My Very Good, Very Bad Dog

by Amy Newmark

  The sounds of dogs barking in the distance, neighbors mowing grass, kids at play, or cars driving by send him running back to us. While we can’t touch him, Gibbs will softy touch our legs, letting us know it’s time to go in.

  I hope someday Gibbs will jump up on the couch next to me, let me pet him, give me doggy kisses, and even snuggle. I want to go for walks and play fetch.

  Until then, a brief tap of a paw on my leg, a soft nose rubbing against my hand, a soulful glance that says “hey, I’m here” will do.

  You can’t hurry love.

  ~Jeri McBryde

  Golden Oldies

  Fun fact: Dogs are considered “seniors” at different ages depending on their breed. Generally, bigger dogs are considered “old” at a younger age than smaller dogs.

  “We’ve got the perfect dog for you,” the woman from the rescue group said. I knew what that meant. It was the kind of dog I never wanted — the kind I thought I could never let into my heart.

  It all started when my husband Mike and I were looking to adopt a dog after losing our faithful old yellow Lab. Although we had an adorable Spaniel mix at home, something nudged us, telling us it was time for another dog in our family. We contacted Peppertree, a local dog rescue group. “What kind of dog are you looking for?” they asked.

  “Oh, we’d love any,” I answered. Or so I thought.

  Before long, they sent us a picture of a large Golden Retriever. “He’d be perfect for you,” they wrote. I gasped. Were they serious? This dog was gangly, with crooked teeth and patchy fur. He was so thin that his ribs protruded. Likely he had a bundle of health issues. Then, there was his age — they estimated he was eleven. And every one of those years had taken a hard, miserable toll on him.

  “Can we get him?” Mike asked, eyes pleading.

  “Oh, Mike!” I said. “Eleven!”

  I thought the issue was resolved, but Mike couldn’t stop looking at the pathetic picture. Peppertree was holding an adoption event the very next day. I was to be out of town at a conference. I was sure he’d rush over and rescue that old dog.

  “Whatever you do, don’t get that dog,” I said firmly.

  “But someone else might adopt him.”

  “Who’d take an eleven-year-old dog? He’s probably got arthritis, heartworm, Lyme disease — who knows what. Besides, how could we take him, knowing we won’t have much time together? I couldn’t bear it.”

  When I returned from the conference, Mike told me he’d gone to the event and seen the dog. It took all his resolve not to sign the adoption papers then and there. He begged me to just meet the old boy the next day. He was so sincere, how could I say no?

  When we got out of the car, there was the rescue worker with a reddish-blond dog, standing still as a stone. When I looked into his eyes, he averted his gaze. I accepted his leash and took him for a walk. He matched my stride, obedient yet detached. I kept thinking about his age.

  “Mike, I don’t know…” I said, turning to walk away.

  “He needs us,” Mike said.

  I stopped abruptly. He needs us. I hadn’t thought of it that way. Maybe it wasn’t about what this dog could do for us. It was about what we could do for him. We could give him a warm, loving home for however long we had together. We could give him the comfort and dignity he deserved in his golden years.

  I sighed, and nodded. “Okay.” I came back and stroked the scrawny dog’s side. “What do you think? Do you want to live with us?” His tail wagged, just a little bit.

  Brooks, as we named him, responded immediately to our love. Despite having lived possibly for years on his own, he had no emotional issues or bad habits. He didn’t run around or chew on the furniture or cry at night. He napped during the day and was content with a few ambling walks. An older dog, we found, fit perfectly into our lifestyle. He followed Mike around the house, and in the evening he climbed into my big green chair with me and cuddled as I worked on my computer. I hugged him tight. “I love you, Brooks,” I said. And I meant it.

  It’s no surprise, however, that just what I feared came to pass one day. Sadly, we lost Brooks to cancer only a year after he came into our lives. Mike said the reason we grieved so hard was because it was so good while we were together. It was a powerful loss, but we felt better knowing Brooks had had the comfort of a loving home for the last year of his life. Maybe that was just the reason he came to us. Maybe that’s what we were meant to do.

  Since then, we decided to open our hearts to rescuing senior dogs. So when Peppertree called, telling us they had “the perfect dog for us,” I knew what it meant. Another senior was looking for a forever home.

