How I saved Bronson, and he saved me Bronson the one-eyed St Kilda fan. HE was one-eyed in life and one-eyed about his passion for his football club. He was an over-weight, anxious animal who came into my life and unexpectedly stole my heart. That was my beloved pug, Bronson - and now he's gone. They prepared me for what was to come, told me it was going to happen. But still, when it did, I collapsed. Bronson was the most unlikely candidate for me to adopt when I went to Pug Rescue to find a dog. He was literally double the weight he should have been and his poor puggy breathing couldn't take the strain. His puggy heart was under severe stress and we didn't know if he'd make it. He smelled so badly I struggled to pick him up. His ears were blocked with gunk. He was so anxious he would lick his feet until they bled and, of course, he only had one eye. A fact that his previous owner, the person who surrendered him, seemed unwilling to explain. I could see other, less obvious, tell-tale signs of abuse. Once, I raised my arm suddenly to point at something in the park and Bronson, clearly thinking I was going to hit him, cowered so sharply he fell over backwards. I don't think he'd ever had his own territory, his own space, his own 'home', which is probably why he urinated on everything I owned. Couches, coffee tables, rugs. You name it, he marked it. Bronson and his owner, Isabelle Olderberg. After he came home with me, I washed him five times over until he smelled of lavender and wrapped him in a beautiful fluffy towel (sorry Mum, I know you said not to, but I think you knew I used the good towels). I fed him only chicken necks and BARF (Biologically Appropriate Raw Food) in terribly small rations, plus raw carrots to clean his teeth and fill his stretched belly. Slow walks over the next few weeks turned into morning runs together and his breathing started to sound less like a chainsaw. People stopped us in the street to comment on what a handsome, beautiful looking pug he was. Bronson in the park. And I was so proud, not just that he'd made it, but made it in style. I'd adopted Bronson as an older dog, and after a while he started to show his age, as well as display health issues including seizures, but I didn't mind. I loved him. I took him to animal eye-care specialists to preserve his remaining eye, but still, his vision began to fail. I got him a little set of carpeted stairs to he could get on and off the couch without putting stress on his ailing joints. I bought him a beautiful, purpose-built, pet stroller (coloured red, for speed) so we could still do "walks" by the beach and to the park. Bronson, like me, became a diehard Saints supporter and just missed out on becoming "pet patron" of the St Kilda AFL Club. Bronson had his own Saints scarf and a specially-made eye patch. People didn't laugh at us as we strutted about with his stroller. They thought it was wonderful he could still be out and about, enjoying the sunshine and fresh air. I've had many dogs before Bronson, and I've loved every one. But my bond with Bronson was stronger, because I'd saved him from the rescue place. I had watched him become all that he could be, a loving, beautiful creature who could still give love unconditionally. Bronson and one of his toys. And I hadn't fought so hard to give him life to let it be destroyed with over-medication and pain in the final chapter. But when that chapter comes, you can never truly be ready for it. It was around 10.30 on the night I came home from a debate about science versus faith. How ironic, given what was to come. I gave Bronson dinner and all his meds: flax seed oil and fish oil for his joints, half a Valium for anxiety, some Loxicom and Glyde powder for his joints, and of course his Tacrolimus drops for his one remaining eye. Realising I'd left my mobile phone in the living room, I stepped out into the corridor and I heard a strange scraping noise behind me. I turned around slowly, my heart sinking. I don't know why or how, but I just knew. Bronson was on the floor, eye staring straight ahead, all four legs paddling uselessly in the air, froth starting to foam at his mouth. The vet had prepared me for the occurrence of a grand mal seizure. I took a valium out of the packet and forced it into his bum as high as it would go. And then I called for help. Downstairs, waiting for my brother, I held Bronson against me, wrapped in a towel and seizing up so hard I could barely hold on. We raced Bronson to pet emergency. I knew the likelihood of permanent brain damage from the ongoing seizures was real. The vet called my brother and I into the emergency room to see Bronson hooked up to an oxygen machine and a urinary catheter. It had taken four doses of liquid diazepam to sedate him enough to stop the seizures, but after every dose, he'd start seizing again. The vet told me my options. Bronson at bedtime. If I have him put him under a general anaesthetic, he could be slowly weaned off, but even if he pulled through, he would be on anti-convulsive medication for the remainder of his life. I knew what the decision was before I'd made it. I sat on a bench in a private room, my brother next to me and Bronson cradled in my lap. "Are you sure you want to do that, you know he will probably urinate after I inject this?" the vet asked. I'm sure. Let me at least put a towel under him. I want him to be able to feel me under him as he goes. I think what I miss most about Bronson is his smell when we curled around each other in bed. I miss when I used to open the dishwasher and he'd get stuck underneath the door because he was nosy. I miss when I couldn't go into the kitchen without "supervision" just in case I dropped a tasty titbit on the floor. I miss his total and trust and unconditional love. All of the dogs in my life have been special. All of them have been precious. But only one of them was Bronson. And that's because I saved him. And he saved me. Please consider adopting a dog. There are hundreds of breed-specific rescue operations, or check your local RSPCA, Pet Rescue , Pug Rescue, or Paws.