Give hope to animals in need this winter

Dane Edna

65328  |  Adopted  |  Age: 2 Years, 11 Months, 3 Weeks  |  Breed: Great Dane

My world was a blur of hunger, cold, and loneliness before GAWS. Every step I took felt like a heavy burden, like my body was made of nothing but skin and bones. It hurt to move, but even worse was the ache in my stomach, a pain I couldn’t escape, no matter how much I wished for food.

My ribs poked out, sharp like the bones of a skeleton, and my stomach growled all the time. It scared me, but I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Then, one day, I found a place. The smell was strange, but it felt safer than the street. When I first saw the GAWS staff, I was so weak. I could barely lift my head to look at them. There were humans, kind ones, I think. They talked softly to me, kneeling down and offering me treats. I didn't know if I should trust them, but my empty belly screamed for anything. So, I let them bring me inside. The GAWS staff picked me up gently, their hands warm on my cold body. I took the food.

I was so weak. My legs shook. I could barely stand. The food was good, but it wasn’t enough yet. My body was too far gone. I didn’t look like the other dogs, I could feel the pity in their eyes, even if they didn’t say it.

The GAWS Vet came soon after. I remember the cold tables and the sharp smells of antiseptic. They poked and prodded, making me wince, but I knew it was to help me. They performed a procedure on me called “desexing’ and took full blood panel to conduct a ‘bile acid test’.

They found that my body had been through so much. “Chronic pancreatitis,” the GAWS Vet said. That sounded scary, but it was also a relief to know what had been hurting me. At least now, I could understand why I couldn’t keep food down or why I felt like my body was always fighting itself. They gave me medicine and told me they’d help me get stronger.

They started feeding me more, a special kind of food that was soft and gentle on my tummy. Twice a day, then three times. Every day felt like a battle to gain a little weight. My legs were still so weak, my stomach still so tiny and I was still so tired.

Days passed. Slowly, very slowly, my body started to change. My ribs weren’t as sharp anymore. But it wasn’t just my body that was getting stronger. My heart was, too. I could walk a little longer, I could run a little faster. I could play with the other dogs, even if they had more energy than me. I was catching up.

Then, there she was. She didn’t look like the others who passed me by without a second glance. No, this one stopped. She crouched down. I wagged my tail as hard as I could. She scratched me behind my ears, just where I like it. I didn’t understand it all. How could she want me? But she smiled, and I liked her smile.

She talked to the GAWS staff, and for a second, I thought I might burst from excitement. I had finally found my forever home. And I knew, with all my heart, that this time, I had someone who would love me.

I’m in my new home now, and it feels so good. I’m no longer just surviving. I’m living.

Nutmeg

65384 | Adopted | Age: 2 Years 1 Month 4 Weeks (approx.)  |  Breed: Domestic Short Hair

I remember the sharp sting, like a lightning bolt through my eye. I was just trying to move my kittens to safety when those humans fired at me. I hissed, but they didn’t stop. Pop, the bullet hit me, but I kept running, holding my four baby kittens close.

Eventually, my legs gave out, and everything went blurry. The next thing I knew, gentle hands were lifting me. Geelong Animal Welfare Society had found me. I was no longer the proud mother I once was. They wrapped me in soft towels and spoke gently. I watched my kittens, their little paws reaching out. My babies were alright, they were safe now. And slowly, so was I.

The surgery was not easy. It was long and complicated. The GAWS Vet didn’t know if I would survive surgery, but despite all odds, she removed the bullet from my body and stitched up wounds that had no place in my world.

The days after that were a blur of strange faces and soft voices. I was in a place I didn’t recognise, filled with smells that made my nose twitch in confusion. As I grew stronger, the GAWS Vet told me, in soft, slow words, that my eye couldn’t be saved. They put me under for a second surgery to remove my eye. When I woke up, I couldn’t see out of one eye, the pain was still there, I pawed at the space where my eye had once been, trying to make sense of it all.

The GAWS staff and volunteers showed me kindness, something I hadn’t known in a long time. I didn’t know what the future held, but for now, I had peace, and that was enough.

Days later, I ended up on the front page of the local newspaper. People were reading about me. My bullet x-rays were everywhere: on kitchen counters, in waiting rooms, in hands that flipped its pages all over town. I don’t know who wrote the story or how they knew about my journey into GAWS. They wrote about the violence and the horrific animal cruelty. And that, I suppose, is the story that needed to be told.

I may not have two eyes anymore, but I can still see the world in my own way. And now, for the first time, I see what it means to truly belong. From the warmth of a real home, I’ve finally been adopted.

Daphne now Lucy

63800 | Adopted | Age: 1 Year 4 Months 1 Week (approx.) | Breed: Beagle

I don’t remember much, just the cold concrete beneath my paws and the constant pain radiating in my right eye, it was all blurry.

I barely noticed when the GAWS vet nurse wrapped me in a soft blanket, or when the Vet with the gentle hands checked me over. But I felt the sting in my stomach when she pricked me with something sharp.

"She’s in bad shape," I heard someone say, though the words felt like they didn’t belong to me.

My right eye had been bothering me for a while now. I couldn’t see clearly, not the way I should, and everything was cloudy through that eye. My ears... they itched something fierce. That’s what really made it hard to focus. But I couldn’t complain, not out loud, not in a way anyone would understand.

The vet nurse at GAWS called it “desexing” when they took me into the surgical room, and I remember the cold table under me as they put me to sleep. They told me it would help me be healthier, and I guess I wasn’t in any position to argue.