  Today, our Spaniel is thirteen years old, and we also have a ten-year-old Golden Retriever, Ike. It’s a perfect match. We provide him with the love, comfort and security he deserves in his golden years. He gives us just as much in return. And when the time comes that we’ll have to say goodbye, another senior dog will be out there that needs us. And we know we can bear it. Sometimes, we discover things in the most unexpected way — like through a skinny, abandoned, eleven-year-old Golden Retriever that just needed some love.

  ~Peggy Frezon

  A Pit Bull Love Story

  Fun fact: Pit Bulls were created by breeding Bulldogs and Terriers together.

  Juliet is my Pit Bull rescue. She lived in the Humane Society’s shelter for more than eighteen months after being dropped off in the middle of the night. Abandoned. I saw her picture featured in a local paper, and something deep inside me told me I had to meet her. Upon arriving at the shelter, I found her cowering at the back of her kennel. It took a lot of coaxing to even get her to come close enough for me to reach my fingers through the chain links and pet her. She licked my hand.

  I took her out to play in their meet-and-greet area. She was cute, but still aloof. I asked a million questions about her. Why had she been there for more than eighteen months? What was she like with other dogs? Kids? Cats? They were unsure of her history and gave her a bad rep at first. One of the volunteers told me she did not do well with children or dogs, so I left disappointed. I didn’t want to risk putting another animal or child in danger. I was well aware of the reputation of Pit Bulls.

  Later that day, I had several messages and an e-mail about Juliet from the Humane Society asking me to give her a chance. They asked me to foster her for one week and see how she did. They sent a video of her interacting with other dogs, and she seemed okay, so I agreed and went to pick her up.

  The minute she got in the car, I knew she was mine. I read everything I could about rescues and Pit Bulls. I watched every video I could about dog training. I took owning her very seriously. I asked friends with big rescue dogs about socializing her. I exercised her religiously. I walked her. I ran her. I took her to the park and ran up and down the slides, like an obstacle course. She was happy and loved.

  But I watched as people crossed the street to avoid her when we were out for our evening walks. They were afraid to get too close, but she was more afraid of letting them get too close to her. She was the most gentle, loving, sweet dog within the walls of my house. She even learned to interact with my cats without trying to eat them. I was so proud of her accomplishments. She never disappointed me. She never chewed anything she wasn’t supposed to. She was perfection, and I loved her wholeheartedly. It was then I realized that all she ever needed was for someone to have faith in her, to give her a chance to prove herself, to be loved.

  It occurred to me that Juliet was the perfect metaphor for my life. I had spent many years feeling abandoned by my father, my husband, and at times my family. All I ever wanted was a chance to be loved, but I was always afraid to let someone get too close, always proving myself to others only to be let down and left again. I understood now her initial reaction to meeting me. Why would she extend herself to me and trust me when I was just going to walk past that cage as others before me did for eighteen months?

  We have spent the last four years together, rehabilitating each
other and learning to trust. I cannot imagine my life without her.

  Juliet does not have a tragic ending. She is my best friend, companion and soul mate. Because of her, I have learned to love unconditionally, and so has she.

  ~Christie Page

  Healing Oreo

  Not-so-fun fact: “Kennel cough” (canine infectious tracheobronchitis) is contagious, so infected dogs should be kept away from other dogs.

  The phone rang at 11:30 p.m. The young man on the other end was the resident assistant in my daughter Mimi’s college dorm. “Your daughter has been rushed to the hospital. She wasn’t breathing,” he said. I prayed my way to the emergency room. The doctors said Mimi had overdosed on heroin. Miraculously, they were able to revive her.

  Mimi’s nurse told her she was lucky. She had another patient who hadn’t been as fortunate. “Did she die?” Mimi asked.

  “No, but she suffered brain damage, and now she can’t even feed herself,” the nurse said.

  Mimi had been struggling with drug addiction for years. She’d tried often to stop on her own but would slide back into drug abuse. This near-death experience convinced her to seek professional help. She checked herself into a residential treatment center. There, she attended 12-step meetings and sessions with a psychologist. When she was released, the psychologist recommended an unconventional aspect to her continuing therapy — a dog.

