The Dog with the Old Soul

by Jennifer Basye Sander

  Their veterinary exams completed, the dogs arrived at the shelter. I carried Hammer, still unconscious, to a run that I’d padded with blankets to keep him from hurting himself when he awoke from the tranquilizer. Through that long evening the youngsters were photographed, vaccinated, dewormed, bathed and dipped. They accepted it all trustingly. And then there was Hammer.

  The shelter staff checked on him often as he began to wake up. He followed our every move, as if he was trying to understand what was happening. Finally, we finished our initial care for the youngsters, but we hadn’t vaccinated Hammer. Even the friendliest dogs can be unpredictable as they’re waking from anesthesia. Common sense said to forget it, and just leave him alone, but that was not our way. One staff member held Hammer’s head in a bear hug while another vaccinated him. He barely struggled and we began to wonder how vicious he really was.

  Our animal control officers, the veterinarians and the Commonwealth attorney did an outstanding job putting the case together against the dogs’ owner. The court upheld our petition to have the owner declared unfit to provide proper care for the dogs, and awarded their custody to the animal shelter. A few weeks later, in criminal court, the owner entered a plea of guilty to the charge of animal cruelty. But the wheels of justice moved slowly and the dogs would be with us until the case was finally closed.

  Meanwhile, at the shelter the dogs had been put on a special feeding regimen for malnutrition. Hammer’s food was laced with antibiotics for his many infections. All five dogs gained weight steadily and their condition visibly improved from day to day. The youngsters were friendly with everyone on staff. And then there was Hammer.

  Hammer would jump on his cage door as people approached, barking with his distinctive deep, yet hoarse voice. He used his food and water bowls as Frisbees, shaking and tossing them around. We gave him heavy, tip-proof water and food bowls and a thick rope toy to shake. He demolished the frame of his metal dog door one day by constantly barreling into it. He didn’t want to stay outside during inside cleanup or be inside when we cleaned the outside. His weight and his strength improved daily, but his ears needed topical medication on a regular basis and his skin needed medicated baths. He still smelled horribly.

  As lead officer for Hammer, I visited him after hours, when the shelter was quiet, plied him with dog biscuits and talked to him, trying to earn his trust one step at a time. It took a while, but I finally was able to pet him through the bars, then enter the kennel with him and finally medicate his ears. He began to trust me and it was a wonderful feeling.

  One night I put a slip lead around his neck and led him through the empty shelter to the grooming room. I invited him to jump in the tub. He had no idea what to expect. The next step could be dangerous. I reached under him to pick him up. Would he let me? We were both surprised it went so smoothly when I placed him in the tub. He looked very warily at me when I turned on the hose, but he let the warm water cascade over him. Owners sometimes encouraged aggression by turning a hose on their dogs, so I was alert to any sudden move he might make, but he put up with it. Perhaps he understood I was trying to help him. He grunted and groaned with delight as he was lathered and massaged, turning different parts of his body toward me for more massaging. The next thing I knew, his huge front paws were on my shoulders and this fierce guard dog was giving me sloppy doggy kisses. I had a new friend named Hammer.

  One by one he learned to know and trust several other staff members. We gave each of the pit bull youngsters big rawhide bones. They devoured them in record time. Hammer’s teeth were so worn down that he couldn’t really chew his, but he loved to carry it around. We began taking him to our fenced exercise area after hours. At first he’d run a few feet and stop, expecting to be jerked back by his chain. Little by little he began to explore and leap and run. When we called him, he would run to us for belly rubs, rolling in the grass on his back, giving us big openmouthed groans of pleasure. He didn’t know how to fetch or play with toys, but he loved the attention and the freedom. He continued to gain weight, soon weighing in at sixty-two pounds, with no protruding bones and a shining coat. He was enjoying his new life.

