Free Days with George

by Colin Campbell

  The woman who answered was a volunteer with a Newfoundland rescue organization called Newf Friends, which keeps tabs on local shelters and maintains a network of foster homes for Newfoundland dogs in need. When a Newfoundland turns up in a regular shelter, Newf Friends places the animal with a suitable foster home until a permanent home can be found. The organization’s extremely dedicated staff of volunteers ensures that even amid the upheaval that comes with life in foster care, abandoned Newfs are cared for by people with a genuine passion for and understanding of the breed. Their efforts to care for Newfs outside the shelter system have saved the lives of many of these gentle giants.

  “So which dog are you calling about?” the volunteer asked me after some small talk.

  I told her about Kong and his Petfinder post.

  “Oh yes. He’s a lovely dog. He came from a home in a small town about a two hours’ drive north of Toronto. He is a bit skittish, but he’s making progress.”

  “Skittish?” I said.

  “There were some issues. However, we like to focus on addressing a dog’s current behavior and potential rather than talking a lot about the past. What’s important is that this dog is adapting well to the current, more favorable environment. That really is good news, you know.”

  Obviously there was a lot more, which she wasn’t going to tell me right away, so I let it be. I learned that Kong was being fostered by a family who owned a farm. The woman assured me that he couldn’t be in more capable hands. She took down my address and said she’d send me some forms to fill out. Once that was done, Newf Friends would arrange for one of their volunteers to come to my house and do an in-person assessment to make sure I had an appropriate home and yard and was a suitable, responsible owner. If all that went smoothly, a trip to the foster home to meet the dog would be arranged, and at that point, if I was sure I wanted him, I’d be able to take him home with me.

  It all happened very fast. I filled out and returned the paperwork as soon as it arrived in mid January. The in-person assessment was scheduled a few days later. I had nothing to hide, but I was nervous, deeply afraid I’d be judged unfit. For the first time in months I cleaned up my house. It took me days. There were weeks’ worth of empty pizza boxes, beer bottles, dirty pots and pans and dirty laundry scattered throughout the house. Instead of washing any dishes, I had gone out and bought disposable paper plates and plastic knives and forks—except I didn’t dispose of them. My place looked like a bad episode of that TV show about hoarders. But now I threw out bags and bags of trash. I swept and I scrubbed. I found clothes I thought I had lost. When things were in order, I felt much better. This dog was helping me already and he wasn’t even here yet.

  When the day came for the home inspection and interview, I paced at the front window, awaiting the volunteer’s arrival. I was tense. I smoked a few cigarettes, trying to calm down. Then I panicked—if she saw that I smoked, maybe she would be concerned. I threw the half-full pack of cigarettes into the garbage. Then sprayed a full bottle of Febreze into the air. If nothing else, the place now smelled great. I felt like I was going on a first date, and wanted to impress this woman but really had no clue how to do it. I was nervous and sweaty. Who was I kidding? I wouldn’t let a dog live with me.

  The woman who arrived was sweet and soft-spoken. For years at work I’d often met with CEOs and vice presidents of some of the biggest and most powerful corporations on the planet and had never felt nervous, but I was inexplicably anxious in this woman’s presence. I was sure she’d find out there was something terribly wrong, something that made me unsuitable to take on the responsibility of owning a dog.

  I walked her around the house and out into the backyard while she asked me a string of questions: “What’s your work flexibility? What is a typical day like for you? Do you have family or friends who have dogs? Do you travel for work? Do you have the time to exercise a dog twice a day?” I stammered out answers as best I could, and she noted them on her clipboard.

  “If your dog was injured, what would be the first thing you’d do?”

  “That would be pretty upsetting, but I have had lots of first-aid training. I would calm him and reassure him, and get him to a vet as quickly as possible.”

  “Do you know where the closest vets are?” she asked.

  I did! Most definitely. In fact, I’d given this great thought and had actually done some research beforehand to find out. But for a moment it was like I was a kid in an exam, and my mind went blank. Then I remembered the name and address of one vet and blurted it out, loudly … or so it seemed.

  “Great,” she said, and scribbled something down. “If you were saving money for a vacation and your dog needed a medical procedure, would you get the procedure or go on vacation?”

  Well, if the dog wanted a facelift for those droopy eyes, I wasn’t quite sure what I’d do, but I said, “I would always prioritize my dog’s health over my vacation plans. No question.”

  “Do you know,” she said, “that Newfoundland dogs have a particular affinity for water?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I do know. And so do I, actually.” I told her that I grew up in Nova Scotia by the ocean, that I was a surfer, a former lifeguard and competitive swimmer, and a former coach. I explained that I thought raising a dog—especially one coming from difficult circumstances—might be a little like being a coach, requiring a similar blend of patience, support and encouragement.

  “Very true,” she said as we put our coats on before heading outside to the nearby park. “But,” she added, “you’d be surprised how quickly the roles reverse.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  She smiled at me in a funny way and then headed out the door, with me following closely behind her.