  The dog arrived hidden in Mimi’s jacket. “Surprise, Mom,” she said. She opened her coat to reveal a palm-sized Poodle puppy. Her psychologist had suggested that the responsibility of caring for a pet might help her maintain her sobriety.

  Who could argue with that? And the pup was adorable. His soft, wavy onyx hair was accented with a diamond-shaped mark of white on his chest. My littlest children, who define the world in terms of sweet treats, promptly named him Oreo.

  The first days at home, Oreo romped in the kitchen, skidding on the unfamiliar ceramic tiles under his paws. He pranced to investigate his new stainless-steel food dish. We laughed when his dog tags clinked against the dish and he jumped backwards — he’d startled himself. Oreo’s favorite toy was a blue octopus the size of his own head. He refused to nap without it, so he’d struggle to drag it into his bed.

  Then, the cough started. The veterinarian diagnosed kennel cough. Soon, Oreo stopped romping and prancing. The cough advanced to frequent choking jags. Oreo had developed pneumonia.

  Mimi stayed by his side, patting him as he coughed. “You’ll be well soon,” she’d whisper to him. His only response was an upward gaze of his brown marble eyes. Oreo was too weak to pad over to his food dish, so Mimi handfed him. She gently coaxed him to swallow his antibiotics. At a time when Mimi might have been tempted to party with old associates or visit a bar, her heart and soul were focused on her beloved pup.

  Despite the round-the-clock nursing, Oreo worsened. The vet warned that the pneumonia might take Oreo’s life.

  Mimi had found an out-of-state animal hospital that specialized in treating pneumonia. She was making arrangements to have Oreo admitted when he began to perk up. Day by day, he regained his health.

  I could see how grateful Oreo was to be alive. When Mimi scratched behind his ears, his tail wagged so furiously that it would knock him sideways. He loved to play fetch with Mimi. She would throw his octopus, but Oreo would wait for her to crawl across the floor to retrieve the toy. Then, when she came close to him, he would grab the octopus from her hand. Every evening, he would curl up on Mimi’s lap with his head resting in the crook of her elbow.

  Almost thirteen years have passed since Oreo first joined our family. Mimi has earned her doctorate in psychology and is helping other addicts overcome their drug abuse. While she is at work, Oreo stays at home with me. It is my privilege to rub the underside of his neck and give him tight hugs. I hope he knows how thankful I am that he helped make Mimi healthy.

  ~Lily Ryan

  Runt of the Litter

  Fun fact: “Dachshund” means “badger dog” in German. Long ago, they were coveted for their digging skills, which enabled them to hunt underground pests such as badgers.

  I stepped off the back porch and approached Fritz’s house, which was nestled beneath his favorite spot under the shade of my family’s sprawling pecan tree. Using our shared German language, I commanded Fritz to dinner: “Fritz! Kommen Sie hier — Abendessen!”

  Yet, Fritz didn’t come when called to dinner. I knelt down and peered inside his doghouse. I caught a glimpse of his shiny dark nose and found him huddled in the back corner of his doghouse, shivering and whining. He tried to stand up, but whimpered and immediately collapsed.

  “What’s the matter? Why are you shaking?” I reached inside, hoping to pull him into my arms, but he yelped even louder. His doghouse had no floor, so I lifted up the house, placed him in my arms, and wrapped him in the softest blanket I could find. I rocked him back and forth, gently stroking his back. “Just go to sleep. When you wake up, you’ll be okay.” As I waited for him to drift off to sleep, I remembered the day Fritz had come into my life.

  I was just six years old that hot August afternoon when I heard Mr. Davis announce, “Hilda’s gone into labor!” I leapt down the back porch steps, ran next door, and watched Hilda strain as five pups slowly wriggled their way from her belly. Fritz was a runt and the first of Hilda’s litter of five milk-chocolate-colored Dachshunds.

  I giggled as I watched the five bundles of energy squirming beneath their mother’s tummy, all begging for lunch at the same time. But the magical moment abruptly ended when Hilda nudged her runt puppy away from her. Although the runt inched his way back to Hilda’s stomach, she shoved him away again, growled and then pounced on his tiny back and tail. The runt yelped; I screeched in horror as Mr. Davis — the neighborhood Dachshund aficionado — ran to my side.

