Last Friday at the vets’ office I was asked to come and look at a dog. The owners were asked if I could look at the dog and they said okay.

I gazed at this 5-month-old Boxer and began shaking with anger, pity and frustration.  What I saw before me was a young Boxer covered with demodex mange. His body was full of scabs and sores and his paws were all bloody and swelled to twice the normal size.  He couldn’t even figure out how to lie down without discomfort and pain. I don’t know how to process the kind of thinking that would allow such a thing to happen.

I received the phone number and called the owners, offering to pay all expenses and for whatever it took to make him whole and happy again, if they would turn him over to me.  I was told the Boxer contracted the mange while they were on a three-day trip and a friend was watching him. I was also told the vets had given them antibiotics and his condition occurred rapidly. Keeping my calm I said, “If you love him at all, please let me have him, I promise he’ll have the best life possible.”

“I’ll ask my wife,” I was told by the gentleman, “and I’ll let you know tomorrow.”