BE KIND TO ANIMALS.
THE LOVE THEY GIVE
These are a few stories about animals I have found or fostered over a period of about thirty years. I learned early on as a shelter volunteer that you can’t keep them all. But I also discovered early on that you can take care of and find homes for a lot of them. Unfortunately, I also discovered that the bittersweet heartbreak of fostering, of saying goodbye to an animal you’ve grown to love, an animal you’ve helped grow from a social/physical misfit into a beautiful, loving house pet, the heartbreak of watching him leave with his new adoptive family, was a million times better than the gut-wrenching, sickening heartbreak of knowing he had been euthanized.
The first few animals I ever found as an adult I ended up keeping. I didn’t have dogs or cats as a child, but had always been crazy about them. Finally owning one, or two, or three, proved to be a joy. The more I fell in love with them, the more I noticed animals in trouble. Before I was a pet owner, I could drive by a dog trotting down the side of a busy street, head down, tail down, tongue hanging out, with only the thought “poor dog.” But after becoming a pet owner, my compassion for any creature in trouble grew. For thirty years now, I have tried to never leave an animal in trouble. No dogs, no cats, no birds, no wild animals. And as to those I did have to leave, they have my eternal sorrow and regret. Thirty years ago I became a volunteer and foster home for a local activist non-kill rag-tag shelter. The more I became involved, the more I realized the horror of animal overpopulation in this country. We fought the pound for decades to make them stop horrible practices and to move toward more non-kill options. There is a whole world of suffering, a whole world of frightened, homeless animals out there that most of us ignore. I can’t even think about it too much without becoming sick and depressed. So I give money to good organizations and I foster animals I find in the streets and for non-kill shelters. And this is a book about the love that came from that.
SARAH
The first “official” foster dog I ever had was a big black mix of a dog name Sarah. She looked part lab, part wolfhound, part shepherd. Who knew? The shelter director told me that Sarah wasn’t doing well at the shelter’s kennel. Sarah’s naturally sunny, goofy disposition was rapidly being replaced by depression. She needed a foster home pronto, so I agreed to take her home. I didn’t realize until I picked her up at the shelter how really huge and spastic she was. I was accustomed to my dogs, all of whom were good about sitting quietly in the back of the station wagon. My biggest dog was Charley, a lab mix, at fify pounds. Sarah must have weighed about ninety. She filled up the back of the station wagon. But Sarah didn’t want to be in the back. She wanted to be on my lap. And she wasn’t dainty about it, either. She drooled on me, knocked my sunglasses off, and accidentally scratched my arm with her huge, long toenails before I even started driving. Her tail was wagging madly the entire time. This dog did not seem depressed to me. I ended up tying her to the passenger seat by her leash. I got about a hundred yards before she busted out of that restraint. I made her go in the back again and tried to get her to stay. “STAY, Sarah. C’mon, be a good girl. STAY!” I pleaded with her. She lunged at me, licked me, and tried to crawl into my lap to give my face a good washing. This dog was goofy. I shoved her back again. “NO, Sarah. Stay back there. STAY!” She licked my hand and wriggled her entire body. But she stayed.
I made the mile and a half to the highway steering with my left hand and holding Sarah back with my right. I used both hands to turn onto the highway and Sarah was immediately stepping into my lap and blocking my vision. “NO, NO, NO, Sarah. Get back there. Geez, Sarah. STAY!” I pulled over to the shoulder and stopped. “Look, Sarah, you CAN NOT crawl into my lap on the highway. NO, NO, NO! You must STAY!” I shoved her into the back of the wagon and I stuck my hand out at her in the universal stay command. “STAY, Sarah.” I tried not to notice the note of desperation in my voice. I started the engine, and Sarah stepped into the front seat, one huge paw on me and the other precariously spread across the center console. I wouldn’t have minded if she just wanted to sit on the passenger seat, but she wanted to sit on me. I got out of the car, got the hauling rope out of the back and tied one end to a tie down on the inside of the wagon and then tied the middle part to Sarah’s collar, then tied the other side to a tie down on the other side of the wagon bed. Ha! Let’s see her get out of that! She slipped her collar in about two seconds, jumped on me and licked me. But the theory was still good! I tightened her collar, re-hooked her up, and we made it back to my house all in one piece. I learned then and there to carry strange dogs in a kennel in a vehicle. In fact, I now carry all of my dogs in kennels. It’s a lot safer.
