Preface
The True Story behind
The Dean Machine
My wife and I picked Dean up at a dog park in Sanford, Florida, on Christmas Eve of 2011. The woman who was serving as his foster mother carried him out to us from her car while we waited inside of the dog park fence, and once she entered she let Dean walk on the grass of the park. The dog was scared, and he did not approach me or my wife. He barely took notice of us. He sort of looked around at the world slowly, as if he was in a daze.
The woman introduced herself and proceeded to talk to us about Dean as the little red dog walked in the late-morning sun. The details she gave us were not incredibly specific, but maybe that is because most people don’t truly want to hear the specifics of a dog that has suffered.
What we were told was that Dean had been rescued from a puppy mill somewhere in Georgia. The dog had had fleas, mange, heartworms, infections, and was generally malnourished. Once rescued, he was taken to a veterinarian who donated their extra time to dogs like Dean. The veterinarian had treated the maladies, but lasting damage could be seen on the dog, and the woman pointed out some of the more obvious effects. As we would later find out, Dean suffered many lasting scars during his time in the puppy mill, both obvious and not so obvious.
Dean’s hair was very short; so short on his rump that you could see his skin. It was dry and rough, and he had one particularly large, black mole. The mole must have been the size of a nickel and stood at least a centimeter off his back. Because of the mange and fleas, Dean had rubbed and scratched most of his hair off. The woman said she thought it would grow back in time, but she didn’t seem especially confident when she said so. It was unsettling for my wife and I to see a dog in such a state, and we couldn’t imagine the neglect the poor animal had suffered. His tail didn’t even look like a dog’s tail; because of the hair loss it was pink and slightly fuzzy, like the tail of a rat. He walked with it mostly tucked between his legs.
The foster mother told us that Dean’s feet were oddly shaped. His toes were splayed out much farther than they should have been, causing his feet to seem large and dopey. The woman said that they likely grew that way because of so much time spent walking on a wire cage floor and also because it was likely that his toenails were never cut. We watched Dean as he walked slowly, making his way over a large tree root. I could see that he didn’t keep his back legs under him very well. It almost seemed as though they just stopped working. He tripped on the root and dragged his back legs for a moment.
“Is that because of his age?” I asked.
“We think so,” the woman replied. “We think Dean is around eight years old, but we have no way to really know. The vet says his legs show no structural damage. He might just be clumsy. He probably didn’t have the chance to develop the best motor skills with so much time spent in cages.”
My wife and I took her words without doubt. Where Dean had fur it was mostly red, but the dog’s white face gave away that he was an old fellow, and it seemed to be the sort of issue that might afflict an elderly dog. Later, we would find out that Dean was much older than eight and that the leg issue spoke to a greater problem he would face down the road.
“He’s missing a lot of teeth,” the woman added. “The vet had to extract a lot of them because they were infected. That’s why his tongue is sticking out in the picture we posted online. It does that a lot. Especially when he sleeps.”
The online picture was the reason my wife and I wanted to meet Dean. It was a close-up of his face, eyes closed amid peaceful slumber, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth like he was dreaming of ice cream. It was a picture full of character. The dog looked cute and full of life. It was the kind of photo that leads a person to project exactly what they want to see in it. It was a photo intended to sell. Now that we stood in front of the real Dean, the sad, tail-tucked, hairless, old, toothless, and clumsy little dog, the picture seemed as though it were nothing more than a fake.
The woman lifted Dean into her arms, and then she looked at us with eyes that revealed mistrust in the world. Her voice was laced with the exhaustion that I assume comes from having experienced failed adoptions before. Dean was not the kind of dog most people want to adopt. He was not a cute puppy. He was not a happy, chipper ray of sunshine. He had physical ailments. He was a reminder that the world was cruel.
Then she asked, “Do you still want him?”
I am a dog person, and I have always been, but it had been a long time since I had allowed myself to entertain the idea of owning my own dog. I had a dog, Oliver, when I was young. My family got him when I was seven, and he quickly became my best friend. We played together, watched television together, and even took naps together.