Then came the tests. The ones that had to do with my eye. They called it the ‘Sherman’s Tear Test’, and they hooked something over my lower eyelid. It made me blink, and the world became a little blurrier. Then came the ‘Menace Eye Response’ test. They waved their hands, moving them close to my face, and I couldn't help but twitch. It was like I couldn't see them in time, and that made the Vet frown.

“You’ve got a lot of damage to that eye,” she said. “We’ll have to do something about it.”

I was afraid.

After all the tests, they gave me something called pain relief, which made the world a little softer for a while. And then, they told me the hardest part: the eye had to come out. There was no way to fix it. The infection was too deep, and the pain was too much for me to bear.

It was my right eye, the one that never worked properly. I didn’t know what an "eye removal" meant, but I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted the pain to go away.

When I woke up, there was less hurt. A little groggy, but lighter. They’d taken my eye, and I felt a strange emptiness where it used to be. It wasn’t perfect, but at least the world wasn’t so cloudy now. The ache behind my ear, the one that made me scratch and scratch until I bled, was fading, too. They’d cleaned up my ear, with medicine, I no longer hurt the way I did before.

Then, one day, a father and son came in. They knelt by my cage, and I felt something in the son’s gaze—something that made my tail wag. He reached through the bars and gently petted my head. “I think she’s the one,” he said.

The ride home was strange. I was cautious at first, unsure if this was real. But every day, they showed me love and patience, and I began to trust again.

I wasn’t Daphne the stray anymore. I had a name, Lucy, and a family. And for the first time in my life, I knew I was home.

“Lucy has brought happiness to our home. She has graduated from puppy school and now lives a very happy life – attending doggy daycare once a week.”

Gomez

43109  |  Available for adoption  |  Age: 10 Years, 8 Months, 3 Weeks  |  Breed: Domestic Short Hair

They told me I was “surrendered”. Surrendered. I don’t know what that means.

For some reason my human couldn’t look after me anymore. I’m not sure what happened. I only know I’ve been here for a while now, 279 days to be exact. I close my eyes and rest my head on my paws, and for a moment, I imagine what it would be like to be back in my old place.

I’ve heard them whispering about me - about my skin, my weight, the way my coat looks too thin, bald and bleeding in spots.

The bones in my back and ribs felt sharper than they should. I could feel the scabs on my skin, the places I had scratched until the blood came out. I didn’t mean to hurt myself. It’s just that sometimes, the itching is so bad, I couldn’t help it.

And then, there was the diagnosis. They called it "Feline Immunodeficiency Virus ", they say. “He’s positive”.  I didn’t understand what it meant, but I could hear the concern in their voices. The words were too big for me, too complicated. But one thing I do know is that it doesn’t change who I am. I’m still me, still the same cat who used to curl up by the window and watch the world go by.

The GAWS staff, the ones who take care of me, have been kind. They gave me medication; it seems to have healed my irritated skin. They feed me hypoallergenic food twice a day, a little more than I had before, the food is kinder to my tummy, and the soft blankets they put in my bed comfort me when I wake up from strange dreams. They always talk to me with gentle voices and give me attention, making sure I know I’m not alone.

Now, I’m not sure what comes next. But I’m ready. I’ve been fed, I’ve been taken care of, and my skin isn’t itchy anymore. My fur has completely grown back and I’m ready to share my senior years.  Maybe there’s a kind person out there who needs a little company, a cat who will sit quietly beside them, purring softly as the world outside passes by. Either way, I’ll wait. There’s nothing else I can do.

Honey

64892  |  Available for adoption  |  Age: 10 Years 5 Months  |  Breed: Border Collie / Kelpie

I remember the day they left me at the shelter. The door closed behind them, and I didn’t understand. I couldn’t help but notice how they looked at me that last day. It wasn’t the same. Their eyes were full of sadness, maybe, or guilt. I couldn’t tell.

There were so many smells, so many other dogs. I was just trying to figure out what was going on. The GAWS vet nurse petted me gently and said things like, “poor baby, you’ve been through a lot,” but I didn’t know what she meant.

They poked and prodded me, drew blood, took black and white photos of what seemed like everywhere, my chest, my hips and my legs. They talked in hushed voices about all the things that were wrong with me.

They led me into a cold room, there was a strange tightness in my chest. I could feel my heart beating fast, and then... everything went blurry. It was like I fell asleep, but I wasn’t tired. I woke up feeling sore. I looked down at myself, and there were stitches. Something had been taken from me, but I didn’t know what.

I was told I had been "desexed."

The GAWS vet nurses were kind to me, giving me soft blankets to lie on, lots of treats, and gentle pats. It wasn’t all bad.

But then, something else happened. The vet nurses —they seemed so worried. They kept watching me, monitoring me. They said something about "mammary chains" and took me back to the cold room for another surgery. I didn’t know what that meant either, but my tummy felt different, and I had these things hanging from my chest running down to my groin. When they took them away, I didn’t really notice right away, but there was more soreness and more stitches.

I remember feeling confused about all of it, but mostly, I just wanted to sleep. Sleep and heal.

It wasn’t easy, though. My leg ached; they had removed a suspicious lump off my leg. My right eye felt heavy; they had removed a cyst off my eyelid as well. The Vet visits were frequent, and the treatments were tiring.

They set me up for lifetime ‘pentosan injections’ that helps with my sore joints. My body isn’t perfect, but I’m learning that it doesn’t need to be. I have something I haven’t had in a long time: a chance. A chance to be loved again, even with my scars. I’m wagging my tail and waiting for my next chapter to begin.