At the house, I put Sarah on the leash and led her up to the front door. Sarah could hear my dogs, and she was tremendously eager to get into the house. As I unlocked the door, she scratched the old, expensive wooden door of my rented house with her huge paw, leaving several deep gouges. “Arghhh. Sarah, you are a big spazz,” I told her. The door opened and she raced inside, yanking the leash out of my hand. She was sniffing and wagging and saying hi to everyone and sniffing and oh, my, look, kitties, sniff, sniff, sniff, doggies everywhere, oh my, sniff sniff, what? A kitty running? Chase sniff sniff sniff.. She filled the living room. Her tail knocked my little fisherman figure off the coffee table. The cats scattered. This was just too much disruption. This dog was goofy! They headed for their hidey holes. I put Sarah and Charley into the back yard. I showed Sarah the doghouse, the water and threw a ball for them for a few minutes. Sarah got excited and started chasing Charley, who was still young enough then to oblige, and a figure-eight game of chase started, with me at the pivot point. I remember thinking to myself “uh, this can’t be good.” At the exact moment I decided to get the heck out of there, Sarah came barreling down on me. Now my dogs will come close when they race by, but I could tell by Sarah’s trajectory she wasn’t going to make the curve on those long, goofy legs and was going to take me out. I jumped into the air just a fraction of a second too late and she caught the side of my leg, bumping me back three feet into fence. I picked myself up out of the dirt just as they came zooming by again. Dang dogs. Not even sorry when they bowl you over. I left them to play.
After about ten minutes, I heard Charley snarling and barking her “Get away from me, you dang puppy!” bark. Sarah had worn Charley out, but was still going at a hundred percent herself. She was knocking into Charley, sending her flying, and Charley had had about enough. I went out to rescue Charley and Sarah spotted me coming out the door. Her floppy ears flew straight up and you could just see her say “Oh, boy! A person! Wooohoo!” She came flying at me and leapt at me, knocking me to the ground. She scrabbled at me and licked me in the face. She scratched the heck out of my neck and one of my arms with her giant toenails. What a spazz! I shoved her off me and stood up. She leapt at me again, but this time I had time to bring my knee up and knock her back a little. She tried again, and I blocked her again with my knee, telling her NO! NO JUMPING! A tenacious dog, she tried it again and I blocked her again, correcting her with my voice. This time she seemed to get it. So she just wiggled and leapt around me instead of on me, which was fine with me. I pushed her rear down into a sit position, telling her “SIT” and let her lick my face while I gave her a big hug. I couldn’t really be mad at her, since she was just a big old goofy girl, though my temper had flared when she was scratching me half to death in her exuberance.
I brought Charley into the house, and threw the ball for for Sarah, hoping to wear her out. Riiiight. After twenty minutes, I went in to take care of some chores, rubbing the back of my sore arm. I checked on Sarah after a minute and saw she was wolfing down some food. Good, I thought. Exercise, food. Next on the agenda should be a nap. Riiiight. Instead, Sarah came to the back door and howled a mournful cry. Good grief. It was as loud as a fire engine. I let her in, which was a really bad idea because it immediately taught her that howling at the door would get you into the house. She ran around sniffing at kitties and saying hi to the dogs. She ran right at my cat, Sparky, who was used to goofy visiting dogs. Sparky never budged when a dog ran at her. She just arched her back, fluffed out her hair and raised a paw, claws out, ready to swipe any sensitive noses of goofy dogs that got too close. Sarah’s eyes got wide, and she hit the brakes a moment too late and barreled into Sparky and they both went tumbling. Sparky got up, shook off the indignity of it all, and stalked off to the highest room of the cat condo, Sarah sniffing and licking at her the whole way. Sparky acted like the big beast wasn’t even there. Sarah bounded back to where I was and sat down instead of jumping on me. Good girl! Good Sarah! She was so happy she did something right! She leapt up, the top of her head smashing my open lower jaw into my skull, catching the side of my tongue in the gnashing process. I danced around the living room holding my face, then bent over to moan for a minute. Sarah was immediately in my face, bathing it with huge swipes of her tongue. I sat down on the couch in a daze and watched Sarah nuzzling (if you can call moving the cat all over the house with her nose “nuzzling”) one of the more mellow cats. She had not stopped for one second in the hour we had been home. What in God’s name had I just let myself in for?
Sarah bounced around the house while I started dinner. Someone went past the house walking a dog and with apparently no effort at all, Sarah broke through the screen door to meet them. I heard the screen ripping and rushed to the front door, hollering for my dogs to stay in the house. There was Sarah on the sidewalk, bouncing around the neighbors’ dog, big black ears straight up, tongue hanging out, but not jumping on the people. Even though I was aggravated, I was impressed that she sat when they reached down to pat her. I hauled her back into the house and showed her the broken screen. “No, Sarah. No, no, no, no no!” She laid on her belly and whapped just the tip of her tail on the floor. It was plain as day she was saying she was sorry. I went to the garage to get some screening I had in there and as I walked back into the house I saw all the dogs in the kitchen, faces towards the floor. The hamburger! Auughhh. Sarah, who was the only one tall enough to do it, had dragged the plastic bowl of hamburger meat off the counter and they were all happily sharing what had spilled on the floor. I had to count to ten very, very slowly.
