DogTown

by Stefan Bechtel

A few months later, a family in Colorado saw Wiggles’ endearing, toothy countenance on the Guardian Angel website. They put in an application to adopt him, but this time with a different caveat: They had four tropical birds in their house, including a parrot. So now Wiggles had to pass a bird test, to see if he could share a house with parrots, and hope to do better than he did with the cat test.

  “We basically custom-tailor adoptions so they are adoptions for life,” John Garcia explained as he drove up the road from Dogtown with Wiggles in the front seat of his truck. At Best Friends, arranging for a bird test would be as simple as arranging for a cat test—the sanctuary includes a sprawling aviary for abandoned birds, called Feathered Friends, where about a hundred birds are generally in residence at any given time.

  “It’s kind of embarrassing to admit this, but I have trouble with birds,” John said. “It’s not that I had such a bad experience with birds as a kid or something, it’s just that…well, they really creep me out!”

  He drove up the road to the aviary, parked, and leashed up Wiggles. Then the two of them strolled into an outdoor courtyard where there were a number of pagoda-shaped cages filled with noisy, colorful tropical birds.

  “Hello,” a big, blaze-colored parrot shrieked.

  “Hello?” John said. “Whoa, that’s creepy!”

  One of the bird handlers, alerted that Wiggles was coming, came out with a white plume-headed cockatoo perched on his arm. It was about the size of a crow, easily big enough to give Wiggles an alarming peck. The handler knelt down so that Wiggles could get a closer look, while John kept a tight hold on the leash. Wiggles stared up curiously at the big, snowy bird, who seemed unruffled, even disinterested. Wiggles sniffed the air, trying to get a read on this odd feathery thing. He seemed genuinely interested but not overly excited, a level of interest perhaps akin to what a museumgoer might feel while observing an educational diorama about dinosaurs.

  Contented, relaxed, and tired: After a full day of activity, Wiggles takes a well-deserved rest.

  “You ever see something like that?” John said to Wiggles, who began leaning in to the leash, trying to get at the bird, whining. The handler stood up and pulled the bird away from Wiggles’ reach.

  “He did have a reaction to that bird, but it wasn’t necessarily a negative reaction,” John observed. “He was just curious. So far so good.”

  Then the handler got another bird, this time a green parrot, and knelt down close to Wiggles.

  But Wiggles seemed increasingly less interested, as if he were being asked to perform a trick without a reward.

  “He’s losing his focus, which is good,” John said. “He’s not so aroused, not just going after the bird, going, going, going, like he did with the cat.”

  Though he was unaware that he was taking a test, Wiggles passed it anyway. He could tolerate close contact with large birds without reverting to undesirable behaviors—the huge, hungry chomp, the puff of bright feathers, the grinning gulp.

  Now Wiggles had to confront a situation similar to the one in his potential future home—more than one bird at a time. John walked him into a different part of the aviary, where the cages were filled with smaller birds in larger numbers—cockatiels, finches, lovebirds, parakeets—and the air rang with the sounds of a tropical rain forest.

  “Whaddya think, Mister Wiggles? Huh?” John said. “Look at all these birdies!”

  John was holding Wiggles in his arms, and the dog seemed surprisingly calm and curious, not frantic, like he was with the cat. He was not even licking his chops.

  Dogtown distributes about $2,000 in medication a month to the resident dogs.

  Wiggles passed the bird test with, so to speak, flying colors. (In fact, he did better than John.) Despite the diminishing odds, it was possible that Wiggles may just have succeeded in finding a real home.

  HOME AT LAST

  Wiggles’ new family, a woman named Chequeta and her young daughter, had driven all the way from Colorado to meet Wiggles in person. When the woman got out of her SUV holding the little girl, Wiggles came bounding up, lopsidedly, to greet them. The little girl clearly loved this, and she broke free of her mother to run after the dog for more.

  “Ever since I first saw his picture on the Internet, something about him just touched my heart,” Chequeta said.

