When Dylon came into the world it was the 5th September 1990. He was the last in a litter of thirteen and the last baby his mother would have; this was her second litter. Being number thirteen should have some significance in setting the pattern Dylon took. He was very weak and exhausted when he arrived, quite a long time after all his litter mates, and was what is known as a gasper, struggling for every breath. I dried him and rubbed him, shaking him to get any fluids from his lungs, but he didn’t seem any better. I held no hope for his survival, but his determination to live, still gasping for life, was hopeful at least. I put him on a hot water bottle to keep him warm. He could not be fed because the struggle for air was enough for him to cope with, even though he needed nourishment to survive.
I stood looking at this little skinny creature trying so hard to live and thought hard what I could do to help him breath. I wondered – what if I put some Vicks chest rub on his nose as I did for my son when he was congested with a cold and couldn’t breathe properly. I thought it was worth a try. I got the jar and as I rubbed it gently on his tiny nose, to my surprise, I soon saw a change in his breathing. He slowly stopped gasping and seemed to be breathing more normally. It did not take long before he was well enough for me to start squirting some of his mother’s milk slowly into his mouth. He weakly drank small amounts which trickled down his throat. One has to be very careful not to get too much going down at once or the milk will go into the lungs and kill the puppy, especially if it is weak. But Dylon was taking the milk nicely and soon seemed full. After a couple more feeds like this he could struggle up to the teats with more strength and determination every feed. His big strong brothers would push him off the teats easily if not supervised, so I always let him feed in the first sitting.
I eventually showed Dylon with two of his brothers and two sisters from this litter, all of whom did some substantial winning, with Runner up in Show (all breeds), Best in Group and Best in Show awards amongst their achievements
Eventually we retired Dylon from his show career and placed him with a nice family with two young boys. He settled in with ease – we knew he would being the capable chap he was. The family adored him and he made himself at home, demanding his breakfast each morning by vocalising at the fridge door – he would snap his jaws together and talk in a sort of doggie conversation.
After a while the family moved house, staying in the same area but moving a few miles up the road, a busy road. Dylon settled in there too and after only a couple of days, old neighbors came to visit the family. It was dark when they went and the two families stood at the door saying their goodnights. Dylon was there with them then, but when everyone left and the family went to go inside they couldn't find him anywhere. He liked the visiting family and their kids so it was thought he'd followed them back to his former home and, yes, this would mean him going down the busy main highway.
The family searched for him for hours, but couldn't locate him, as it was so dark. The main highway was traveled up and down and, with relief, they assured themselves he wasn't there.
The next day I got their call that he was missing. He had a collar and tag on, but no-one had rang and there had been no sighting of him anywhere. The family hoped someone had taken him in and just hadn't got around to ringing them. He was very woolly and due to have a clip the very next day. It was good thing he had all his coat on since it was winter and there were gale force winds and heavy rain all that week.
We rang all the shires, vets, dog rescues, and anywhere we could think of. My husband had a motorbike at that time so we rode down to the area, giving out flyers and posted them on all the lampposts and in service stations if the owners would allow us to. All week we did this, and the family took over when they came back from school and work. After nine days we thought he was either dead or had been taken in by someone and kept.
On the eleventh day a girl from the shire office rang and said ‘someone has reported a dog which they found this morning and might be your dog’. It unfolded that the ranger had gone out to collect the dog, which was injured, and the ranger didn't know what breed he was. He thought he was a big hair black and tan mutt.
The lady who found him asked what would be done with him.
To this the ranger said ‘Oh, being injured and obviously a mutt he will most likely be put down’.
She then flat refused to let the chap take the dog, no matter how he protested for her to let him take the dog. Quite irritated about his wasted journey, he told the girl in the office about this ugly injured dog that he had been dragged out to collect and the woman who wouldn't let him have it. Good thing the girl thought to ring us, and good thing the woman wouldn't let the dog go.
When Jack took the call he went straight down to the address he had been given. I was out at this time posting leaflets and looking in pounds. The figure he saw was unbelievable: curled up, dirty, smelly and covered in his own excrement – unrecognisable as his former self. Jack could just make out it was our dear Dylon. The lady had dragged him from the spare ground where she found him, on a blanket, to her porch. It was as far as she could manage to get him because she thought lifting him might do some damage. She made him as comfortable as she could, gave him a drink, and offered some food, which he did eat. His collar was intact but the tag had been ripped off it.
My husband was told how she noticed the earth moving where the large area of bush land was just near her house over the fence from her garden. She went to investigate and to her utter astonishment found Dylon, who had actually dug himself in and covered as much of himself as he could with soil. The only edible food source was a sort of onion weed which was all around him and some wild berries. Dylon’s body reeked of this onion weed for months, as if it was coming out of every pore of his skin. Upon seeing Jack, Dylon stood up very wobbly and shaky and, would you believe, wagged his tail somewhat limply.
Once back home with us I took him straight to the vet, who said he'd been hit with a car about 10 days ago. It had struck him all along one side, including his hip and rump, but nothing was broken the vet and our amazement. He was so badly bruised that it took a full six months before he gained his bowel and bladder control back fully. The vet said it was surprising he hadn't suffered shock from the trauma and died where he had crawled to lie down. He thought he must be a very brave and strong dog to have survived so long before being found. The deep cut on his leg near the stifle told him how long ago he had been hit by the car. The fact no major organs where ruptured, such as the spleen, liver or stomach, was also astounding. He was so thin that we could only give him small meals. We did this often so he could regain his weight without damaging any vital organs.
After his endurance and survival when he was lost he went on to become a superb swimmer and would surf the waves with his body with such expertise that all the kids called him the surfing dog. One day he actually saved a child who was drowning when he was swimming a little way from the boy and could sense – even when those around the boy did not know – that he was in trouble. This big-hearted, adorable dog swam up to the boy and pushed his head under the boys arm so he could hold on to his hair and neck. He brought him to shore wearing the biggest smile only an Airedale could. The lad had drifted with the current into deep water which he could not manage. No one heard his cry because of all the noise of the other children and the sea or see his panic and, like many children, would have drowned unnoticed and silently. How Dylon knew his dilemma, being so far away from him, is another mystery of the dog senses we humans do not understand.
What other breed would have the sheer stamina and determination to have survived an ordeal like this. Then gone on from strength to strength and even saved the life of a child to top it off. .
Dylon is now twelve years old and has only slight stiffness if the weather is very cold; he lies on a soft comfortable bed and is always in the house where it is warm in winter. He is still a bright, happy and active a fellow, a chip off the old block – his father was our Champion Beukale Rydal Major and our New Zealand import, the charismatic Champion Militaire Touch of Bells was his mother. He is one of four who are still alive from that litter, all with such strength of characters and determination typical of an Airedale. It is little wonder they still are favorite working dogs with military forces around the world, going back to the war years and their role during these times.
Dylon passed away Christmas time 2003; he was thirteen years old. Umm, that number again.
Pauline Kitching
Beukale Airedales
www.beukale.shows.it
Western Australia