  Too soon the final date for the owner to appeal the court ruling arrived. The following day we held Hammer’s head tenderly while we euthanized him—his story could end no other way. He was what he was: a large, powerful dog who had been taught to fight other dogs and distrust people. This disqualified him from ever being adopted. At the shelter we had a friend named Hammer. We’re proud that we were able to let him know love and trust and simply enjoy being a dog, if only for a short time. We’re proud, too, of our other animals, the ones adopted by loving families.

  This is what we do. Everyone who works at an animal shelter has stories like Hammer’s. Our work may not be understood or appreciated. We do it for the animals because we are all they have. We take them in, give them food, a clean place to live and medical care when they need it. We try to place them with people who have a lifetime of love and care to give. We enjoy them for the time we have with them, and when we say goodbye, whatever the circumstances, we say it with love. We may never change the system or society or the world, but if we continue to care and to take pride in what we do, we can make a difference—one day, one animal, one life at a time.

  Quiet Vigil

  Sue Pearson

  She stands in the corner, looking out on the road. This is the only spot in the field that isn’t shaded by large, sheltering, beckoning trees. The sun is beating down on her tired body. Her haunches are hollow, with skin stretched tight over hip bones that protrude. Her back is swayed. Her shoulders are bony. Her head is bowed. She stands and she waits.

  “Have you noticed that skinny horse in the pasture along the road to your house?” My neighbor and I sometimes run into each other at the feed store, and today she was concerned about this sad-looking horse standing in the blazing sun with its head hung down, looking forlorn and neglected.

  I know this horse. Our lives are intertwined. The story is very different than it appears. To be sure, there is suffering, but along the way there is an invitation to trust in a higher power—a chance to experience the nearness of God. Shiloh and I both have been touched by grace, our paths connected by some divine guidance.

  Spiritual growth is often difficult, and this chapter in my growth began when a health crisis sidelined me from a successful career as a journalist and pushed me into early retirement. Friends said, “Just stay at home and play with your horses.” And while that sounded appealing, it also sounded a bit self-centered. An organization called Wonder, Inc., offered a chance to make a difference, not in the world or even in my community, but in just one life…the life of a child in foster care.

  And so I became a mentor to MJ, an eight-year-old with hair the color of wheat, eyes that sparkled, a personality that said, “I can and I will” again and again. It’s the quality the people in child protective services call resilience, and MJ has it. Her enthusiasm won my heart. “When can we start having adventures?” “Can you teach me anything?” “I love to learn!” I explained to MJ that, according to the rules, I had to have three home visits before we could start going out and doing things together. Each time I came over, I brought what I thought were interesting craft projects for us to do in her foster home, things like egg decorating, scrapbooking and beadwork. She dove into each project but didn’t have much to say. Where had the earlier excitement gone?

  “Is there anything on your mind, MJ?” I asked.

  “Yes, there is,” she said. “When can we get outta here and start having fun?”

  “Okay. Next time, I promise, we can get out of here and start having fun.” I laughed. I told her a little bit about myself. “I have five children—one girl, four boys—and mostly they are grown and gone from home. In six months my youngest boy will graduate from high school and leave for college.”

  MJ threw back her head and turned to me, her long ponytail flicking from side to side. “Well, aren’t you luck
y to have me now!”

  I laughed at her spunkiness. Looking back, this was the moment I fell in love with her, certain a lifetime bond was in the making.

  We went to plays, concerts, the zoo, skipped rocks at the river, hiked in the mountains, played with my dog; and when a neighbor offered to loan me her child-safe pony, I gave MJ riding lessons. I knew from my long years of riding and caring for horses that these animals offered an extraordinary learning experience. In honing good equestrian skills, a lot of pretty amazing life skills get formed and sharpened. Things like leadership, patience, responsibility, self-confidence and more. MJ was a little scared when she first got on Diamond, but with slow and steady guidance from me, she was ready for her first horse show within eight months. We borrowed show clothes, and together we groomed Diamond until the pony gleamed.

