Lacey came to our chaotic household to regain her strength before her surgery. The little dog had very nice manners and was completely housebroken. At first, all she did was sleep. When she was strong enough, her surgery was performed. All her teeth, except her four canines, had to be extracted. She was spayed and given all of her shots—this is done for most rescue dogs because, unfortunately, there is no record of prior health care. And although she had worms, thankfully, she tested negative for heartworm. For several months, Lacey rested, healing her body and her spirit. It was interesting to watch our other dogs take care of her. Our pack can be a rowdy bunch, but with Lacey, they were as gentle as if she were a child.
That spring, a six-month-old large male boxer was turned into Mid Michigan Boxer Rescue, and he stayed with us for about a week. By then Lacey’s health had improved greatly. She had gained weight, her coat shined and she danced with newfound energy. I have a wonderful photo of our old girl in bed, sitting with the young boxer pup. The old and the young—two lives saved.
When a rescue dog comes to our house, we make the same commitment to each one: You have a home here for as long as it takes. You will always be safe, have food to eat and be loved.
Of course, in order to find her a permanent home, she was listed on www.petfinder.com, and on the MWBTR site for adoption. However, when time passed and no one seemed interested, it was okay with us. We thought no one would ever adopt a senior like Lacey, so she became part of our family. She asked for very little and gave us so many blessings in return.
Then, in early June, a call came from MWBTR. This time Gwen said, “I have a lady who is interested in your Lacey.” I was surprised, pleased and devastated all in an instant. It happens that way. When it is right and it is meant to be, somehow you know—but your heart breaks anyway. There is joy and sadness in one fell swoop.
All three of the rescue groups we belong to have similar procedures for adopting a dog. Foster parents always have final say in the adoption because the rescue group feels foster parents have come to know the dog best.
Carol, our Lacey’s prospective adopter, submitted an application. I called her veterinarian and her references. They were fabulous, which is not always the case. Then a home check was completed. Carol passed with flying colors. As much as I wanted this home for Lacey, she still needed to meet Carol to see if they were a good match.
Two weeks later Carol and a friend traveled to Michigan from Wisconsin to meet Lacey. It was love at first sight. Carol and her friend pulled out of our driveway with Lacey, her special bed and food in the car, and headed for home.
That’s when it hit me. I had been holding it together, and then I realized just how far away Wisconsin was. The bittersweet tears came. For days all our dogs looked for Lacey, and I asked myself for the thousandth time, Why do I do this?
Then a call came from Carol. Her voice was filled with joy as she told us: Lacey loves her new Boston terrier sister Suzie Q and has adopted the two-year-old special-needs kitty as her own, along with two other cat siblings. She goes for walks to the Dairy Queen to get free doggy ice-cream cones. Carol said that Lacey had also just become part of a new program where dogs visit HIV patients.
Lacey, the Dumpster dog who should have died in the back of a cold animal shelter, was home. This, I reminded myself, is why we go through it—because when they leave us, their broken hearts have healed forever.
Debra Jean-MacKenzie Szot
[EDITORS’ NOTE: Carol, Lacey’s owner, read this story and sent Debra the following: Thank you so much for sending me a copy of your story! I get so wrapped up in what Lacey means to me and to her friends here that I forget she ever lived anywhere else. It amazes me that an animal so ill used for most of her life has nothing but love and concern for everyone around her.
I took Suzie and Lacey to the HIV hospice the other day. Suzie has been there before, and she entered the common room and started to make the rounds. Lacey stopped directly inside the front door and began walking in circles. Finally, she walked across the hall and sat down by a closed door. Both Sister Marion and I tried to convince her to move but she refused. She lay down and began to softly cry. Sister explained to me that the resident in this room was nineteen years old and had taken a turn for the worse early that morning. The family had been called, but they were several miles away and were still en route. By now Lacey was really distressed and began pawing at the door. Since this patient had reacted positively in the past to Suzie, we decided to open the door and let Lacey go in. Deb, it was the most incredible thing I have ever seen in my life. Lacey went straight to the bed and jumped up on the chair next to it. She wiggled her head and front paws through the side rails so she could touch the patient’s arm, and she stayed there! The patient became less restless. When the family arrived thirty minutes later, Lacey jumped down from her perch and left the room. She went back to the front door, sat on the rug and promptly fell asleep as though exhausted. The power of the human-animal bond never fails to amaze me. Carol]
The Parking-Lot Dog
It was just a routine trip to the drugstore but it changed my life.