  Betsy was trying to give Chequeta a preview of the little dog she had grown so attached to, but she was having difficulty keeping from crying. “He falls, sometimes a lot, just depends on the day,” she said. “He’s just great, you’re going to love him, though!” She pulled out a small package of Kleenex, and then the two women embraced.

  “I’m so in love!” Wiggles’ new mom gushed. “It’s almost like that feeling you get when you have your first baby. It’s kind of, I don’t know—your heart jumps out of your chest.”

  Betsy had Wiggles in her arms. She hugged and kissed him as she lifted him into the crate in the back of his new family’s car. Wiggles gave her a couple of big, slobbery kisses with his enormous, black-spotted tongue. “Bye, buddy,” she said, choking up, as she closed the hatchback. As the car pulled away, and Wiggles’ new owner waved, Betsy couldn’t resist calling after him one more time, “I love you, buddy!”

  Then the car went bumping down the dusty road away from Dogtown, bound for a place where Wiggles would be accepted as himself—bowlegs, underbite, incontinence, and all—for the rest of his life.

  A Dog for Your Lifestyle

  Mike Dix, DVM, Clinic Medical Director

  When people ask me what type of dog they should get, I always say, “Find one who fits your lifestyle. If you’re active, get a dog that can be active with you. If you’re a couch potato, a low-energy dog is probably more your speed.” Lifestyle compatibility is important, which is something I learned the hard way when I got my first dog during vet school. I wasn’t really ready and had a lot to learn about how to be a better friend to her. But her patience and trust never flagged, and it helped me to live the life I always wanted.

  Dogs have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. My family’s first dog was a big (or at least big to a little kid) male German shepherd named Captain. I was just a kid when he lived with us, so my memories are few. I do remember him wrestling with my dad on the carpet and stinking up the Orange Submarine (an old VW van) with his dog breath. When he died, it was the first time I ever saw my mom cry. He was my parents’ first child, after all.

  Shortly after Captain passed away, when I was about seven years old, we went to the local pound to get a new dog. We picked out a little black Lab mix who we named Benjamin. His name quickly morphed into Benji. (I remember being disappointed that my dog’s name was really unoriginal for its time, the 1970s—it was the same as the famous little movie dog.) Soon enough, my dad, who had a knack for giving nicknames, started calling him Benji Bo, and then finally settled on Bimbo (a name I much preferred because it actually had some flair). But Bimbo was my dog mostly in name. For the first few years, my mom took care of him.

  I really began to learn how much a dog can add to your life around the time I entered junior high. It wasn’t an easy time for me—I grew shyer, lost whatever athletic skills I had, and sort of became a nerd. But Bimbo kept me company during my pubescent loneliness, and as we spent more time together, I began to take on more responsibility for his care. Mom didn’t have to walk him because I would. (Oddly, he would go for only one walk a day. When I tried to take him on two, he would just sit down on the front porch and not budge.) Bimbo shared my love for soccer, and we played together almost every day in the backyard. I didn’t recognize it at the time, but all this shared activity strengthened our bond. Bimbo became my best friend, and I owe him a great debt for getting me through the personal hell that was junior high.

  But after high school, my relationship with Bimbo changed when I left for college. I missed him a lot (my parents even had a picture of him blown up to poster size for a Christmas present). Every vacation, I looked forward to se
eing Bimbo again and falling back into our old routine. But as the years rolled by and I was away from home for longer periods of time, I could see Bimbo’s alliances shift back over to my parents. We still had good vacations together, but things had changed. After I graduated from college and then moved on to veterinary school, Bimbo was more my parents’ dog again.

  I didn’t have my own dog again until my time in vet school. I wasn’t really looking for a pet—school was demanding enough—but things changed for me when we started performing surgery. In the beginning, we did only the simplest procedures—usually spaying and neutering animals from the local humane society (the local shelters donated animals to be “fixed” in return for our free services). My first surgery was a spay on a two-year-old Dalmatian, and like a lot of my classmates, I wound up adopting the first animal I ever operated on.