  In the show arena, I had to let go of MJ. No more helping. She was on her own now. I leaned against the arena fence, drumming my fingers nervously on the top rail. I must have held my breath the entire time, because when the judge announced the results, with MJ awarded first place, the air came rushing out of my lungs in one huge whooping shout of joy. The smile on MJ’s face could have lit up the universe. I was helping her with what is all too often missing in the life of a foster child—the opportunity to thrive. The surprise was how much she gave back to me. I felt energized and needed.

  Suddenly MJ was at a crossroads. From her social workers she learned she would either return to her biological mother, be put up for adoption or stay in foster care until she aged out of the system at eighteen. Every option seemed scary. While the unknown was looming, the thing MJ was most concerned about was me. I had indeed filled the role Wonder, Inc. had intended—to be a constant presence, the one who followed through on promises and offered a fount of unconditional love.

  “I’m worried we won’t be able to be together.” The usually upbeat MJ was somber.

  I did my best to reassure her. “Honey, as far as I’m concerned, I’m with you for life. Even if you get tired of me someday, you’ll have a hard time getting rid of me.” I hoped she would smile but she didn’t. It’s hard to trust when trust has been broken. I knew I would hang in there no matter what, but MJ wasn’t so sure.

  In a matter of weeks MJ’s mother lost her parental rights, and thus going home was no longer an option for MJ. Social workers sought to find a family who would adopt her, and three times she was moved. I saw MJ try her hardest to bond with the new parents, accept different rules, adjust to new schools, find new friends and just fit in. But every time she did these things, she was expected to do it all over again somewhere else.

  The people who study the effects of the foster-care system on children say these kids experience more post-traumatic stress than war vets. Having now seen it up close, I understand.

  Through each move I stayed connected, though the foster families lived many hours away. MJ told me she had high hopes for the second foster home. “The room they had fixed up for me was so pretty. I thought I could be happy there.” When I visited after the third move and took her out to lunch, she was desperately unhappy.

  At the noisy café, she leaned in close and said, “I told myself to just hang on, because I knew when you got here, you would make everything all right. Get me back to the other family quick, okay?”

  I choked back tears. “Oh, MJ, I don’t have these magical powers. I can’t make everything all right. The only thing I can do is be your friend and love you through all the good times and bad times. I will hug you when you are sad. I will listen when you need to talk. I will be your cheerleader for life. Someday you are going to have a life of your own design and it’s going to be wonderful.” Now we were two broken hearts. Hers because I wasn’t the hero she wanted me to be. Mine because I had to take away that illusion. I cried most of the way home.

  Later I made plans with a stable near MJ to bring our borrowed pony for day trips so she could continue her riding lessons. I began to map out a routine and dream up new adventures. I knew there were some problems in the new family and that MJ was not doing well in school. I thought the foster-care people would give this patched-together family time to work everything out. I was wrong. The director of Wonder called. “Sorry to have to tell you this, but MJ has been moved yet again, and I don’t have the new contact information. We’ll just have to be patient.”

  What! Be patient? Are you kidding? I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. Four moves in six months! I was angry. How could a system meant to protect these children bring so much additional trauma into their lives by shuffling them around? MJ was in a state of perpetual emotional whiplash. No one should have to endure this chaos, much less our vulnerable, powerless children. This time I wanted to shake things up…take some people down…bring the system to a reckoning. I vowed to call on my journalism skills to right this obvious wrong.

  But the assault on the system would have to wait until Monday. Some weeks before, I had signed up to spend that weekend at a spiritual retreat, a monastery in the mountains, looking out over the sea. Within the first few hours I felt a tremendous calling. I kept sensing a message…. Be quiet. Lose the anger. Wait without judgment. But what was happening to MJ and so many other foster children was just wrong. Something should be done. Then that message again. Be still. Be open. I listened. As hard as it was, I shed the anger and the judgment. I would hold a quiet vigil, because I had made a decision to trust this piercing message.

  Monday afternoon the director of Wonder, Inc. called me. “MJ has a new foster home and guess where it is.” Well, it could have been anywhere in the state. I wasn’t in the mood for games. So to be flippant, I spat out the name of the unlikeliest place—the tiny country hamlet where I lived.

