Her small body trembled on the cold kennel floor. No blanket, no warmth, just a fragile puppy struggling to move.
The call came late, after midnight. A voice, hurried and sharp, described a puppy in trouble. Neurological issues, they said. I watched the video they sent, her tiny frame writhing on metal bars. My chest tightened.
She was alone, hurting, with no one to hold her. I knew I had to act. Sleep never came that night. Her pained movements haunted me, a silent plea for help. I prayed they’d let her go.
Morning brought another call. “Can you take her?” Relief flooded me, mixed with anger. Why had they waited? Why let her suffer? But there was no time for questions. She needed me now.
A Fragile Arrival
She arrived at the hospital, so small she fit in my palm. Tests showed low blood sugar, dehydration, and likely hydrocephalus—fluid pressing on her brain. Her body wobbled, unable to stand.
She seemed blind, though faint light sparked a response in her eyes. Yet, she was alert. She wanted to move. She wanted to live.
We started treatment to ease the pressure in her head. That night, she drank from a bottle, gulping as if she’d never been fed right. Her breeder had used a syringe, but she craved the bottle’s comfort.
I watched her, wondering about her first five weeks. No soft touch. No rest. No love. My heart ached for what she’d endured.
We brought her home. For hours, we held her gently, steadying her wobbly body. She calmed, her breathing soft and even. We named her Tippy—perfect for her unsteady, brave little self.
A Spark of Hope
Tippy met her neurologist. Everyone loved her instantly. Her big eyes, her determined spirit, won them over. They suspected hydrocephalus and a cerebellar issue—maybe hypoplasia or abiotrophy.
She was too small for anesthesia, too fragile for a full diagnosis. But the medications worked wonders. She ate eagerly, played like any puppy, and woke each day with quiet joy.
I pictured her running, free and strong. But reality was different. She needed support to stand, a custom cart to hold her upright.
Devin, with steady hands and a kind heart, built her a pink one. For a moment, she stood tall, ears perked, tasting the breeze. It was her first glimpse of the world she deserved.
Then, pain struck. Tippy cried when she moved her neck. We tried painkillers, steroids, muscle relaxants. Nothing helped. Her cerebellar condition made her head shake, worsening the pain.
An infusion eased her suffering, but small seizures followed. We didn’t know why—medication, swelling, or something else.
A CT scan confirmed hydrocephalus, a tiny cerebellum, a cyst, and fluid in her spine. There might be a fracture, or maybe just growth changes. We had to try something.
A Fight Worth Fighting
They tapped fluid from her brain through her open fontanelle. Normal pressure is 15; hers was 33. They lowered it to 24, and Tippy changed. Her pain eased. Her eyes brightened.
It was temporary, but it gave us hope. Some might say it’s too much for a dog. But Tippy was worth everything—every sleepless night, every tear, every prayer.
The hospital ordered a shunt, small enough for her tiny body. She stayed there, eating, wagging, fighting. The surgery came.
Two incisions—one on her head, one on her belly. The shunt worked. Fluid drained slowly, and she stabilized. She moved, a little stronger each day, heading toward a life she’d never known.
I see her in my mind, back in her pink cart, ears up, tail wagging. She greets each morning with courage, despite everything.
Tippy reminds me of quiet things—loyalty, second chances, the way love can mend what’s broken. At 50, I’ve seen life’s highs and lows.
I’ve lost pets, friends, moments. But Tippy’s fight feels like a gift. She shows us that every day is a chance to start again, to find joy in small victories.
Her road ahead is long. She’ll need care, patience, and hope. But she’s not alone anymore. She has us, her pink cart, and a heart that refuses to give up.
Tippy’s story isn’t just about a puppy. It’s about holding on, about seeing the overlooked, about believing in what’s possible.
This story was inspired by a quiet, touching video you can watch here. If it moved you, feel free to support the original creator.