As I got out of my car, I noticed a scared, starving, mangy dog with rusty red fur in the store parking lot. He looked as though he was waiting for someone. I learned from a store clerk that a man in a pickup truck had dumped the dog in the parking lot and had driven away. Obviously this dog was waiting for the man’s return. By the look in the dog’s sad eyes, I knew he needed help.
For the next several days I returned to the drugstore parking lot and tried coaxing the dog with food. Like clockwork, the dog would appear from the woods but wouldn’t approach the food until I drove away. I realized that if I were going to help this dog, I needed to use a humane trap. But the next day when I pulled into the lot with the humane trap in the car, the dog was gone. I searched the woods and the surrounding area, but the dog was nowhere to be found.
I decided to hang “Lost Dog” posters in the area. The only information I could put on the poster was a description of the red dog and my phone number. I didn’t even know the dog’s gender. I don’t make a habit of rescuing dogs, and I already had two dogs of my own—why was I looking for a dog I knew nothing about? I couldn’t explain it, but I was determined to find this dog.
Within a day I received a phone call from a clerk at a convenience store located about a mile from where I had first seen the dog. He said a red dog fitting the description on the poster had appeared at the convenience store and had been running up to pickup trucks in the parking lot. He explained that animal control had picked up the dog and had taken him to the county shelter. Although it was almost an hour away, I drove to the shelter to see if it was the same dog. There he was, crouched in the back corner of his cage growling, barking and very agitated. The shelter must hold dogs for ten days to allow owners time to claim them, so I would have to wait and see what happened with this dog.
Even though I had no plans of adding a third dog to our family, I felt compelled to help this dog. So over the next ten days I checked on him regularly. The people at the shelter told me the dog was very aggressive. They said no one would adopt him, and he would be destroyed when his time was up. On the tenth day I made the long drive back to the shelter to see the red dog. The receptionist asked if my name was Deborah Wood. I didn’t pay much attention to her question; just simply replied “no” as I followed her back to the dog’s cage. There was the red dog, just as scared and agitated as before.
Intimidated by the dog’s behavior, but still determined to save him, I asked the kennel assistant to bring the dog out to my car and put him into the crate that I had brought for him. I had no idea if I would be able to handle the dog once we reached home, but I knew he couldn’t stay at the shelter. As I followed the assistant and dog through the lobby area to my car, the receptionist stopped me. She said there was a Deborah Wood on the phone. She was inquiring about the red dog and wanted to speak to me.
I picked up the phone. The woman na
med Deborah told me that she had been at the convenience store talking to the clerk about the dog when animal control had picked him up. For some reason, she had been drawn to the red dog, too. Over the past ten days, Deborah had made several visits. She had tried coaxing the dog out of his cage for a walk, but the fearful dog had snapped at her. Despite the dog’s behavior, Deborah never gave up on him, and now she wanted to know what I was going to do with the dog. I explained to her that I was taking the dog to the veterinarian for a checkup and that I would call her once I got home. It turned out that Deborah and I lived within five minutes of each other. Both of us had traveled almost an hour to visit the “unadoptable” red dog at the shelter— both of us not completely sure why. I was struck by the lucky timing of her call. If Deborah had called the shelter a moment later, we might never have made a connection.
I was nervous about the dog being in my car and anxious to get him to the vet. Surely I would be able to figure out what to do with him after that. I must be crazy, I thought, as I backed my car out of the shelter’s parking lot. Why am I doing this? I have an aggressive dog crated in my car, and I have no idea what I’m going to do with him.
