It was April 15th, a day already heavy with sorrow. I had just walked back into the treatment area after my second euthanasia of the afternoon when someone rushed in, carrying a tiny puppy. They placed her on the table, and at first glance I froze. Her body was twisted and rigid, her movements wildly abnormal.
One look was all it took. “That dog has tetanus,” I said.
She was a textbook case. Her mouth clamped shut in lockjaw, impossible to pry open. Her lips drawn back into the classic sardonic grin, her ears plastered so far back they looked as if she had undergone a botched facelift. She was completely stiff, her body like a wooden board, her muscles convulsing so violently that my own ached in sympathy.
This was a thirteen-week-old puppy, her entire life ahead of her, and yet here she was—paralyzed, trembling, fighting to breathe.
The prognosis was grim. In most cases, tetanus carries a 50–70% mortality rate in dogs. I picked up the phone and called her owner. “She might not make it,” I explained gently. “But if you want to try, there is still a chance. Thirty to fifty percent, depending on the literature. It will take thousands of dollars and constant, intensive care. Please think carefully.”
Her owner hesitated. The odds were bleak, and the costs overwhelming. After a long pause, I felt my own heart breaking. I looked back at the puppy, into her wide, terrified eyes, and something inside me refused to let go. I can’t put her down, I thought. If there’s even a sliver of hope, I have to fight for her.
I asked her owner if he would sign her over to me. He agreed, knowing she might not survive, and knowing that if she did, she would no longer be his. With that, this fragile, broken puppy became mine to fight for. I named her Bunny.
That first night was horrific. She convulsed endlessly, her little body seizing so hard she would bite her tongue and foam at the mouth. I could not sleep—she required constant monitoring. IV fluids dripped into her veins, injections every two hours on the hour, nursing care so relentless it consumed every moment. Her suffering was difficult even for me, a vet hardened by years of practice, to watch. Many times I wanted to cry.
And yet, I held on.
For over ten days the convulsions continued, violent and unyielding. Each day, I asked myself if she could possibly endure it. Each day, she somehow did. By the end of the first week, I noticed small glimmers of change. Brief moments of calm, fleeting but undeniable. If tetanus hadn’t killed her yet, I thought, maybe it wasn’t going to.
Two weeks in, exhaustion had nearly broken me. I was working eleven- to twelve-hour days, back to back, caring for other patients while Bunny required round-the-clock attention. I was drained physically, mentally, emotionally. But at the same time, I knew: she was going to make it.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, she began to improve. Five percent here, ten percent there, each day a little better. Tetanus is rare in dogs; most never face it, and those that do often don’t survive. But Bunny was not most dogs.
On day eighteen, she suddenly catapulted herself upright, only to topple over seconds later. On day twenty, she stood again, multiple times. Wobbly, weak, but standing. And on day twenty-one, something extraordinary happened: when my colleague Matt placed her down in the grass, Bunny stood and began walking toward me. Her tail wagged with pride, her eyes shining with determination. I felt goosebumps race up my arms.
In that moment, I knew she was going to be okay.
Bunny’s courage was astounding. Her body had endured pain and suffering beyond what most could survive. But she refused to quit. I had told her from the very beginning: If anyone can make it through this, it’s you. And she proved me right.
Weeks later, Bunny was unrecognizable from the rigid, convulsing puppy who had once felt like a wooden coffee table in my arms. She was bright, lively, eager to play. Her eyes sparkled with joy. She had not only survived—she had triumphed.
Looking at her now, I know she is nothing short of a little legend. Bunny would not be alive if I had focused on the percentages stacked against her instead of the sliver of hope in her favor. She would not be alive if love had not driven me to fight when giving up might have been easier. And I know, deep down, she would not be alive if God had not heard the desperate prayers whispered over her each night.
Today, Bunny is fully healthy. She runs, plays, and soaks up love from her new mom and dad. She lives the kind of life every puppy deserves—a life filled with warmth, safety, and joy. The shadow of tetanus is behind her now, and what remains is the story of a miracle.
Her journey is a reminder that the power of love can change everything. With determination, faith, and compassion, what once seemed impossible becomes reality. Bunny went from nearly zero chance of survival to becoming a beautiful, thriving dog who will never again face the world alone.
Her story will always stay with me. It is a story of medicine, yes, but even more so, a story of heart. Bunny is proof that sometimes, when the odds are stacked against you, hope and love can tip the balance toward life.
