began to slowly slip away, struggling to negotiate the daily battle with his own body. He began to leave us, seeking another world to inhabit and I could not blame him.
So, we all thought, what can be done? What can be done to bring Peter back to us? What can we offer that will make him want to stay? And so an idea was born. Hatched among his four brothers. What if we finally got a dog? What if Peter had an animal all his own? And so a new hope was born.
After finally convincing my exhausted parents that a puppy might just be the answer, and after Peter was out of the hospital once again, we went seeking a new friend for my brother. We found ourselves in the home of a neighborhood woman who provided shelter for those abandoned, neglected, and abused animals needing rescue. Those animals also seeking another world to inhabit. There we found a small, black and pink 9-week-old puppy, partly bald, the hair on her head standing up like a punk rocker. She had mange we were told, but had been treated and would recover. We were hesitant, not a sick puppy, we thought, but it would not be our decision, it would be my brother’s, his choice.
This sickly little animal had been removed from the home of an elderly couple who had grown too frail to care for the multitude of animals they hoarded. Their house had been infested with fleas, and the young puppy had not fared well. Yet there was a spark and a keen intelligence in the young dog’s eyes, and I knew that Peter would choose her. So with assurances that she had been treated and would recover, we took Hope, as Peter named her, home that night. Some in my family declared her to be the ugliest little puppy they had ever seen. Peter and I thought she was beautiful.
We took Hope to our veterinarian right away. The news was not reassuring, there were concerns, she was not getting better, she was much more seriously ill that we had known. Yes, she did have mange, but not the kind passed from animal to animal that can be treated. No. Hope’s mange was caused by a suppressed immune system. The prognosis was not good. She was too young for conventional treatments — such treatments would kill her and without them she would likely die anyway. We were all devastated. How could this be? We could not bear this, my brother surely could not bear this. We sat crowded around our little puppy, my brother cradling her in his arms, and we wept, all of us. For the love of her, for the possible loss of her, for all my brother had been through, for all that we had been through. Our hearts were breaking.
She would not die we declared, she could not! We began to investigate and research possibilities for treatment, to understand her illness, to seek a cure. Our vet called us, he told us of a new possibility, an experimental treatment; there had been some success with it in trials, but it was not yet approved. There were risks, possible neurological damage, with Hope’s weakened immune system she might have kidney or other serious problems, yet it might save her.
Hope was suffering, she was failing. She had continued to grow in the few weeks we had her, but was very thin and had lost over 80 percent of her hair; the itching was driving her mad. We decided to try the treatment. This little dog could not die! She would recover. I knew it. My brother had chosen her, you see.
So her treatment began. A few drops of medication several times a day. We waited and we watched. They were a matched set, my brother Peter and his dog, each with black circles around their eyes, their bones sticking out, all sharp angles, snuggled together in the hammock, beneath the oak tree in our backyard, marking the time together. Peter caring for Hope and Hope caring for Peter. As the weeks passed, it became clear that Hope would be well. At 6 months of age, Hope was given a clean bill of health, no side effects, no other illness or problems. Our ugly little puppy had transformed before our eyes into the most magnificent and beautiful beast with a chubby puppy belly, full of energy and devilment. The laughter erupted in our home once again and we were overjoyed. Peter was smiling again. There was magic after all.
Unfortunately, the magic only lasted six months. Peter’s tumor returned. Peter prepared to leave us, the leaving made easier for him and for us by a little dog he had named Hope. He passed away at home, two days before Christmas, surrounded by a mother, a father, four loving brothers and one devoted little dog. We learned that Christmas that while there is always hope, there is not always happiness. Peter’s little dog, Hope, helped my family survive this tragedy. Peter left us to inhabit another world but left a little bit of hope behind.
Tree of Hope is named after a little dog who helped my family through the worst pain you can imagine. Peter Jolly, I still miss you.
Please give generously this Tree of Hope season. For all those animals in your life, past and present. For the joy they bring you, for the comfort they give you, and for the hope they always provide. You can make a difference for them.