  “Yes!” the director said. “That’s where MJ’s new home is.”

  “Don’t be kidding around with me,” I said.

  “No, no kidding. In fact she lives just down the street from you,” he replied.

  God winked. I am sure of it. I was deeply humbled.

  Three years have passed since I heeded God’s message to lose the anger and wait. MJ is flourishing in a stable family with a foster mom and dad who have good values and great parenting skills. They, and I, are committed to helping MJ succeed in life. She is doing well in school and has joined the ranks of preteens everywhere, with girlfriends, sleepovers and a lot of giggling.

  A few months ago she and I went to visit a friend of mine who operates a horse rescue center nearby—a place called the Grace Foundation. My friend, Beth, knew of my mentoring journey with MJ. She said, “If you are ready to adopt a horse, I have one I have been saving for just the perfect home. MJ, would you like to meet Shiloh?”

  And that is how Shiloh came to live in the front pasture at MJ’s house. The horse had been badly neglected, starved and left in a barren field to die. MJ is taking excellent care of her horse, giving her plenty of good hay and clean water. The horse is groomed and stroked tenderly every day. MJ rides her on a nearby trail or bareback in the front field. Shiloh and MJ have a bond. They both know about betrayal and hardship.

  The mare trots across the field in the morning as MJ walks from her house to the bus stop. It’s not far. In the corner where the fencing meets, the horse can see her best friend being taken away in a big, noisy yellow box. She has no idea where. But she is willing to suffer the searing heat of the sun to wait there for MJ. Shiloh trusts her quiet vigil will end when her friend is returned in the afternoon. A passage from the Bible frames this scene: “In silence and in hope will be your strength.”

  As MJ steps from the bus and walks along the fence line to the house, the horse trots from the corner to the other end of the pasture to follow her home. They both have learned that love is worth waiting for. So have I.

  A Life Measured in Dog Years

  Hal Bernton

  I married into the basset-hound breed.

  One day in Twin Falls, Idaho, after running the Snake River Canyon from rim to rim, I met a slende
r, young woman at a post-race picnic. Her basset hound grabbed the sandwich in my hand, and the owner, Ann, soon claimed my heart.

  That was more than twenty-five years ago. Since then, Ann and I have shared many memorable moments with the gentle, long-eared, keen-nosed and often stubborn hounds.

  There were bassets at our wedding and one on our honeymoon.

  When my newspaper career took us north to Alaska for eleven years, our bassets joined us as we hiked through grizzly country, fished for salmon and picked fall berries in alpine meadows. In one memorable experiment, we briefly hitched our bootee-clad basset, Homer, to an Iditarod racer’s sled for a pull through the snow. But bassets as sled dogs never quite caught on.

  When we moved to the Pacific Northwest, Ann decided she wanted to check out field trials, which give your hound a chance to match his scent and tracking skills against other bassets. We joined a small, eclectic band of basset-hound brethren who have kept field trialing alive in our region. Most come from Washington and Oregon, and a handful from as far away as Idaho and California.

  These dogs were initially bred in France as low-slung hounds that could help hunters pursue small game. The field trials are a way to honor this hunting heritage. The trials are held along a stretch of land in southwest Washington that is piled with Mount St. Helens’s ash dredged from a nearby river. This land has been reclaimed by a motley mix of Scotch broom, Himalayan blackberries and grasses, all of which provide prime cover for rabbits.

  These competitions typically begin soon after daybreak. Most participants form a line, known as “the Gallery,” and walk forward slowly, beating the bushes with sticks or poles in hopes of flushing out a bunny. Eventually, someone cries “Tallyho!” as a rabbit scurries out of the brush. Then two bassets are walked up to the point where the bunny was last seen. They are left on the bunny’s trail for several minutes. That’s enough time for two judges to decide which of the dogs does a better job of following the scent. (Hunting is forbidden at field trialing, and bassets are bred to flush out game, rather than track it down and pounce on it. And the dogs are caught and leashed long before they would have the chance to catch and harm the rabbits they pursue.)