I took Sarah by the collar and put her in the back yard. It took her about ten seconds to start howling. I went to the window and yelled “I’ve had just about enough out of you, Sarah!” and the tone in my voice must have registered, because she quieted down. I stood at the window looking at her, wondering how in the world I would ever find someone to adopt her. Sarah sat in the middle of the yard, looking at me with mournful eyes, and all of a sudden I heard a little voice say “I’m sorry, Mom!” My mouth dropped open. Then the neighbor kids peeked over the fence, giggling. I waved at them and they ducked back down, laughing hysterically at their joke. Sarah bounded over to the fence, snuffling like mad, trying to determine their exact position.
I left her to her search and put on some water for pasta, since I wouldn’t be having meatloaf that evening. While I waited for the water to boil I watched Sarah run back and forth at the fence, enjoying her game of hide and seek with the kids on the other side. I could hear them giggling and running and knocking on the fence. She sure was a happy spirited dog. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of meaness in her. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
When dinner was ready, I let her back in the house and started the no-begging-at-the table training with her. It didn’t take her long. She seemed to learn by example quite quickly and my dogs had never been fed from the table and so showed no interest in what I was having for dinner. Just a few corrections on my part and she laid down quietly by my chair. I had to ignore those big pleading brown eyes, though. But I had learned that lesson long ago. Once you start feeding a dog from your plate, it’s almost impossible to get them to quit begging. After dinner I washed up and was pleased to see Sarah sacked out asleep in the living room. I removed everything breakable that was within her tail range and we spent a pleasant quiet evening, most of it with Sarah’s head on my lap while I read a book.
At about nine o’clock, I went out to the utility room to put some laundry in the washer. I was gone for maybe five minutes. When I came back in, it looked like it had snowed in the living room. Sarah had a couch cushion in her mouth and was shaking it back and forth. White stuffing was everywhere. My dogs, experienced in this field, were all slinking away as I walked in. Aaauuuugh! SARAH, NO! NO, NO, NO! I took her by the collar, showed her the stuffing, the destroyed cushion, and told her no repeatedly. She laid on her belly and whapped her tail. Sorry, sorry, sorry, she told me. I stuffed the stuffing back into the cushion. Oh well, it was an old nasty couch and I’d been thinking of getting a new one anyway.
I put a dog bed, some food and water, and about ten chew toys in the guestroom and called Sarah in. She settled into the dog bed with a chew bone and I patted her for a few minutes, then left her for the night. It turned out to be more like thirty seconds. She started howling and clawing at the door immediately. I went back in and told her no, patted her bed and told her to come and lie down. She complied, happy to be with me again. I stroked her head and told her how pretty she was and then told her to stay as I left. Immediate howling and clawing. This time I didn’t go back in. I stood at the door and told her to stop it and go lie down. Amazingly, she did just that. I peeked in on her before I turned in for the night and she was sound asleep, a rubber teddy bear between her enormous paws. I didn’t hear another peep out of her during the night.
The next morning I was awakened by Sarah howling and clawing. I went to her door and told her to settle down. And she did. Once she was quiet I opened the door and told her good morning. She sat to be petted. I was impressed. Sarah seemed to learn very quickly. I let all the dogs into the back yard and I brushed my teeth while they went about their business. I checked the guestroom to see if Sarah might have had any accidents during the night, but didn’t see anything amiss. Until I looked at my mahogany dresser. It looked like there was sawdust all around the bottom. Oh no! She had chewed her way completely along the six foot bottom of the dresser. The gouges were deep and big chunks were missing. I hauled her in there and showed it to her. NO! No, Sarah, no, no, no!!! She laid down and whapped her tail. Sorry, sorry, sorry.
It went on that way for months. Sarah would find some new bad thing and do it up in style. I had holes in my yard halfway to China. She gnawed down a small apple tree. She chewed the siding on the house. She would wave her big paw at me while sitting and leave huge red scratches on my leg. The list was endless. But she only did these things once (except the paw thing). Sarah was goofy, that was for sure. But she wasn’t stupid. She tried my patience by always finding new things to destroy, but she never did the same bad thing twice. I could now leave hamburger on the counter. I could leave the door open and just have the screen door closed. I could leave her in the living room unattended. She played nicely, if still energetically, with my dogs, and respected their feelings when they got tired of it. She played gently with the cats. She went to bed peacefully. I finally felt she was ready for adoption. When I realized that, there was a big tug at my heart at the thought of her not being around in my house anymore. But you can’t keep them all, and Sarah would do well in an active family situation with a big yard.
