Then I found Kellin.
Grinning happily, unconcerned with anything that might be going on, I immediately fell in love. I sent the link to Steve in Iraq, and his surprising response was, "Get him." I was flabbergasted. Really? My tough guy husband wanted the blind, but blissfully happy, dog? I sent a query to the rescue society, applied, and, miraculously, was approved to adopt Kellin, even though I told them we couldn't actually take him until my husband had returned from war. Several people had inquired about him, and we were chosen. It turned out to be far better than winning the lottery.
Steve's deployment was extended twice, and when he came home we were reluctant for him to return to his former job as a prison guard at the state's maximum security prison. Within short order, we received a phone call from the rescue society saying that if we didn't claim Kellin within the week, he would have to be put to sleep. We immediately picked him up and returned to Steve's former employment, even driving the U-Haul back to where we had lived while trying to line up a rental house without ever having seen it.
Because Kellin was completely blind, and had been since 6-months-old, I bought an overpriced "Wiggle-Giggle" dog ball that made noise as it rolled, thinking Kellin could follow the sound and have something to play with. Jake had destroyed it within 15 minutes.
Kellin had such confidence in his own abilities that he did not hesitate to do anything. Taking him on walks meant he went to the very end of the leash, swerved back and forth, and went as fast as he dared to. One day the front gate was left open and he managed to get out of the yard; he set off on his own walkabout without a second thought. When I went to let him back in and discovered the gate open, I looked around in panic only to locate him in the dead center of a nearby intersection, unwilling to move because the street was coated in ice. I'll never forget flying out of my house, screaming his name, barefoot, bed head and pajamas marking me as a loony,waiting for a car to mow him down, only to have Kellin give me a "happy dance" when I finally got to his side.
We often joked that, if Kellin could see, he would be the worst dog ever. He dug an unopened, expired box of cake mix out of the garbage when we went to church one day, ripped it open, and licked it into our beige carpet. Let me tell you, "funfetti" sprinkles do not shampoo out of your rug easily, and cake mix and dog drool mixed together, when dry, are sharp enough to cut through skin.
When Kellin would get a hold of something he wasn't supposed to have, all we'd have to do is say, "Kellin!" and he'd immediately start walking slowly, and silently. I don't think he could ever remember what it was like to see, and he undoubtedly thought he could sneak past us, since our only hope of locating him was by sound.
Speaking of getting a hold of "no-no" things, Kellin frequently swallowed inedible items (plastic rings off milk jugs, etc.) and would then vomit them back up. This happened so often, we actually had him trained to go outside to puke. Of course, if I wasn't on my toes that meant that he would puke in the corner right by the door, where it's so hard to clean up, but, hey, he tried. It wasn't his fault.
Kellin started having anal gland problems. The first time one ruptured, I thought he had been shot. Over the next year, every month I made an emergency trip to our vet in another state. Treatment after treatment failed, and the vets' office became increasingly callous and unhelpful. We sought another vet, also in another state, and found a real fruit-loop who wanted to "align Kellin's spine" in an effort to end the anal gland problems. Yeah, right. Uh-huh. At that point we turned to the new vet in our extremely rural community, and it was one of the best things we've ever done.
We discovered that Kellin had an extremely rare condition that caused his anal glands to be many times longer than they should have been. Our new vet, Robin, said that the scarring in his anal gland was so bad that she didn't feel comfortable attempting to remove it herself, fearing that she would make Kellin fecally incontinent. She sent us to a specialist a few hours away who removed them both, even though only one had ever caused problems--we weren't taking any chances. Many years later his non existent fecal gland ruptured again, but that's a story for another time. Kellin always was special.
Kellin had such an amazing sense of his location that he couldn't pick up on a floor's layout after only walking it once and he rarely lost himself. A ringing doorbell when he was dead asleep would cause him to pop up and "pinball" back and forth until he got to the door, but the rest of the time he would find his way so easily that I frequently forgot he was even blind. It was not uncommon for me to expect Kellin to do something, only to stop and go, "Wait, he can't see. He can't do that."
Kellin's first eye was removed when he got glaucoma, the second when his juvenile cataract grew so thick that it shifted and caused his eye to be unable to drain fluid properly. The only time I have ever seen that dog unhappy was when he was forced to wear the "cone of shame;" he removed his bandages more than once, and, let me tell you, empty eye sockets bleed. I think the cone caused the sounds around him to echo, throwing off his sense of direction. We were all very glad when the bandages came off, and the cone, as well.
Towards the end, Kellin developed arthritis and his hearing began to fail him. He would get lost frequently, even in our own home. The pain was so much that he would stand and shake, but he still had a huge grin on his face. The slightest bump would cause him to collapse, and it was an ordeal to get him back on his feet. He fell down my parents stairs. He got stuck in Fay's playhouse. Things were bad, but you never would have known it by his face.
Kellin taught me so much. He taught me that, no matter what life hands you, you still have exactly what you need to not only survive, but flourish. He taught me to love, to trust in the innate goodness of people. He taught me to never give up, even when everywhere you turn there's another obstacle blocking your path. He taught me that there is always reason to rejoice. I he taught me that being special needs just means you have an even greater capacity to succeed.