  We walked to the park across the street and watched a group of dogs chasing each other through the snow, as their owners huddled together, holding on to their cups of Starbucks as their only source of heat. “These are the dogs I think he’d play with,” I told her.

  She clearly liked the fact that the park was so near my house.

  “So, how did this dog end up in this situation, needing to be adopted?” I inquired. “Does he have behavioral issues or anything I should be concerned about?”

  A serious look crept over her face. “He has had a difficult time, but from what we have seen at his foster home, it’s through no fault of his own.” She paused, letting that sink in. “We have seen a lot of sad cases. Some people aren’t prepared to care for a dog like a Newfoundland. They are big, they tend to shed a lot, some drool excessively and they are devoted to their owners and need to be around them constantly. Some call them ‘Velcro dogs’ because they always want to stick close by. It makes some people uncomfortable and they can’t manage that.”

  I nodded, trying to picture a big dog following me around the house.

  “Some people think that because they are so big, they would be ideal guard dogs, but in fact they are extremely gentle. As a result, some are neglected or abused, in a misguided attempt to make them mean and aggressive. The owner gets frustrated, the dog becomes scared, and it isn’t a good ending. I really can’t tell you that much about Kong’s exact circumstance. However, what we do know, and what is most important, is that he lacks confidence. He hasn’t had the attention he needs, and he was left alone, abandoned in a terrible way. He will need patience. The best thing to help this dog is that you treat him kindly and give him lots of affection. Despite their size, these dogs are sensitive and will respond to kindness more than anything else.”

  She stopped walking and faced me. “You have a nice house and this is a great park for him, but do you have the patience to help him live a happy life?”

  At that moment I didn’t even know if I had the patience to let myself live a happy life, let alone a big, neglected dog. I glanced down at the snow and took a few steps. “That’s a fair question,” I said as I gathered my thoughts. “I can only imagine that I would be patient enough to give him a happy life because we both want
the same thing. I would try very hard to provide him with the best care possible and do whatever it takes to make sure he is looked after properly. I certainly don’t need a guard dog, but it would be nice to have a companion to share the house with. I would take very good care of him.”

  “If you were here in the park and he was misbehaving and wouldn’t respond to you, would you ever use force as a form of discipline?”

  Force as a form of discipline. I was definitely not a fan. I’d learned as a child that force of any kind, even verbal, can leave scars, not always the kind you can see. And I’d always admired my grandfather for his incredible patience and kindness, two qualities that made my childhood much better and showed me there were other ways to manage situations.

  “Force as a form of discipline is not a method I condone or would ever use. It might be effective in the moment, but long term, I feel it only causes resentment.”

  “Yes, I think that’s true,” she said, jotting down my answer on her clipboard.

  “If he attacked another dog or was trying to bolt into the street or something, I’d definitely try to restrain him—just to stop him from getting hurt—but I’d never hit a dog under any circumstances.” She glanced up from her clipboard long enough to give me an encouraging nod.

  “Do you realize this dog might not be able or willing to listen to all commands at the beginning?”

  “Look,” I said. “I don’t expect him to respond to me right away, or for him and me to be instant best friends. In view of what he’s gone through, I think kindness and patience will probably be the best thing for him, and I promise you—and him—that I’ll be nothing but gentle, even in challenging situations. I think that if he sees over time that I’m the guy who feeds him, takes him out for walks and gives him affection, he’ll come around. I hope that with time we’ll make a connection. I am very committed to this—that’s why I called you. I don’t want to waste your time or mine, so I need you to know that I would provide him with the best home possible.”

  She bowed her head and put her pen away. Interview over.

  We returned to the house in silence. She asked to use the phone privately and left me in the living room for a few minutes. When she came back into the room, she was smiling.

  “I just called the head of Newf Friends to go over our discussion,” she said. “You answered our questions very well. You have a really nice house, beautifully suited to dog ownership, and you seem like a kind, responsible person. We think that this dog could do quite well with you and hope you’ll choose to adopt him.”

  I smiled broadly for the first time in months. And for the first time in months I was excited.

  FIVE

  I drove up to the foster home the next weekend, on a Saturday in late January. I was glad to have a purpose, rather than sitting in the house speculating about Jane. I was going to see the dog! Maybe my dog! The drive was a good two-plus hours in ideal conditions, so my plan was to get out the door by mid morning, but when I woke up to a full-fledged snowstorm, I knew I was in for a long day, no matter what time I left. I dressed, and ate breakfast, then got in the car and picked my way carefully out of the downtown core and along the highway through the suburbs west of the city. It was slow going and the visibility wasn’t great, but the road had seen a plow in the not-too-distant past and I could make out the lane markings.