Just as I thought this, the red dog looked at me with his expressive eyes and stuck his paw through the crate for a “handshake.” I reached over and tentatively closed my hand around the outstretched paw. It seemed to me that the red dog was thanking me. This melted my heart. I held his paw in my hand for the entire forty-five-minute ride to the vet’s office. When we arrived, we were both smiling!
The red dog spent about two weeks at the vet’s recovering from mange, worms and other health problems. While the red dog was being treated at the vet’s office, Deborah came often to visit him, and although she had never had a dog before, when the dog was well enough to leave the animal clinic, she offered to foster him until we could find him a permanent home. It didn’t surprise anyone that Deborah quickly fell in love with her foster dog and decided to adopt him, naming him Redd. The moment Redd realized that he was safe, he became the perfect dog: affectionate and sociable—loving everyone he met. He never again showed any sign of aggression.
It has been five years since Deborah adopted Redd. Initially drawn together by our concern for Redd, Deborah and I have become close friends. And Redd has two families that adore him. He also frequently visits his “uncle,” the clerk at the convenience store who responded to my poster.
Today, Redd is surrounded by people who love him. When I see this contented dog, lying on the sofa and getting belly rubs, I find it hard to believe that he is the same dog with the haunted eyes I saw in the parking lot five years ago. That routine trip to the drugstore brought a very special dog and a dear friend into my life.
Wendy Kaminsky
Two Good Deeds
I was planting flowers in my garden one day, when I spotted a battered old boxer with a broken chain around his neck, staggering up the road. He had the look of a dog who had been abused. Without any hesitation, he proceeded to walk down my driveway and lie down next to me. Exhausted, he just lay there, his eyes following me as I ran inside to get him a dish of water. Returning with the water, I looked into his dark, soulful eyes. A ripple of shock ran through my body: I knew this dog!
About eight years earlier I’d been in the center of town one morning, when a beautiful, fawn-colored boxer puppy ran up to me. Bending down to pet him, I noticed his beautiful eyes—and the ID tag around his collar. The tag said he belonged to Mrs. Reynolds and gave a local telephone number. She lived not too far away and came to pick him up in a matter of minutes. After a few wet kisses, the boxer went home. That was the last time I had seen the dog.
My husband came out of the house. I told him I was sure this dog was the one I’d found in town years ago. He thought I was crazy. “How can you be certain? He doesn’t have a collar on and there’s no way to identify him. It has to be another dog. This one is so abused; it couldn’t belong to that nice family. Besides, do you even remember the name of the family?”
Somehow, I did. “It was Reynolds,” I said. “I know it sounds crazy, but I’m sure this is their dog!”
Running inside, I grabbed the telephone book and called the first Reynolds listed. Mr. Reynolds answered and told me he didn’t have a boxer. However, just as he was about to hang up, he said that his brother once had a boxer, and gave me his brother’s number.
When I called the first Mr. Reynolds’s brother, he said it couldn’t be his dog because his dog had been stolen six years before. I convinced him to let me bring the dog over so he could look at him. I put the dog into my car. He collapsed in the backseat and lay very still. Crossing over the main highway going into the town, he started to move around. As we passed through the center of town, he started jumping and bouncing around in the backseat.
When I pulled into the Reynolds’ driveway, there was no containing him. Three teenagers ran out of the house, and when I opened the car door, the dog bounded out and raced to them, whining and yelping in his excitement.
As the dog licked them, they looked himover. Suddenly, one of the boys yelled, “It’s him, it’s him! Look, here’s the big scar he got over his eyebrow when he went through the sliding glass door.”
I stayed a few minutes longer, watching the entire family hug and kiss the old dog, now rejuvenated by joy. They proceeded to run into the house with him.
Backing out of the driveway, I thought again of that morning so many years ago when I had first helped the lost boxer find his family. I went home happy, knowing I had been part of a miracle—for the second time in one dog’s life.