However, my experience with Oliver ended poorly. He was diagnosed with a type of cancer in his nasal passage that caused nosebleeds. The vet had given us a nasal spray that was supposed to stop the bleeds, but it was just to make his remaining days easier, and the inevitable was looming. My last day with Oliver was spent trying to apply his nasal spray as he bled all over the floor and on me. My parents returned home to the scene of their thirteen-year-old son sitting on the kitchen floor, covered in blood and clutching a thirty-pound white dog that could never understand what was happening. They immediately made the decision that it was Oliver’s time, and they left the house for the vet’s office. It was the last time I saw my friend. I didn’t want another dog after that.
My family would go on to get other dogs, but I refused to bond with them. I kept them at a distance and never allowed myself to develop close feelings for them as I had for Oliver. In my mind, I was saving myself the inevitable hurt.
Now, after years of keeping dogs at a safe emotional distance, I had a wife who was dead set on convincing me to change my ways. She eventually broke me down, after pleading, pulling at my heartstrings, and walking me past the adoptable pets in the pet store one hundred times. I gave in and proceeded to look for a rescue dog to adopt through the Internet. When I came across Dean’s picture, I was ready to try again. I was ready to take that responsibility. I was ready to care again.
So, as I stood there with my wife, in front of a woman who sacrificed her free time to try and help these poor animals, I looked into the eyes of the scared little dog, and the words “Do you still want him?” broke my heart.
“Of course,” my wife and I said in unison.
We took Dean home, and as the hours passed the doubt started to creep in. Dean spent his time hiding from us. My wife and I had never known dogs to hide from people, especially us. Dogs were happy, dogs were playful, dogs wanted attention. Dean wanted to hide. Not only that, but in the first days of Dean’s adoption, he never wagged his tail. Not once. I asked my wife if he might have broken his tail while in the puppy mill. I honestly wondered if he was unable to wag it. We wondered if the dog would ever be happy. However, we knew that little Dean had suffered, and we understood it might take time for him to come around.
Fortunately, our patience and persistence was rewarded. After what seemed like a very long couple of weeks, we finally met the real Dean, and our lives have never been the same. As time went on, and the dog continued to heal, we realized we were so lucky to find him.
Dean’s hair began to grow back, eventually covering his whole body again. His ear and tail hair grew amazingly. Like bursts of fire, long, feathered hair grew around his ears and out from his tail. The scared and shorthaired little dog we had adopted soon turned into a wild man in visage and spirit.
We learned that Dean loved to play. He would run around, bouncing off our sofas, playing with the other dogs in the family until he had to stop and catch his breath. He was by far the eldest of the group, but he did his best to keep up with the younger dogs, at times playing much harder than any of them ever did. He was still a very clumsy dog, and the leg issue persisted, but Dean never let it hold him back. Dean’s spirit was indomitable, and it was why we eventually nicknamed him The Dean Machine.
The scared little rescue dog had blossomed into a firecracker, and as it would turn out, his tail could wag just fine. He no longer hid from us, but greeted us at the door with kisses and barks of excitement. When I would return home from work, he would bark, jump up and down, and then run around the house until he had to stop and catch his breath. He never acted like an old dog for one day. Dean had been given a second chance at life, and he was going to attack it with everything he had.
At night, when things were winding down, he would settle in and nuzzle up in either my lap or my wife’s. With his tongue poking out of his mouth, Dean would look at us with eyes that were communicating something unmistakable. He was saying, “Thank you,” and he was saying, “I love you.” Dean was easily the most affectionate dog my wife or I have ever known. Whether it was his always being at our side, his extended bouts of dog kisses, how he loved to snuggle with us on the couch, his reactions when we got home, or the way he would pounce on your chest if you were lying down, Dean loved us intensely.
It’s hard to explain without having seen it for yourself, because it wasn’t as if Dean did things that other dogs didn’t do. It was just that when Dean did it, it was done more intensely and with more vigor than any other dog we had ever seen.
Dean changed my wife and I, in ways we may not be able to fully articulate. We adopted a tragic little animal, abused and mistreated by human arrogance and ignorance, and we watched him blossom into a vibrant, loving, and thriving dog while under our care. He never wasted a moment that he could be playing or loving. Dean lived to love, and he was very aware of us and that we were the ones who were giving him this new life. He needed us, and in a lot of ways, I think that we needed him. Dean changed the way I viewed a lot of things about the world, and he changed the way I viewed a lot of things about myself. He made me see life with renewed value for all living things. He made me remember to enjoy the fleeting moments we have with one another, in all of our relationships. He made me understand that it’s important to give love, even if it can end in hurt.