  Her name was Dottie. I had known Dalmatians before and didn’t really care for them, but this dog sucked me in. Before I adopted her, I tried to get to know her better. The first impressions were great. I needed to make sure she was safe around cats because I had one, Stimpy, at home. Dottie and a friend’s adopted surgery cat got along fine, so I thought she’d be great with Stimpy, too. Dottie also seemed to respond really well to her name, which made me decide to keep it (even though it was thoroughly unoriginal—to this day my wife makes fun of my animal-naming ability because of my calling my Dalmatian Dottie). Dottie seemed to like other animals—she got along well with my roommate’s dog when they were first introduced. The humane society also assured me that Dottie was very sweet and not prone to snapping or biting. Little did I know that Dottie was pulling a fast one.

  After I adopted Dottie, she revealed her crankier side. First of all, she didn’t like cats very much, something Stimpy easily could have told me. As far as her name went, I had assumed it had belonged to her since puppyhood, but it turned out that the humane society had tritely named her Dottie because of her breed. After the adoption, Dottie’s name ceased to hold any meaning for her when she was misbehaving. “Dottie? Dottie who?” her expression would say whenever I tried to get her attention away from something that she was not supposed to be paying attention to. As to her sweet and gentle nature, well, let’s say that several cats, dogs, and mailmen have been on the other end of Dottie’s moods, and they would hardly call her sweet.

  But I couldn’t be angry with Dottie for misleading me about her attributes because I wasn’t such a great catch either. The first two years Dottie and I were together, I was so busy working 14 hours a day (it was my last year of vet school and was followed by a year-long internship) that I spent very little time with my high-energy dog. Dottie was definitely frustrated with me, and it showed. But Dottie remained patient and optimistic, hoping that things would change. She didn’t give up on me (even though I’m sure it crossed her mind).

  After my internship year I moved out to the Portland, Oregon, area. My work hours decreased dramatically, so Dottie and I spent more time together. Since Dottie didn’t like most dogs (and some people), we needed to keep her on a leash when we went exploring. This was cumbersome to our adventures, so I started to look for places where she could safely run free. A work colleague would often talk about hikes he took in the area. They sounded interesting, and I figured it would be great to take Dottie. I had never hiked before, but how hard could it be?

  Well, I found out on our first hike. Dottie and I climbed about halfway up the mountain, and I about died. It should have been no surprise; I was in horrible shape, was wearing jeans, and had brought very little water. Dottie had no trouble, but I was gasping for air with every step. Despite the challenge of it all, it was a blast.

  I had found a new passion, one that I could share with Dottie, and I became obsessed with hiking with my dog. I would buy the best gear for me and for Dottie (who realistically only cared about the hiking, the water, and finishing my apple). Dottie loved it; I loved it; and we both got in very good shape and developed a very tight and loving bond. We hiked over a thousand miles in Oregon, and every one was unique and special. When my wife, Elissa, and I moved to Utah, Dottie and I kept up our hiking habit. We still liked our hikes, but it wasn’t like our heyday in Oregon (Utah is much hotter, with a lot less water to help Dottie cool off). Plus, as Dottie aged, her body couldn’t carry her as far anymore.

  Now, Dottie is quite old (at least 15), stumbles when she walks, gets lost easily, and has very little endurance. She still enjoys her short jaunts behind our house, but even those are becoming a struggle. She is annoyed at her younger, faster, and more obnoxious siblings (she lives with five other dogs, three of whom are quite young) but does a reasonable job of tolerating them. I imagine that she has told them stories of her glory days and has told them they will never have the connection that she and I have—she is sort of a diva and does not really care about hurting the other dogs’ feelings.

  Looking back at when Dottie came into my life, it was a bad idea for me to adopt her then because my lifestyle was not suited to a dog like her: I was irresponsible and impatient; I did not have the time to care for a dog properly; I was wrapped up in my education and career. I gave Dottie a limited life those first two and a half years, and I am not proud of that. Because Dottie stuck it out with me, I was finally able to see what she needed, and, realistically, what I needed, too. When I was a kid, those backyard romps and daily walks with Bimbo had cemented our friendship. I needed to give Dottie the same chances to see what activities would cement ours. I found ways to work Dottie into my life and make it richer because of her presence, something we both benefited from.