The first day the ad ran, a man came to see Sarah. She sat prettily while he patted her. “She’s awfully big, isn’t she?” he said admiringly. “Just look at those paws, they’re huge!” I agreed and spouted off some of Sarah’s more attractive qualities. That evening he brought over his wife and his two twin nine year old boys. When Sarah saw the boys her ears flew up and she bounced up and down. The boys squealed with laughter. The twins were fun and sweet and completely hyperactive, which meant they were a perfect match for Sarah. The family answered all my questions, seemed like nice, sweet people, and after I checked their references, I was satisfied that if they wanted to adopt Sarah, I would let her go with them on Friday evening so they could spend the weekend together getting acquainted. They were looking for a dog to go running with dad, big enough to make mom feel safe alone in the house, and to play nonstop with the boys. They called the next morning and said they really just thought Sarah was perfect and asked if they could fill out the adoption papers and take her home on Friday. Friday came, and off Sarah went with them. As she crawled happily into the car between the two boys, she looked back at me with a worried look, as if to say “aren’t you coming, too?” I hadn’t expected it, and my heart cracked and my throat ached with tears. I went back in the house and cried like a baby.
The next morning the dad called to report on Sarah. It’s a kind thing to do that when you adopt an animal from a foster home. “She’s kind of a big old goofy girl, isn’t she?” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Yes, she is certainly that,” I told him. Then I told him that if she did bad things, she would only do them once if he corrected her by showing whatever it was to her and telling her no. He said she was doing fine and slept in between the boy’s beds in a big dog bed of her own. She seemed happy. He called a week later and from the stories he told me, I could tell Sarah was now a part of their family. He invited me to stop by and see her, so I did. I had been missing her quite a bit. Sarah was happy to see me (I could tell because her ears flew straight up, sending the boys into squeals) and we played with the boys for a few minutes. It was obvious Sarah was exactly where she belonged. When I got home I called the shelter and told them I was ready for foster dog number two.
From Sarah I learned patience and acceptance. I learned that when someone is doing bad things it doesn’t necessarily mean they have bad intentions. I couldn’t have had a better first foster dog.
THEFT NUMBER ONE – MAD KING GEORGE
I was driving to work on a dreary November day when I spotted a short little shaggy gray and white dog dragging himself down the middle of my street. I stomped on the brakes, my heart pounding. Surely the dog had been hit by a car. I stopped in my lane without pulling over so that no other cars behind me would come upon him, and thankfully, a guy in a yellow VW Bug stopped in the oncoming lane and got out. (What is it about VW Bug owners? They’re always so nice.) We hurried over to the dog and he never even looked up at us. He just kept his head down and continued dragging himself past us. I figured he was in shock and grabbed the thick blanket I kept in the back of my truck for just such an occasion. I grabbed the little guy up in the blanket and he snarled and snapped at me, out of pain, I thought. I put him in the cab of the truck and sped to my vet. When I ran into the vet’s office looking stricken and carrying an animal wrapped in a blanket, the vet tech didn’t even hesitate. Ann led me to an exam room and I put the dog on the steel table.
“I think he’s been hit by a car,” I told her. “I saw him dragging his hindquarters down the middle of the road.” Ann unwrapped the blanket from the dog and we looked at him. He calmly blinked back at us from under long matted bangs. She felt his hindquarters. He seemed fine. There was no pain in his eyes. What the heck? Was he paralyzed? Had his spine been severed in this or an earlier accident? I heard Ann say “This is sick,” and looked where she was pointing, my stomach rising with fear at what I was about to see. But it wasn’t an injury she was pointing to. The dog’s hair between his back legs was so matted together he could not move his legs independently of each other. He had to drag himself, or possibly hop, to get anywhere. Someone could have taken less than a minute to snip that hair, but had cared so little about this small dog that they didn’t. He was a mess. There was a huge callous on his hip that showed he had been dragging himself for quite some time. He was dirty and had food caked in the long hair around his mouth. Even the hair on his nose was matted. Anne trimmed the hair between his legs and stood him up. He snapped at her hand as she lifted him, but didn’t make contact. He stood just fine. He looked at us. We looked at him.
“Well, looks like another foster dog,” I said to Ann. “I guess he better get shots, registration and a heartworm test. I doubt anybody’s looking for this guy, but I’ll run an ad anyway.” He tested lightly for heartworms, but the vet felt he was too old, at an estimated age of ten years, to undergo the harsh regimen of treatment. He said the test was so faintly positive that it would be best to keep giving him preventative and let the few larvae run their course. Otherwise, the old dog seemed fairly healthy. I made a neutering appointment for him, then took him home. I was right about no one looking for him. But it didn’t take me long to find out where he had come from. He came from a house I hated. Since the current family had moved in there, I couldn’t stand driving by when it was cold and raining, because I would see their pack of matted dogs huddled against the house, trying to get some protection against the rain from the two-foot eave. The house was rented by a middle-aged couple with a teenager. The front windows of the house had been broken for months. There were junked out cars in the back yard, and mold growing on the white siding of the house. They owned a wolf mix, a chow-chow, a dachshund and the little guy I had picked up. After seeing the dogs suffer a few times in the cold and rain, I finally couldn’t take it any more, and bought two huge doghouses, went to their house and told them I won them in a contest and couldn’t use them and wondered if they could use them. As I unloaded the doghouses, the man that lived there (who never lifted a finger to help me unload them from my truck) gave me a fifteen minute “I love dogs” lecture at the same time he told me he once beat the hell out of the chow, thought dog fighting was cool, and how his previous five dogs had been run over. “Just bad luck, I guess,” he said to me, shaking his head sadly. I said nothing, because if I had opened my mouth, I would have been yelling and reaching out to choke him and beat his head against a tree. As it was, I just silently dragged the dog houses to the back yard.