Unfortunately, the last lesson Dean would teach me would be the most difficult to endure. Tragically, the things Dean suffered during his years in that puppy mill would ultimately take him from us far too soon.
Just two years after adopting him, we noticed that Dean was breathing very heavily. He had always gotten short of breath quickly compared with other dogs, but it was now increasing to a point where we were worried. He had also recently gained a bit of weight that seemed odd to us. We took him to our vet, just after the beginning of 2014, and were soon given the news we had feared might come.
Dean had congestive heart failure and fluid gathering around his lungs, because the heartworms he had while in the puppy mill had damaged them to a point where he had now developed cancer. Also, because his lungs were so damaged, his heart was failing as it struggled to continue pumping them. As it turns out, the fact that he would grow short of breath quickly was not due to his age. It was because his heart had to fight harder to pump his damaged lungs. He didn’t sometimes lose his back legs because he was old or clumsy, but because his heart was fighting so hard.
We took him to a veterinary specialist who drained the fluid from around his lungs and gave us medications to ease his remaining time with us. Dean’s time was coming to an end. We were told that we might have six months left with him.
We had two weeks.
The nights in those final two weeks were the worst for Dean. He could tell that something was wrong. He spent his nights sleeping on my chest for the comfort of being close to me. I could feel him struggling with his breathing. I didn’t sleep much. I’m not sure he did, either. He wanted to be close, and I wouldn’t have taken that away from him for anything. I stayed awake those final nights, knowing things were getting worse: the fluid around his lungs was gathering again; his breathing was getting more strained. All I could do was pet him and tell him he was a good boy. All I could do was love him.
On Dean’s final day, every breath he took was hard work, but his heart was a machine, and he wouldn’t give up. My wife and I struggled with our decision, but in the end, we knew Dean was suffering too much. I cooked him a cheeseburger and let him have what he wanted of it. Then we took him to our veterinarian and let Dean’s fight end. We stayed with him through those final moments. He kissed us goodbye. I told him he was a good boy and I loved him, and then I watched the pain leave his eyes, and then I watched him leave us.
I will never forget Dean. I hate that I wasn’t able to save him. I hate what this world did to him. A world full of human arrogance and ignorance made him suffer and then took him away too soon, and I can never forgive it for that. However, I won’t let that be Dean’s legacy. I won’t let that be the way it ends.
The Dean Machine, in many ways, is just a fantastic adventure story, but in many other ways, it’s also Dean’s legacy. Many of the scenes I’ve written in the book are exact things Dean did during his life: rubbing his belly on the ground, hoarding things under beds, sleeping on my chest, and playing a game I dubbed “hand-fighting,” which was Dean acting as if my hand was another dog to play with. Dean’s true physical description is included, as well as his real character and personality. The book also details the things I’ve taken away from my time with Dean and things I’ve learned about myself, the world, and the other creatures of this world that we too often take for granted. When I lost Oliver, I decided to take my love away so that I couldn’t suffer. Dean helped me realize that I haven’t suffered anything, and the most selfish thing I could have done is to close myself off to animals that might need me.
My wife and I have adopted two other rescue dogs since losing Dean. We will always do for rescue dogs as much as we can. We will give them our love and our home, and try to help the world learn to value all life. Dean lives on in these pages, and Dean lives on in my ability to give back through him. That is why a portion of the money that comes from these pages will always be donated to rescue dogs that suffer, just like Dean did. Every time someone purchases The Dean Machine, they will be helping animals that still fight. I’ll give as much as I can as often as I can.
This is how I will continue Dean’s legacy. He will always be The Dean Machine.
When that dog looked into my eyes with his love, he made me more than what I am. For those simple few moments, he made me a hero, because I saved something that was truly pure and because I gave him my best and not an ounce less. When Dean looked at me, he said, “Thank you.” Every single time he looked at me, he was saying, “Thank you.” He was telling me that I was his hero and that I made fighting to hold on to hope worth it. I knew when Dean looked at me, that if I ever lived up to that dog and the way he saw the world, the way that he saw me, then I could do anything.
