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THE ASTORIAN • SATURDAY, APRIL 9, 2022
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Lissa Brewer
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Mary Shaver and her dog.
SAVED BY
EACH OTHER
Woman recounts tale of taking in dog
By MARY SHAVER
For The Astorian
I
t was a dark and stormy night, not quite night, but a very dreary,
rainy 3 p.m. Dec. 31 on the North Coast. My m om would have
said “It was raining cats and dogs and leaving poodles in the
road,” but in this case it was a Labrador r etriever.
My family was at the house in Arch Cape preparing for New Year’s
Eve. I was on my fi nal shopping trip into the Safeway in Seaside. I was
almost to the Bell Buoy s eafood m arket and running toward me in the
middle of traffi c on U.S. Highway 101 was what looked like a fi lthy
brown dog. I pulled the car over to the side of the road and thankfully
so did the car behind me.
I got out of my car as did the other guy. The other fellow had a little
yapping dog in the front seat and this big fi lthy dog thankfully came
over to investigate. This animal didn’t have a collar. I gently took hold
of him by the scruff of his neck so he wouldn’t bolt. I asked the man
if he wanted to take the dog and his immediate response was that he
couldn’t. I asked if he would help me get the dog into the back of my
car and I would take him. Together we got the dog into my car.
“Pearl,” my yellow Labrador, a prior intentional rescue from the
Washington County a nimal s helter, was in the back of my car. She was
quite happy to make room for this unexpected guest. I think that hav-
ing her close was comforting for this sad, dirty dog.
Overwhelming gratitude
I called my daughter from the car and told her the story. I asked her
to be on hand to help me get this animal into the house and shower.
Arriving home, we got the dog into the shower. I stripped down, got
into the shower with him and was using the handheld sprayer to clean
him up. He was so dirty. He had a slit on his throat that between the
dried mud and blood was like a collar. I was working on cleaning his
neck to see how bad the cut was.
My daughter was very concerned. She told me to get my face away
from the dog’s face, that I knew nothing about this dog, and he could
really hurt me. I told her that I knew he wouldn’t hurt me and that all I
felt radiating from this animal was overwhelming gratitude. I’ve never
felt anything like that before or after.
He was a beautiful intact male yellow Labrador. My neighbor
across the street at Arch Cape is a vet. I had him come over and check
out the boy. The cut was old, and he felt that the dog had been on the
lam for at least a couple of weeks. The animal was skinny. He gave the
dog a shot of antibiotic, just in case. I toweled him dry and fed him.
New Year’s Eve commenced and for a while this dog was the cen-
ter of attention. What, where, when, how? He seemed so broken, no
collar and that cut on his neck, we all concluded that his story wasn’t
a very happy one.
On Jan. 2 I took “Hogan,” named after Hulk Hogan, to the Seaside
v et to check for a chip. N o chip. They weighed him and he weighed
62 pounds. I drove to the Seaside p olice s tation to notify them that I
had found this animal. I left my contact information in case the owner
showed up.
I drove home to Portland and took him to my v et for a complete
checkup. My v et told me that I needed to contact the Washington and
Clatsop c ounty a nimal s helters and if no one claimed within 30 days
she would neuter him, and he was mine. I was so relieved when the 30
days was over. He was mine.
Rehabilitation
My property in Portland was 3 acres of grass, woods and gardens.
The beach was the beach. Both environments were wonderful for
Hogan to rehab into a loving and safe world.
Hogan topped the scales at 108 pounds . He was a healthy, beauti-
ful, sweet, lovely boy and was frightened of just about anything. Loud
voices, fi reworks, crackling fi rewood would have him hiding in the
smallest, safest places he could fi nd.
I had never liked dogs that drooled. Hogan drooled, not always,
only when he was stressed, which was pretty much all the time. I
didn’t care that Hogan drooled. He would wake me up in the morn-
ing by nosing the covers up and sliding his muzzle along the mattress
until he found me. Needless to say, the sheets had drool tracks, but I
didn’t care.
Everyone loved Hogan. He reminded me of Ferdinand, after the
children’s story about the bull that would rather smell fl owers than
fi ght in the bull ring. That was Hogan. I have a great picture of Hogan
after the granddaughters got a hold of him and put on lipstick, blue
eye shadow, blush — oh, my we laughed so hard, and he was such a
good sport.
Hogan was maybe 3 or 4 when I found him. He lived until maybe
13 or 14. It was July at the beach. I was sitting on the bottom stair
smooshing his beautiful face in my hands. It had been a rough night
for him. His eyesight, hearing, bowels, bladder were all failing him.
He was so sad and embarrassed. He put his head on my knee and we
both knew that it was time to go.
I called the v et and told her I was bringing Hogan in and would be
there in a few hours. I called the family and told them if they wanted
to say goodbye to Hogan to meet me at the v et. There were so many of
us to say our fi nal goodbyes to this beautiful, sweet boy.
Whenever I would tell my story about Hogan, people would say
how lucky he was that I saved him. The truth is we saved each other.
This essay was produced through a class taught by Tom Hallman
Jr., a Pulitzer Prize winning reporter at The Oregonian.