So when after a few a days I finally realized it was one of their dogs I had, I didn’t really feel obliged to let them know I had it. I guess that’s theft in a way, since I knew where he lived, but I didn’t really care. Not a single lost sign ever appeared in the neighborhood.
So the little gray and white dog came home with me, and I introduced him to my crew of dogs and cats. He wagged his tail at them, my dogs wagged theirs, and he sniffed around the cats without being aggressive. This was good. Then he went to the dining room and took a whiz on the table leg right in front of me. I jumped forward, hollering “NO! NO! BAD DOG!” He just kept on whizzing. I grabbed his collar to yank him outside, but he looked at me with a long sidelong look from under those filthy matted bangs and snarled, stopping me in my tracks. He finished his nasty business and went to check out the food bowl. I went over and took him, gently this time, by the collar to put him outside and as soon as I touched him he snapped at me, barely hitting me with his teeth but not hurting me. I let him be while I cleaned up the mess on the linoleum floor. Then I got a leash, made a noose, slipped it over his head, and led him outside to the back yard. On the leash, he was happy to go, and trotted outside. I stood at the sliding glass door and looked at him as he inspected the back yard. He was hideous. He was filthy, covered in fleas, completely matted to the skin everywhere on his body, and had long, protruding toenails. He walked with his head down and his tail down. He stank. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he had a snappy, grumpy personality. Great. I felt a little sick. I opened the door and called him and he completely ignored me. I clapped my hands and I saw his ears perk up, so I knew he wasn’t deaf. He just didn’t care that I was calling him.
I ran a bath for him and brought him into the bathroom on the leash. I sat on the john and patted his head and talked to him. He wouldn’t look at me. I knew I would have to lift him to get him into the tub, and I was afraid of being bitten, so even though it was about a hundred degrees outside, I had on a long sleeved shirt and my Levi’s jacket and my leather work gloves. I put my hands around his body like I would if I were lifting, and gave him a little massage. He was fine with it, and seemed to like it. I started to lift and his lip went up and he gave a low growl. I stopped and I patted his head and talked to him, then tried again. He stiffened, but didn’t growl. I picked him up with my eyes closed and my head back and when he was about a foot off the ground, he started snarling and growling. It occurred to me that maybe his back hurt, so I changed the positions of my hands and scooped him up under his rear-end while supporting him under his front legs. He didn’t react. He just looked at me and blinked. His head was by my face, and he leaned towards me. I was sure he was going to bite me, and I almost dropped him. Then he gave me a little kiss on the nose and blinked his big brown eyes. We made eye contact for just a second before he looked away. My throat got a lump in it. This little dog seemed almost afraid to show affection. My heart was won. So that’s how I learned the little guy had a sore back. Live and learn. I deposited him in the tub and he was fine. He even seemed to enjoy the warm water. I tried to shampoo and rinse the knotty mess three times, but it was a huge mistake. You just can’t really wash mats. He still looked terrible, and had pieces of twigs and grass still sticking out all over. He let me lift him out and I tried to towel dry him. The lip went up again as I rubbed. I figured the mats probably hurt, so I put him outside into the heat to let him air dry. I set out some food and water and let him spend the afternoon in the back yard under the covered patio. Three hours later in the hundred degree heat, the mats were still wet, and now they were really reeking. I knew I couldn’t cut the mats out because they were all the way to the skin, so I called the groomer my shelter worked with and she said to bring him on in. I took him out to the truck and started to lift him. He snapped at me the first try, but let me put him in the truck the second try. The groomer was appalled at his condition. She shaved him to the skin, only getting nicked once by his snapping jaws. But she said the bite didn’t hurt or even leave a red mark. When he emerged from the back room, I could see he was a cute little schnauzer mix. He had a little red, white and blue bandana on and he was holding his head a little higher. I took him home and he immediately whizzed on the dining room table leg again. I ran at him again, yelling NO! BAD DOG! He completely ignored me and kept on whizzing. I leashed him and put him outside with my big dogs and some food. He laid by the food bowl, and growled at any dogs that approached. My friendliest dog, Sunny, just ignored him, laid next to him and started eating out of the gigantic bowl. The little schnauzer mix started snarling like the furies from hell and barking at her, but Sunny just looked at him peacefully and kept on eating. He put his head in the over sized, always filled food bowl and his body tensed. He would show this friendly yellow dog who was boss. He snapped right in Sunny’s face and she pulled her head back in surprise. He started eating, never taking his eyes off her. Sunny resumed eating as well. He looked at her like he couldn’t even believe she did that. He snarled at her again and she just completely ignored him. And kept eating. He ate a few more pieces, tentatively, watching her. Sunny was really starting to enjoy her dinner and was munching away and smiling all around as she chewed. He tried a half hearted growl. She ignored him. He started barking at her. The schnauzer mix’s bark had changed from fury to frustration. It went on for a minute until I actually had to holler at him, then the schnauzer quieted down and he and Sunny shared their dinner together. I laughed to myself. This little one may have a bark way worse than his bite.