He gave that to me with one look. I’ve never given anyone a gift so true…
But it’s time…It’s time to give back.
The woman introduced herself and proceeded to talk to us about Dean as the little red dog walked in the late-morning sun. The details she gave us were not incredibly specific, but maybe that is because most people don’t truly want to hear the specifics of a dog that has suffered.
What we were told was that Dean had been rescued from a puppy mill somewhere in Georgia. The dog had had fleas, mange, heartworms, infections, and was generally malnourished. Once rescued, he was taken to a veterinarian who donated their extra time to dogs like Dean. The veterinarian had treated the maladies, but lasting damage could be seen on the dog, and the woman pointed out some of the more obvious effects. As we would later find out, Dean suffered many lasting scars during his time in the puppy mill, both obvious and not so obvious.
Dean’s hair was very short; so short on his rump that you could see his skin. It was dry and rough, and he had one particularly large, black mole. The mole must have been the size of a nickel and stood at least a centimeter off his back. Because of the mange and fleas, Dean had rubbed and scratched most of his hair off. The woman said she thought it would grow back in time, but she didn’t seem especially confident when she said so. It was unsettling for my wife and I to see a dog in such a state, and we couldn’t imagine the neglect the poor animal had suffered. His tail didn’t even look like a dog’s tail; because of the hair loss it was pink and slightly fuzzy, like the tail of a rat. He walked with it mostly tucked between his legs.
The foster mother told us that Dean’s feet were oddly shaped. His toes were splayed out much farther than they should have been, causing his feet to seem large and dopey. The woman said that they likely grew that way because of so much time spent walking on a wire cage floor and also because it was likely that his toenails were never cut. We watched Dean as he walked slowly, making his way over a large tree root. I could see that he didn’t keep his back legs under him very well. It almost seemed as though they just stopped working. He tripped on the root and dragged his back legs for a moment.
“Is that because of his age?” I asked.
“We think so,” the woman replied. “We think Dean is around eight years old, but we have no way to really know. The vet says his legs show no structural damage. He might just be clumsy. He probably didn’t have the chance to develop the best motor skills with so much time spent in cages.”
My wife and I took her words without doubt. Where Dean had fur it was mostly red, but the dog’s white face gave away that he was an old fellow, and it seemed to be the sort of issue that might afflict an elderly dog. Later, we would find out that Dean was much older than eight and that the leg issue spoke to a greater problem he would face down the road.
“He’s missing a lot of teeth,” the woman added. “The vet had to extract a lot of them because they were infected. That’s why his tongue is sticking out in the picture we posted online. It does that a lot. Especially when he sleeps.”
The online picture was the reason my wife and I wanted to meet Dean. It was a close-up of his face, eyes closed amid peaceful slumber, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth like he was dreaming of ice cream. It was a picture full of character. The dog looked cute and full of life. It was the kind of photo that leads a person to project exactly what they want to see in it. It was a photo intended to sell. Now that we stood in front of the real Dean, the sad, tail-tucked, hairless, old, toothless, and clumsy little dog, the picture seemed as though it were nothing more than a fake.
The woman lifted Dean into her arms, and then she looked at us with eyes that revealed mistrust in the world. Her voice was laced with the exhaustion that I assume comes from having experienced failed adoptions before. Dean was not the kind of dog most people want to adopt. He was not a cute puppy. He was not a happy, chipper ray of sunshine. He had physical ailments. He was a reminder that the world was cruel.
Then she asked, “Do you still want him?”
I am a dog person, and I have always been, but it had been a long time since I had allowed myself to entertain the idea of owning my own dog. I had a dog, Oliver, when I was young. My family got him when I was seven, and he quickly became my best friend. We played together, watched television together, and even took naps together.
However, my experience with Oliver ended poorly. He was diagnosed with a type of cancer in his nasal passage that caused nosebleeds. The vet had given us a nasal spray that was supposed to stop the bleeds, but it was just to make his remaining days easier, and the inevitable was looming. My last day with Oliver was spent trying to apply his nasal spray as he bled all over the floor and on me. My parents returned home to the scene of their thirteen-year-old son sitting on the kitchen floor, covered in blood and clutching a thirty-pound white dog that could never understand what was happening. They immediately made the decision that it was Oliver’s time, and they left the house for the vet’s office. It was the last time I saw my friend. I didn’t want another dog after that.
