The only problem was that while Chuggy may have been puppy-sized, he was not a puppy. After two thousand laps around the kitchen island and several hundred tackles, he was done. He sat down in protest. Pigweed, being a mere eight weeks old and having only ever experienced the nonstop roughhousing of her siblings, didn’t know how to take a hint. She had yet to be schooled in dog-to-unrelated-dog etiquette.
Between the puppy that just wouldn’t quit and the snarly, socially awkward girl dog who wouldn’t give him the time of day, Chuggy must have wondered whether this was a step up from the shelter. I’d heard small dogs could get testy, but he had yet to snap at anyone. He dodged the mean girl dog and humored the HAPPY puppy, but what he most wanted was to snuggle in my lap. I really needed more than one lap. Three laps that week would have been perfect.
Chuggy’s story was one of the ones that made me angry and grateful. He’d had a home until a few months ago. Then his owner surrendered him to a shelter when Chuggy developed a stress-induced skin condition that had caused him to lose most of his hair. And here I must remind everyone: DOGS ARE NOT DISPOSABLE.
Maybe I was more than a little sensitive to this one because written on his owner surrender form was the word “alopecia.” Ian has alopecia. And while that diagnosis turned our world around eight years ago, in the end we were all better because of it—healthier, more grateful, and much more aware that everyone has their own hurdles in life. Ian has no hair, but he has a loving family, a supportive community, and a great sense of humor. Maybe the owner had other reasons besides the puppy losing his hair, but it just hit me in the heart to see that diagnosis written on the form of a dog being thrown away.
I was grateful for the shelter that took him in, treated him, and three months later sent him northward with OPH. The only evidence of his history was some scarring on the edges of his ears and a baby-soft new coat.
I didn’t have a lot of experience with small dogs. I could see the appeal—they made much smaller messes, they didn’t eat much, and if they didn’t listen, you could just pick them up and move them where you needed them to be. They fit so nicely on, and were so happy in, your lap. But I needed more DOG in my dog. There was something about a big dog—just the substance of them—that I appreciated. I promised Addie when we began this odyssey that we’d foster some small dogs, preferably purse-sized, but I didn’t know how well I could keep that promise. Chuggy was great, and he was awesome with Pigweed, whereas a large dog might have accidentally hurt her, but I was probably going to stick with big dogs, or at least bigger dogs after this. I was the one picking up the poop around here so I figured that made it my call. And besides, I didn’t have enough laps to go around.
Life got easier the following weekend. Fiona, the puppy formerly known as Pigweed, took off for her forever home with a previous OPH adopter who was more than thrilled to get her. Chuggy (and the rest of us) were missing Pigweed, but cute as they were, Pigweed and the rest of the puppies were a LOT of work. Chuggy was not. He was a delightful and gracious houseguest.
Chuggy Alabaster was a very expressive dog. He wasn’t pushy like so many fosters before him, but he was SO READY. I’d call his name, which he seemed to know a little, and he’d cock his head, as if to say, “Might you be talking to me?”#
He bustled around with his toenails going clip, clip, clip, like an efficient little supervisor. He was so quick to follow me that I’d turn around to look for him and not see him standing beneath me. More than once, I’d almost stepped on him, but he seemed to be used to this possibility and had lightning reflexes.
That whole week, he had been a perfect babysitter. He’d kept Pigweed entertained, happy, and even a tad bit disciplined. I could imagine him saying, “Okay now doll, it’s nap time. No more of those shenanigans.”**
I googled Chuggy Alabaster thinking it must be a name from a book or movie, but I came up empty. The only Chuggy I found was THE Chuggy, residing right here in my home.†† I suppose he got his name because it fit. Someone, somewhere, looked at him and thought, Chuggy Alabaster. Clever soul. Whoever it was should be put in charge of naming all the rescue dogs.
I decided I still wasn’t a small dog person, but I was a Chuggy Alabaster person.
*Not the actual names of these adopters, as I want to respect their privacy.
†Remember her? My foster mentee? She was taking a break from fostering to adopt Begonia for her teenage daughter.
‡Yes, puppies are disgusting.
§I had no idea that dogs had kneecaps in their hind legs. See how much I don’t know?
¶True for all of us, no?
#In my mind, he had an English accent.
**Now, somehow, he had a gangster accent.
††I’d written about him on my blog.
THIRTEEN
What Lies Beneath
With Chuggy launched, I told Nick we’d be foster dog-less until after we got back from our big vacation. We were headed to Grand Cayman Island in two weeks to celebrate our fiftieth birthdays with my brother and his wife. I’d promised Nick I wouldn’t spend the week worrying about some foster dog at home, but he’d been married to me long enough to know how serious that promise was.