I named him Mad King George, and for three weeks he never once looked at me for more than a second while I was talking to him. It was as if I wasn’t there. It didn’t matter if I had treats, or wanted to take him for a walk. I was invisible as far as he was concerned. His ratty looking tail never wagged unless it was at another animal. I kept after him about whizzing in the house by yelling and dragging him outside with the leash. I had quickly learned not to grab his collar. He really resented that and let me know immediately each time.
After about three weeks, I noticed one day when I came home and let the dogs in that he was looking at me while I said hello to them all. I patted his head and scratched his ears. “Hello there, old Georgie Porgie. How’s it going?” I was rewarded with good natured eye contact and a wag of the tail. My heart soared. This was the nicest he had been since he gave me the little kiss getting into the bath. He gave me a really sweet look with his big brown eyes. His head was cocked, his look affectionate. After that, things progressed at a more rapid rate. He wagged his tail and liked getting his ears scratched. He started coming eagerly when I called him. If he whizzed in the house and I came hollering at him, he would quit in mid-stream and walk to the back door to be let out. The first few times, he was grumpy about it, and would growl at me as I opened the door, but then the few times I caught him after that, he was better natured about it. A week later, he was scratching at the door to be let out. He never whizzed in the house again. He started asking for affection by standing in front of me, wagging his tail and barking at me until I petted him. He couldn’t jump, except up and down a little on his front paws, apparently because of his bad back, so I began picking him up and putting him on the couch next to me and cuddling him while I watched television. He still snapped at me occasionally when I lifted him but he never hurt me. George’s favorite thing was to be put on his back between my legs while I scratched his tummy and he pretended to attack my hand when I put it by his face. The first time he did that, he scared me half to death, because he sounded ferocious, but I could tell by his expression he was just playing. He grew to love the contact and started following me everywhere. He soon became one of my potty pals, that is, one of the dogs who wanted to be where I was every minute, including when I needed a little privacy. After about a month, he would let me gently lead him by the collar, but he still didn’t like it. He didn’t like being made to do anything. If you asked politely, he was fairly cooperative. But if you tried to make him do something, he would dig in his heels and snarl and snap. After a while, when I knew he was rather fond of me, I decided to leave my hand where it was when he snapped so ferociously at me. He slobbered all over it, and bumped it with his teeth, but he never made a mark. He sounded like he was going to rip my hand off. After that, I didn’t hesitate to lead him by the collar, and as he snarled and snapped, I simply replied, “Yeah, right, George.” George became accustomed to the household routine, and started to fit in. He quit snapping (but not woofing) at all the dogs around the food bowl. He slept with the other dogs without bossing them around as to placement. When I came home from work, George would spend the first minute or two telling me all about his day. “Woof! Woof woof woof!” he would tell me, bouncing up and down.
Then the really big breakthrough came. Mom came for a visit.
“Ooooh, he is the CUTEST!” Mom cooed over George, rubbing his head while he gazed adoringly at her. Mom’s favorites at my house had always been Chance, the little poodle, and Charmie, the cockapoo. But George was old, and slightly deaf, and opinionated. “Just like me!” Mom exclaimed. She gave him special treats, and special lovey-dovey sessions. “Oh, da poor George….are you going deaf? Da poor Georgie.” The entire visit, George never left her side. She paid him constant attention. We made a “vacation video” and George knew every time he was on camera. He would stand by Mom, puff out his chest and bark and look cute. Mom laughed every time he barked. “Tell me ALL about it, George!” she would say. She loved him and he knew it. I could see the wheels turning in Mom’s head. She was thinking about taking him with her back to Minnesota. But in the end, she didn’t. She traveled too much, and felt leaving him alone or in a kennel so much would be unfair. It made her sad, and she asked about him in every email. He missed her, too. The week after she left, I would find him laying at her bedroom door, looking pathetic. George knew what it was to love. Unfortunately, the first time he did, it broke his heart. But I mended it as best I could. And now I knew what kind of home would be best for him. An older person who found his eccentricities adorable. Maybe another quiet dog for company.