My family would go on to get other dogs, but I refused to bond with them. I kept them at a distance and never allowed myself to develop close feelings for them as I had for Oliver. In my mind, I was saving myself the inevitable hurt.
Now, after years of keeping dogs at a safe emotional distance, I had a wife who was dead set on convincing me to change my ways. She eventually broke me down, after pleading, pulling at my heartstrings, and walking me past the adoptable pets in the pet store one hundred times. I gave in and proceeded to look for a rescue dog to adopt through the Internet. When I came across Dean’s picture, I was ready to try again. I was ready to take that responsibility. I was ready to care again.
So, as I stood there with my wife, in front of a woman who sacrificed her free time to try and help these poor animals, I looked into the eyes of the scared little dog, and the words “Do you still want him?” broke my heart.
“Of course,” my wife and I said in unison.
We took Dean home, and as the hours passed the doubt started to creep in. Dean spent his time hiding from us. My wife and I had never known dogs to hide from people, especially us. Dogs were happy, dogs were playful, dogs wanted attention. Dean wanted to hide. Not only that, but in the first days of Dean’s adoption, he never wagged his tail. Not once. I asked my wife if he might have broken his tail while in the puppy mill. I honestly wondered if he was unable to wag it. We wondered if the dog would ever be happy. However, we knew that little Dean had suffered, and we understood it might take time for him to come around.
Fortunately, our patience and persistence was rewarded. After what seemed like a very long couple of weeks, we finally met the real Dean, and our lives have never been the same. As time went on, and the dog continued to heal, we realized we were so lucky to find him.
Dean’s hair began to grow back, eventually covering his whole body again. His ear and tail hair grew amazingly. Like bursts of fire, long, feathered hair grew around his ears and out from his tail. The scared and shorthaired little dog we had adopted soon turned into a wild man in visage and spirit.
We learned that Dean loved to play. He would run around, bouncing off our sofas, playing with the other dogs in the family until he had to stop and catch his breath. He was by far the eldest of the group, but he did his best to keep up with the younger dogs, at times playing much harder than any of them ever did. He was still a very clumsy dog, and the leg issue persisted, but Dean never let it hold him back. Dean’s spirit was indomitable, and it was why we eventually nicknamed him The Dean Machine.
The scared little rescue dog had blossomed into a firecracker, and as it would turn out, his tail could wag just fine. He no longer hid from us, but greeted us at the door with kisses and barks of excitement. When I would return home from work, he would bark, jump up and down, and then run around the house until he had to stop and catch his breath. He never acted like an old dog for one day. Dean had been given a second chance at life, and he was going to attack it with everything he had.
At night, when things were winding down, he would settle in and nuzzle up in either my lap or my wife’s. With his tongue poking out of his mouth, Dean would look at us with eyes that were communicating something unmistakable. He was saying, “Thank you,” and he was saying, “I love you.” Dean was easily the most affectionate dog my wife or I have ever known. Whether it was his always being at our side, his extended bouts of dog kisses, how he loved to snuggle with us on the couch, his reactions when we got home, or the way he would pounce on your chest if you were lying down, Dean loved us intensely.
It’s hard to explain without having seen it for yourself, because it wasn’t as if Dean did things that other dogs didn’t do. It was just that when Dean did it, it was done more intensely and with more vigor than any other dog we had ever seen.
Dean changed my wife and I, in ways we may not be able to fully articulate. We adopted a tragic little animal, abused and mistreated by human arrogance and ignorance, and we watched him blossom into a vibrant, loving, and thriving dog while under our care. He never wasted a moment that he could be playing or loving. Dean lived to love, and he was very aware of us and that we were the ones who were giving him this new life. He needed us, and in a lot of ways, I think that we needed him. Dean changed the way I viewed a lot of things about the world, and he changed the way I viewed a lot of things about myself. He made me see life with renewed value for all living things. He made me remember to enjoy the fleeting moments we have with one another, in all of our relationships. He made me understand that it’s important to give love, even if it can end in hurt.