  I can’t say that she didn’t frustrate me now and then, either, but we worked through it. After she bit the mailman, I learned to be much more careful when opening the front door. After she bit the cat, we reorganized our household so that wouldn’t happen again. She couldn’t really help but be who she was—flaws and all. But she helped me to grow up and become the man that I am today. Through Dottie I have learned that dogs need to be dogs. They need to have things offered to them that fit their personalities. Because I finally figured that out, I believe we shared some of the best times a person and a dog could have. Dottie did not fit the lifestyle I was living when she came into my life, but she helped me find the life I wanted to live. I eventually shared a connection with my dog that enriched my life in every way.

  Thanks, Dottie.

  Mister Bones spent 13 years at Dogtown before being adopted.

  15

  Mister Bones: Going Home

  He was a skinny, scary, rattleboned stray who’d been picked up on the streets of Puerto Rico in 1995. When he arrived at Dogtown, he quickly developed a reputation for attacking other dogs. He was placed in a separate run and was given a red collar to signify that only trained staff could work with him. Bones had no history of attacking people, but because of his issues with other dogs, it was best that only those who were very familiar with him be allowed to work with him.

  To some, he was a dangerous nuisance, an unwanted outsider, a problem. Had he wound up in an ordinary animal shelter, he was the sort of dog who would have been given the euthanasia needle in a matter of days or even hours. But he was not at just any animal shelter: This was Dogtown, where every creature gets a second chance.

  One of the first things he got when he arrived at the sanctuary was a name: Mister Bones, because he was nothing more than skin and bones. (A female stray who’d been seen sharing her food with him on the street, and who was also rescued, was named Negrita.) He also got his own bed, regular meals, a medical checkup, and the loving attentions of caregivers, perhaps for the first time in his life. It wasn’t as if he had done anything to earn these luxuries. He was given them simply because he was a living creature, and at Dogtown all living creatures have as much right to be treated well as a flower has a right to the rain.

  Like almost all the other dogs who come to Dogtown, Mister Bones was a genetic hodgepodge. His short red-gold coat, long legs, and lean frame made
it look like he had some vizsla (sometimes called a Hungarian pointer) in him. He had a tendency to sit up very erect, with intent, serious eyes accentuated by dark markings that looked like small, vertical eyebrows. The “eyebrows” added to the intensity of his gaze, as if everything in the world, including humans, were small game. He had a long, narrow muzzle a bit like a greyhound’s, and he held his head proudly and erect. And he had a little mole, like a small bug or beauty mark, off-center on his forehead. But the most endearing thing about his face was the fact that he always seemed to look as if he were smiling—a kind of cryptic smile, Mona Lisa–like, both comical and wise.

  When Mister Bones first came to Dogtown in 1995, his red coat and black muzzle showed no traces of gray.

  It was that enigmatic smile, perhaps, that led so many people at Dogtown to begin falling for Mister Bones. It was the smile that suggested there was something else beneath his dangerous, street-savvy, raggedy-man exterior—something whimsical and canny. One of the people who took a particular liking to Mister Bones was one of the caregivers, Thomas Foyles, who tended to favor the rougher, more aggressive dogs at Dogtown.

  “Mister Bones is misunderstood, like myself,” Thomas said, with a slow smile that suggested this statement might conceal a world of hurt. Thomas had a low, gravelly voice, a shaved head, an earring, and a grizzly goatee, which lent him a vaguely menacing air.

  “I’ve always had a bond with aggressive dogs—I’ve always been drawn to them,” he said. “I respect them, and I love them unconditionally. Something I’d like to have with people one day, I have with these guys.” He flashed another slow smile, pregnant with unspoken sorrows. “It takes a bit of skill to win these guys over—I don’t want to say I’m macho, but you just can’t fear them. Understand them, respect them, but don’t fear them.”