  “She’s hurting him… make her stop!” I waved my hands in front of Hilda’s growling face.

  Mr. Davis scooped up the injured pup and placed him in my hands. “Run, kiddo. Find a shoebox and put that pup in it! Hurry back!”

  I darted for the Davises’ house, gingerly holding the wounded pup in my hands. I found a shoebox, placed the pup in it, and then watched it stretch and twist its tiny body ever so slightly. Relieved, I returned to Mr. Davis’s side.

  “Hilda’s a mean dog… I don’t like her!” My voice trembled. “Why would a mama dog kill its own puppy?”

  “Kiddo, you have to understand that Hilda’s not mean; she loves her runt. But her instinct tells her that her puppy is too weak to survive, and she believes that killing it is the strong and merciful thing to do.” Mr. Davis patted me on the back. “Hey, kiddo, if you have a doll blanket and baby bottle back home, go get them. I believe we can save this pup.”

  I dashed home, found the two items, and returned. We put the blanket in the box and placed the runt on it. We heated some milk, added Karo syrup to it, and poured the mixture into the baby bottle. The runt sucked on it and wiggled contentedly. While I caressed its tiny body with my fingers, he fell asleep — serene and out of harm’s way.

  “You know, kiddo, many runts die before they ever open their eyes. But if we can keep this runt alive until his eyes open, he’ll probably survive. If he pulls through, you can have him. I bet he’ll be the most loving and energetic pup of the litter.”

  For fourteen days, we handfed him and waited for his eyes to open. Over the next few weeks, we watched the runt develop into a high-spirited, mischievous but loving Dachshund puppy with a slightly broken tail.

  “Hey, kiddo, at some point you have to give your puppy a proper German name,” suggested Mr. Davis.

  “Well, for some reason I like the name Fritz. It suits him!”

  “Fritz is a right and proper name. I like it. So Fritz it is.”

  Fritz quickly became part of our German family. For the next twelve years, we were inseparable except when I was in school. But immediately after school, I’d run home, throw open the backyard gate, and plop on the back porch
steps. Fritz would dart up the steps, jump into my lap, and shower me with love and kisses. Then he’d turn his head from side to side as if to ask, “How was your day at school?”

  I always obliged him with some school story. “Today I learned how to write in cursive. I’m not very good at it yet, but do you want to see?” I would open my satchel and pull out my writing tablet.

  He’d tug on my school satchel, wag that broken tail of his, and bark as if to say, “Where’s my treat?” I’d offer him a cookie or other snack that I’d saved from lunch, and while he munched on his treat, I’d pet his elongated back and belly.

  As I grew up, I often shared my deepest thoughts, secrets, and fears with Fritz. “Today I met the cutest boy in my algebra class! Do you think he’ll ask me to the dance? I want to go to the dance, but what if he doesn’t ask me? You know, Fritz, I’m not very pretty, and I’m not a popular girl. Maybe I should just go by myself.” He’d tilt his head side to side as if to nod and look at me with those encouraging doe-like eyes. “What if my acne flares up the day before the dance? What then? Should I go?” He’d lick my face, wag his tail, and bark, leaving me to interpret his advice.

  As Fritz matured, he embraced his German heritage, for he loved sausage, sauerkraut, pretzels, and even an occasional beer. At some point, Fritz acquired a bit of wanderlust — escaping from our yard and roaming the neighborhood. I always found Fritz, for he was the only neighborhood Dachshund with a broken tail. As soon as I spotted him, I’d yell in German, “Fritz, kommen Sie hier. Schlechter Hund!” As commanded, Fritz came to my side with his head down and his broken tail between his legs, pretending to be my bad dog.

  Once inside the house, Fritz sounded like Fred Astaire tap dancing — his little toenails clicking on Mother’s linoleum floor. Fritz was half-a-dog high and a dog-and-a-half long with short, stubby legs and tiny feet. As you can imagine, he lacked Astaire’s coordination and grace, so he often ran down the hallway and slid out of control, with the back of him always going in front of him.