Unfortunately, the last lesson Dean would teach me would be the most difficult to endure. Tragically, the things Dean suffered during his years in that puppy mill would ultimately take him from us far too soon.
Just two years after adopting him, we noticed that Dean was breathing very heavily. He had always gotten short of breath quickly compared with other dogs, but it was now increasing to a point where we were worried. He had also recently gained a bit of weight that seemed odd to us. We took him to our vet, just after the beginning of 2014, and were soon given the news we had feared might come.
Dean had congestive heart failure and fluid gathering around his lungs, because the heartworms he had while in the puppy mill had damaged them to a point where he had now developed cancer. Also, because his lungs were so damaged, his heart was failing as it struggled to continue pumping them. As it turns out, the fact that he would grow short of breath quickly was not due to his age. It was because his heart had to fight harder to pump his damaged lungs. He didn’t sometimes lose his back legs because he was old or clumsy, but because his heart was fighting so hard.
We took him to a veterinary specialist who drained the fluid from around his lungs and gave us medications to ease his remaining time with us. Dean’s time was coming to an end. We were told that we might have six months left with him.
We had two weeks.
The nights in those final two weeks were the worst for Dean. He could tell that something was wrong. He spent his nights sleeping on my chest for the comfort of being close to me. I could feel him struggling with his breathing. I didn’t sleep much. I’m not sure he did, either. He wanted to be close, and I wouldn’t have taken that away from him for anything. I stayed awake those final nights, knowing things were getting worse: the fluid around his lungs was gathering again; his breathing was getting more strained. All I could do was pet him and tell him he was a good boy. All I could do was love him.
On Dean’s final day, every breath he took was hard work, but his heart was a machine, and he wouldn’t give up. My wife and I struggled with our decision, but in the end, we knew Dean was suffering too much. I cooked him a cheeseburger and let him have what he wanted of it. Then we took him to our veterinarian and let Dean’s fight end. We stayed with him through those final moments. He kissed us goodbye. I told him he was a good boy and I loved him, and then I watched the pain leave his eyes, and then I watched him leave us.
I will never forget Dean. I hate that I wasn’t able to save him. I hate what this world did to him. A world full of human arrogance and ignorance made him suffer and then took him away too soon, and I can never forgive it for that. However, I won’t let that be Dean’s legacy. I won’t let that be the way it ends.
The Dean Machine, in many ways, is just a fantastic adventure story, but in many other ways, it’s also Dean’s legacy. Many of the scenes I’ve written in the book are exact things Dean did during his life: rubbing his belly on the ground, hoarding things under beds, sleeping on my chest, and playing a game I dubbed “hand-fighting,” which was Dean acting as if my hand was another dog to play with. Dean’s true physical description is included, as well as his real character and personality. The book also details the things I’ve taken away from my time with Dean and things I’ve learned about myself, the world, and the other creatures of this world that we too often take for granted. When I lost Oliver, I decided to take my love away so that I couldn’t suffer. Dean helped me realize that I haven’t suffered anything, and the most selfish thing I could have done is to close myself off to animals that might need me.
My wife and I have adopted two other rescue dogs since losing Dean. We will always do for rescue dogs as much as we can. We will give them our love and our home, and try to help the world learn to value all life. Dean lives on in these pages, and Dean lives on in my ability to give back through him. That is why a portion of the money that comes from these pages will always be donated to rescue dogs that suffer, just like Dean did. Every time someone purchases The Dean Machine, they will be helping animals that still fight. I’ll give as much as I can as often as I can.
This is how I will continue Dean’s legacy. He will always be The Dean Machine.
When that dog looked into my eyes with his love, he made me more than what I am. For those simple few moments, he made me a hero, because I saved something that was truly pure and because I gave him my best and not an ounce less. When Dean looked at me, he said, “Thank you.” Every single time he looked at me, he was saying, “Thank you.” He was telling me that I was his hero and that I made fighting to hold on to hope worth it. I knew when Dean looked at me, that if I ever lived up to that dog and the way he saw the world, the way that he saw me, then I could do anything.
He gave that to me with one look. I’ve never given anyone a gift so true…
But it’s time…It’s time to give back.
