Never Adopt a Special Needs Dog

“Never adopt a special needs dog,” they warned. “They’ll consume all your time. You’ll never be able to leave them with anyone else. They’ll be too much trouble, a constant burden.” Thankfully, I’m not one to take others’ advice—especially when it comes to my pups.

Meet Clover NKA Maggie Mae

One day, I stopped by St. Francis CARE in Murphysboro, IL. My only plan was to drop off some donations and take a quick look around. But in the Medical Room, where dogs were resting after injuries or surgeries, my eye caught on a dog who seemed to have stepped out of a dream. She was medium-sized, her body slender like a border collie’s, but her head and face were unlike any dog’s—almost like a possum’s, with a gentle and curious expression. She was something truly unique.

Seeing my confusion, a vet tech came over. “This is Clover,” they explained. She’d been at the shelter since she was a young pup. A family had adopted her, but she was quickly returned because of her shy, fearful nature. They couldn’t handle a dog who spent most of her time hiding under the bed.

Discovery of the Truth

Once Clover was back at the shelter, it became clear that something was very wrong. She started losing her fur, and sores appeared across her body. The vet tried everything—medications, biopsies, skin scrapings—but no diagnosis emerged. For six long months, Clover grew worse. Finally, the diagnosis arrived: she had an autoimmune disease, something she’d have to battle for life. Luckily, an affordable medication could help her, though it came with its own side effects: loss of appetite, depression, lethargy, and frequent bouts of diarrhea.

Time Away

I sat in front of her kennel, studying her face. Despite her condition, her eyes held a glimmer of life, a trace of hope. I started visiting her regularly, drawn to her spirit. I brought her treats and a calming bed to ease her discomfort. Since her disease had eaten away the pads of her feet, she couldn’t walk outside, so I carried her out to feel the sun and smell the fresh air. Every visit, she seemed a little better, a little brighter. But then, I went away on vacation.

When I returned two weeks later, I found her changed. Her eyes, which once held a fragile hope, were now dull and empty. She wouldn’t take a treat, wouldn’t even glance up. She’d stopped fighting.

The Ride Home

That day, I drove home in silence, tears slipping down my face. The shelter staff had told me that during my absence, she’d taken a turn for the worse. She’d refused food, becoming a shadow of the dog I’d known. The thought haunted me—had I failed her by leaving? Would she have kept fighting if I’d been there?

That evening, I shared my heartbreak with my husband. I told him I didn’t think she’d survive more than a few days, and I’d made my peace with saying goodbye. I expected him to comfort me, to say, “You did all you could.” Instead, his response stunned me: “Go get her. Don’t let her die alone without a family.”

It was as if a door opened. I hadn’t considered bringing her home. We already had five dogs, and Clover was so fragile that I worried they’d accidentally hurt her. But I couldn’t ignore the idea anymore. I spent the next day preparing a room just for her. I gated it off so she could see her new siblings but stay safe. I filled it with sunlight, a cozy bed, and everything I could think of to make her feel at home.

Coming Home

On November 9, 2019, my husband and I arrived at the shelter to bring Clover home. The staff was overjoyed, knowing this would be her final chance at a family. My husband gently scooped her up, carrying her to the truck. I filled out the paperwork, and off we went. In the truck, Clover lifted her tiny nose, taking in the air, her eyes brightening as the breeze ruffled her fur. For the first time in months, she looked alive. She was ready for this.

Those early days were full of adjustment, for her and for us. She quickly made herself at home in her room, gazing out through the gate at her new siblings, and they watched her with curiosity. Each day, I watched her spirit grow. Slowly, she started eating, her strength returned, and she even ventured outside to feel the grass beneath her paws. Watching her raise her head to the sun, her face turned skyward, I knew I’d made the right choice.

It felt right to give her a new name for her new life. From that moment, she was Maggie Mae, a name brimming with warmth and promise.

Her Quiet Happiness

Maggie Mae’s life with us was different from our other dogs. She didn’t run around or chase toys, and she didn’t curl up on my lap like many dogs do. Instead, she found her peace in the little things: resting in her bed, savoring head rubs, chewing on bones, and nibbling cheese, her favorite treat. When the weather was nice, she’d make her way to the front porch and stand there, her nose tilted upward, as if absorbing all the world’s beauty.

Some may wonder why we didn’t put her down. Why keep her if she was suffering? But suffering is a broad term, isn’t it? Don’t we all suffer from time to time—a sore shoulder, a headache, the trials of everyday life? Maggie Mae wasn’t in pain. She didn’t have open sores anymore, and she wasn’t struggling. She was simply different, with unique needs. She wasn’t a burden; she was beautiful, gentle, and full of quiet strength. She was family.

For over four years, Maggie Mae lived with us, a calm presence in our home.

A Heartfelt Goodbye

On April 27, 2024, Maggie Mae’s journey ended. At only five years old, her body finally surrendered, and as I looked into her eyes, I knew it was time. We said goodbye that day, my heart breaking for the dog who’d changed me in so many ways.

Now, when I hear someone say, “Don’t adopt a special needs dog,” I smile and tell them about Maggie Mae. Yes, she was special. And yes, she was worth it.