Rosemarie Miele
The Promise
You become responsible forever for what you have tamed.
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
For the past twelve and a half years, I have been an animal control officer (ACO) for Polk County, Iowa. In this profession, you learn early on to toughen your skin, otherwise the stress and emotional drain that come with this job will bring you down. There have been a lot of dogs over the years that I would have loved to take home and make a part of my family, but in this line of work, it’s not realistic to believe you can do that with each one—there are just too many dogs in need of good homes. Still, there is always that one that gets through your defenses. For me, that dog was Buddy.
Buddy was the most elusive dog I ever encountered in my years as an animal control officer: I spent an amazing sixteen months trying to catch the big black dog.
I first received a phone call in November 2002 from a lady who said, “There is a dog lying in a field near my home. He has been there for a couple of days, and it is supposed to get really cold tonight. Could you try to catch him?” I told her I would head out there and see what I could do.
As I drove up to the area, I could see that the dog was lying on his side next to a small hillside that served as a sort of break from the cold wind. I got out of my truck with a leash in hand and walked toward him. The dog was asleep and did not hear my coming, so as I got within twenty feet of him, I whistled because I did not want to startle him. He immediately got up and started barking at me. Then he turned and ran away, into the middle of the snow-covered field where he lay down to keep a watchful eye on me. I knew there was going to be no catching him that day, so I left to answer another call that had come in.
That night it did get very cold. I just couldn’t keep my mind off the black dog and wondered how he was doing out in that large, cold field all alone.
The next morning I headed to the Animal Rescue League of Iowa. This is where the county sheriff’s department houses the animals I pick up, and it is the largest animal shelter in the state. I wanted to check the reports to see if anyone had called in saying they had lost their black dog. I hoped that someone was looking for this dog, so I would be able to ask the owners to come out to the field; I figured if it were their dog, the dog would come to them. There were no such lost reports.
On my way home that night, I couldn’t help but drive by t
he field. There he sat, right in the middle of it. Again, he wouldn’t let me get close to him or come to me when I called.
We played this game for a few weeks. I would get calls from different people reporting that a black dog was sitting in a field. I could not get this dog out of my mind, and even on my days off, I would drive by the field to leave food and see if I could get a look at him. He was always there, usually lying right out in the middle so no one would be able to sneak up behind him. I tried over and over to gain his trust with no luck. I could not get closer than a hundred yards from him—too far to use a tranquilizer dart. If I tried to come any closer, he would get up, bark and move to an adjacent field. I wondered sadly what could have happened to this dog to make him so fearful of people.
Finally, I spoke to Janet, one of the animal-care technicians at the Animal Rescue League. She had a reputation of being able to get close to dogs that would not let anyone near them. I told her about the black dog and asked her if she would try to catch him. She agreed, and she did try—to no avail.
It was now late December and the nights were very cold, dropping to ten or twenty degrees below zero. The woman who had called me originally about the dog continued to call, checking in to see what I was doing to help him. I assured her I had been trying to catch him and that I was leaving food for the dog. At this point I told her I was pondering a way to set a live trap to capture the dog. Privately, I worried how he would live through the nights given the bitter cold temperatures of Iowa winters.
The weeks passed. I checked on him regularly, driving by in the morning on my way to work, cruising by during the day and making my final round on my way home at night. It was odd—just seeing him out there made me smile. I was thankful he had made it through one more night and was still alive.
Janet and I talked constantly about this dog. A live trap hadn’t worked. We simply could not come up with a way to catch this dog. One day we decided that we would take some shelter out to the fields, line it with blankets and put some food beside it; perhaps he would use it. We got an “igloo” type of doghouse and went out to the field to set it up. The dog watched us intently but wouldn’t come near. That was the day that I named the dog Buddy. Looking at him, I made a promise to myself and to him: “Buddy, if I ever catch you, I’m going to adopt you and show you what ‘good people’ are like.”
Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul Page 25