The first ad in the paper went something like this. “Eccentric, older, opinionated, slightly deaf, loving, sweet dog seeks same in human. Schnauzer mix, cute and cuddly.” No one called. I revised it somewhat and ran it again. At $40 a pop, I hated to run ads too many times. A few people called, but none were the right ones. One wanted to take him sight unseen, but they had seven dogs (I should talk) and only wanted George because they thought I was going to “get rid” of him. Another one wanted to get him for her sister in law, but wouldn’t give me the sister in law’s number.
Then George got really sick. He started by throwing up his dinner. Then he never stopped throwing up. In the morning, I took him to the vet. He was dehydrated and miserable. They suspected he had eaten something weird like a sock, but I assured them that I had never once seen George put anything in his mouth besides dog food and dog biscuits. The vet took an x-ray, but nothing showed up. George continued to heave for days. He didn’t eat or drink, so the vet ran an IV to one of his front legs. He didn’t poop, either. George heaved and grew depressed. I visited him for long periods each day at the vet, where I held him on my lap and patted him. I had to be careful of the IV, and George winced whenever I touched his front leg. Poor George. While I was visiting him, a man brought in a tiny 5 to 6 week old gray tabby kitten who couldn’t move her back legs. He was trying to trap the wild cat colony by his house and spay and neuter them, and he had caught this kitty. That little paralyzed kitty watched George and me every day. And every day I heard the vets or the staff wondering what on earth they would do with her. I started sneaking her out or her cage to sit and cuddle with us, which George and the kitten both enjoyed. But that is a whole different story. The weekend came, and I approached the vet about taking old George home for the weekend. I knew how to maintain the IV, so they let me, after a discussion about the possibility of exploratory surgery the following week. When I got old George home, I laid him on the couch and inspected him. His stomach was hugely bloated. When I tapped it, it had a drumlike quality to it. He looked like he was in pain. Poor guy. I gave him a big tablespoon of petroleum jelly, which is pretty harmless, hoping it would slide whatever was hurting him on through. I waited about a half an hour, then put him on his back in his favorite position, and started massaging his tummy from the bottom of the rib cage down. He loved it. I could feel lumps and bumps and I massaged them downward. After about 40 minutes, he started licking his lips. I offered him some water and he lapped it right up. I decided to detach his IV, which obviously was hurting him a lot. He was drinking quite a bit all of a sudden, so I felt he did not really need it to combat dehydration. George curled up in his soft, comfy bed, let out a huge sigh, and peacefully dozed off. The next morning, he was acting more like himself, and in the yard he pooped out the blackest, nastiest, longest looking thing I ever saw. Curiosity overcame my revulsion, and I put on some plastic gloves and rinsed the vile thing off with the hose. It was indeed a sock. George had eaten one of my socks. George. I couldn’t believe it. George walked around, pooped some more, and trotted happily back to the house. A sock. A very, very expensive sock. The vet bill was about four hundred dollars.
My boyfriend came for a visit from California shortly after that and was laughing at George woofing at one of the poodles eating dinner. Even though there was a constant supply of food, George was always offended when someone besides him ate. He no longer snapped or growled, but he would vocalize his dissastifaction. “Listen to him,” my friend said. “He sounds just like your friend, Mary Dodd, when she hollers ‘Gol-DANGIT!’” I almost fell down laughing. He DID sound just like her. Mary Dodd, my seventy year old friend from the shelter, had two little dogs, one of which was frail and couldn’t be upset by the introduction of a new animal, so I had not considered her as a potential home for old George. But talking about her made me realize I hadn’t seen her in quite some time, so I stopped by her house soon after that. She gave me the sad news that frail little Rumpole had died. She had adopted another little dog, but was having a terrible time housebreaking it. She was distraught about the situation. She adored the tiny little white dog that had peed and pooped all over her house for a month now. “You know, I’m just MAD for this little Angel. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I have never, not once, never ever not been able to housebreak a dog. I just don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll have to call Missy and talk to her about taking Angel back to work on the housebreaking.” Missy ran the non-kill shelter where we volunteered. Mary Dodd continued “And I have an appointment in two weeks to get my rugs cleaned and the linoleum stripped. Oh, gracious, I just don’t know.” She threw her hands up in the air in frustration. “Gol-DANGIT!” she exclaimed. I almost laughed. She sounded just like George. “Mary Dodd, if it doesn’t work out, let me know. I need to introduce you to George.” I told her all about him and sure enough, three days later she called. “Missy took Angel back to work with her on housebreaking some more. I guess she just wasn’t meant to be my dog. But I sure would like to meet George! Is he housebroken?” I assured her that he was, and that he would get the hang of her dog door in no time. He was a smart cookie. “Well, that’s just great. He sounds like a love. But he’s just GOT to be housebroken. I just can’t go through this again. I just can’t.” I reassured her again. In the back of my mind, I was hoping he wouldn’t walk in and pee on her dining room table.