  Well, sort of seen a plow. The right lane had been “plowed” by the passage of cars ahead of me, leaving only tire ruts in snow to mark the path ahead. Of course that path was nearly impossible to see, what with the endless snow blowing straight at my windshield. Most of the time, I was looking out into an unbroken wall of white. Every now and then I would come up behind a transport truck kicking up a massive, powdery rooster tail and be forced to pass the vehicle, which meant pulling into the untended left lane and leaving my fate in God’s hands. If you’ve driven on a four-lane highway in a snowstorm, you know all too well this scene and the tension that accompanies it. When I finally exited the highway, the snow let up a bit, but the layer that had already fallen was still sitting several inches thick on the smaller country roads and I could feel the car intermittently lose its grip and drift sideways in short fishtails. After more than three hours of white-knuckle driving, I found the place. It was situated in a field next to a barn and had a long laneway that led in from the road. I still had both hands on the wheel and hadn’t relaxed my grip, but when I turned into the lane and saw him, I felt the full weight of the drive melt away.

  He was perched at the top of a hill where the laneway ended about eighty yards from the snow-covered dirt road I’d turned off. He was just standing there, looking down the driveway, as I slowly approached in my car. He was all by himself, the snow piled up at his feet and drifting down onto his big, black head, yet he didn’t look the least bit cold. As I turned into the lane, he didn’t bark or rush the car; he just stood and watched. He was stunning, truly a beautiful dog, unlike any other dog I had ever seen in person or in pictures. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. From his nose to the tip of his tail, he was well over six feet long—a massive animal—and there were two black splotches, on his right flank and at the base of his tail, that hadn’t been visible in the photo online.

  He held his head with dignity, like a king, and he looked pensive and curious. His big, droopy eyes were intelligent and aware. In the flesh he was imposing; with his size and his distinctive markings and the way he held himself, he seemed larger than life. It was like coming across a celebrity by accident. At first, as you notice someone you’ve only seen in pictures or on TV moving about in your normal world, doing normal things, you can’t quite believe your eyes. You try not to stare or make a big deal, but inside you’re excited. That’s how I felt when I first saw this dog. He watched me as I drove by, and once I was about twenty feet ahead, I looked into the rearview mirror and saw him jogging up behind the car, his long, shaggy coat shedding snow as he went.

  The house was a red-brick square, with an addition built off the front. It stood beside the worn but sturdy barn. There was a plowed parking area between the house and barn, and I pulled into it. A halogen light on a hydro pole gave off a halo of fuzzy blue illumination as the snow continued to fall.

  It turned out my Newf wasn’t the only dog on the premises—not by a long stretch. As I got out of the car, a whole pack descended on me, all of them barking and chasing each other. There was another Newfoundland—this one all black—a German shepherd and a pair of mutts whose breeds were impossible to determine. All four ranked among the biggest dogs I’d ever seen, and they crowded around me in a flurry of wagging tails and licking tongues. All of them, that is, except my Newf.

  Coming in from the lane behind me, he watched from afar. He didn’t bolt when I exited the car; he just stood back at a safe distance and cautiously observed. At one point the German shepherd broke free of the pack and ran over to him. They sniffed each other and ran around a bit. But when the other dog turned and headed back over to me, my Newf stayed where he was.

  “He’s a little leery of men,” a voice called out from behind me. “He’s going to take some work.” I turned and saw a woman bundled up in a thick winter jacket and a tuque walking toward me from the house. This must be the lady who is fostering him, I thought. I smiled at her and said hello.

  The pack broke away from me and ran to her as she approached. In stride, she delivered a few quick pats before the dogs changed direction again and headed off toward the barn. At the edge of the parking area there was a freestanding feed trough with a running tap at the edge and they stopped at it to lap up water. My Newf turned his attention from me and joined the pack to have a drink.

  A small girl, who looked about eight years old and was even more bundled up than her mother, leaped out the front door and tore off into the snow toward the dogs. She ran headlong into the pack at the trough and they immediately started to play with her, rolling around in the snow; however, my Newf slowly backed away from the action.

&nbs
p; “How is he with kids?” I asked.

  “He’s gentle,” she answered. “He runs away a bit at first, but when they aren’t quite so rambunctious, he relaxes. It just takes him a while.”

  She hadn’t had him long, only two or three weeks, as he’d been in another foster home prior to hers. She didn’t know much about his original owners. He’d arrived underfed and a bit underweight. Even though his fur was thick, I could now see it hung large on him, like a coat that was a few sizes too big.

  “He’s terrified of loud noises. He doesn’t like it when the kids yell,” the woman said. “And he cowers if anyone makes sudden movements around him, so you have to be a bit careful that he doesn’t get spooked. I’m not sure he assumes he’s going to be petted when someone comes close, you know?” she said.

  She didn’t offer up any more information than that, but she did say that one of his original owners had gotten him hoping he’d make an intimidating guard dog. She assumed that when he didn’t display the aggression they desired, they got rid of him. He had bounced around with several owners, none of whom really wanted him.

  “The details of what happened to him in the past are not nearly as important as what is going to happen to him in the future,” she said. “That’s why our rescue organization tries as hard as we do to find these gentle giants homes where they will be well cared for and respected and loved.” She turned to look me in the eye. “All he wants is a warm, safe place to sleep, some food in his belly and someone to love him.”