I told her that when we went to lunch on Saturday, I would bring him by for a get together and then drop him off back home on our way to lunch. Then I made an appointment with Sandy the groomer, and dropped George off the next morning for a cut. I knew Mary Dodd liked her dogs well groomed, and I had let George’s hair get long and Benji-like again. Just no mats this time. About an hour later, Sandy called and said “Come get your dog. He is being just evil.” Aarrrgh. George! I went and picked him up. I knew what it was. That IV really hurt him and he wasn’t going to let it happen again. Therefore, no one was going to touch his legs. My suspicion was confirmed when Sandy said “I picked up his paw and he went ballistic!” George! So I took him home and gave him a horrible, choppy summer cut. Mary Dodd howled when she saw him. Tears were coming out of her eyes. “Oh, oh, he is so adorable! I just love him!” I apologized for his appearance (it was truly bad), but I knew Mary Dodd was a true dog lover, and not interested in what George’s coat looked like right at the moment. She adored him. He looked at her shyly from underneath his bangs and wagged his tail. I was leaving for a short vacation soon and I asked Marry Dodd if she would look after him while I was gone, kind of test him out, see if they were a match. Of course, the answer was yes. I was so happy. This was the right home for George, and since it was someone I knew, I would still get to see him. I had grown to love his big heart, his need for attention. It just had to work out.
Mary Dodd decided to keep him over the weekend before I left for vacation. I took him over there, and turned him loose. He made acquaintance with Sarah Lee, Mary Dodd’s other little dog. Then he explored the house with me hot on his trail. He never even thought about lifting his leg. I showed him the dog door, and put him through it. He came right back in. He wasn’t afraid of it at all. I put him out again, and he went and explored the yard a little and came back in. I put him out again, and he balked and stiffened. He was tired of this game. I pushed him through the door and he came back in. “I think he’s got it, Mary Dodd.” But I did it one more time just to be sure, George protesting being shoved out the door again. I sat around for a while with them to see that George was very comfortable being there and then I went home. That evening Mary Dodd called. “Well, he pooped in the den. Right by the dog door.” I was shocked. I thought if anything, he would have lifted his leg. He never once pooped in my house. I told that to Mary Dodd, but she was distraught. “I just can’t go through this again. I don’t know what to do. I’ll keep him while you’re on vacation, but if he can’t figure it out, I just can’t keep him permanently.” My stomach was in knots. Was George going to blow the opportunity at a perfect home? The next morning, Mary Dodd called and told me he had done it again. She was extremely frustrated. She had put him out twice during the evening through the dog door, and he had wandered around the yard and come back in just fine through the dog door. It wasn’t like he was afraid of the door or anything. I couldn’t figure out why on earth George would be pooping in the house. He just wasn’t the type. George had been in my house nearly a year and had never even looked like he might poop. Then like a light bulb going on over my head, I realized what was going on. Old George liked coming IN the dog door, but he didn’t like going OUT the dog door. And why? Because I had forced him to go out! George was making a stinky little protest statement. No one was going to MAKE him do anything! I told Mary Dodd my theory and she suggested she go try to lure him out and reward him with some strips of steak, the way she trained other dogs. She got him to come out several times and each time he got a chunk of delicious meat. He liked it a lot. No one MADE him go out the door, and when he did go out (of his own free will) a wonderful treat awaited him. George never had another “accident.” Mary Dodd is crazy about him as are all her friends. “Oh, Mary Jo,” she told me, “I’m going to have his portrait done!” George and Sarah Lee get along well and when I visit him, George seems brighter, perkier and more alive each time. He has blossomed under the warmth of love and peacefulness, and been a joy and delight to a wonderful woman. This foster dog turned out really, really well. From George I learned the importance of tolerance. I learned that no matter how ugly in appearance and spirit someone might seemingly be, it is a mistake to assume that ugliness is what is in their true heart. I learned that love and affection have the amazing power of transformation.
Apple has put out a lot of watches over the years, starting in 1986. My favorite? 1998/99's vintage Apple iMac/iBook G3 Yum line of five fruit colored watches with translucent bands. The blue and green ones are my own personal go-to watches for hanging out and having fun. They sparkle, they catch the eye, they make me happy when I look at them. As viewed from the side, the color of the crystal deepens and rivals the color and sparkle of any jewel. My husband always said I must have been a crow in a former life. If it sparkles, I am all over it, though I do not like expensive jewelry, much to my husband's delight. I love blue, I love green, if it reminds me of the ocean I love it, and these watches just do it for me.