Because, you know, twist my rubber arm. Plus, the dog in need of a foster home that I wasn’t supposed to be offering wasn’t just any foster dog. This was a Lily, the puppy mama. How could I possibly say no? I’d been smitten by this gorgeous girl since the first time I laid eyes on her, back in November when she was giving birth to all those beautiful puppies.
Now that the puppies had been weaned and adopted, Lily had perked up and her energy was taxing Chris’s home. She needed more space and a lot more running around, so Lily would be my running partner for a few weeks until it was time to be spayed and go to her forever home. She couldn’t be spayed until a month after the last puppy left, so she had time to kill before some lucky family could adopt her. While we were in the Caymans, Lily would again stay with Chris, but for two weeks we enjoyed her happy energy.
When you considered what she’d been through—she was pregnant, abandoned in a shelter, and shipped a day’s drive north where she gave birth to ten puppies with four birth attendants that she’d only just met. Considering all that, you’d think Lily might be a little shy. Maybe suspicious. You’d think she might have trust issues.
Well, you’d be wrong on all those counts. Within hours of being here, Lily loved us like her own. When Ian came home from school, she bounded up to him, wagging her body in side-to-side U-shapes. She whined for me when I hiked up the hill to the barn to feed the horses. She leaned into Nick as he crouched down to put wood in the woodstove. This dog was oozing love and trust and happy energy. If only we could all be like Lily. Imagine that world!
Kind of like any young mom who had just been freed from her mothering responsibilities, Lily could get a little wild. Maybe it was the stored-up energy, but when I watched her race through our house, tossing stuffed animals in the air, and making Gracie run for her crate, I imagined she was yelling, “Wahoo! Free at last! Let’s do shots!”
It was unreasonably cold that first morning with Lily, hovering just under ten degrees with a nice slicing wind. On a normal day, I’d return from the barn work and say, “Time to hit the treadmill. I’m not going out there again.” But watching Lily careen around the kitchen on her slippy toenails, I realized that was not an option, so out we went.
We’d only run two miles. I figured she’d been cooped up with the kids for quite some time; she was probably out of shape. We should start slow. Ha. We made it to our split in record time and I assumed she’d slow down on the return journey. Silly me. Lily dragged my sorry, cold butt all the way home like an out-of-control towrope. And then she spent the better part of the day in my office chasing tennis balls and ignoring my pleas for her to “Lay down right here next to the heater on this super soft doggy bed . . .”
This dog was not an old person’s dog. It would probably be optimal if her adopter had a serious runn
ing habit, a large fenced yard, and/or a pitching machine to toss balls. I hoped to take her over to the fenced-in tennis courts for a good run and fetch session on Thursday. After that, we’d stop in to see Chuggy!
Chuggy Alabaster had won the lottery in terms of adopters. Jim and Rosie owned a local pet store and he’d be helping them run it. Having a family that owns a pet store was probably like being a kid with parents who own a candy store. Think of the free samples! I was really happy for Chuggy. The trip there may have been a little turbulent, but he sure landed in a great place.
After Chuggy, Lily was a BIG dog. She was SOLID and had a tail more like a beaver’s than a dog’s. That appendage was strong, and could level anything in its path. Plus it was set on nonstop wag due to her happy heart. Lily had adult-sized teeth with a puppy-sized urge to chew. So far, besides my slippers and my gloves, she’d destroyed pretty much every dog toy we’d given her.
What Lily wanted more than anything was for Gracie to play with her. C’mon, just one game of tear around the house? Ya wanna?, Ya wanna?, Ya wanna? I had to supervise their interactions. Gracie didn’t have a nice indoor voice, it always sounded like she was threatening to kill Lily, even though I knew she was all bluster. And Lily had no idea that she could squash Gracie in a flash. Still, I couldn’t take a chance on that changing.
The week before we were to leave for our trip, the snow fell relentlessly, piling up to nearly four feet. Nick had to use the snowblower to create pathways for the dogs. Lily loved the snow—barreling through it like a dolphin to chase tennis balls and then disappearing under the snow in search of them.
I watched the snow and fretted that we would not be able to take our long-awaited trip. I needed sunshine. I needed blue water. I needed rum drinks.
And still the snow did not relent. It was historical. Everyone seemed so pleased with it. School was canceled. Work was canceled. Lugging water to the barn through the drifts, I truly didn’t see what everyone thought was so great about so much snow. It was like that crazy relative who came for a visit and was so darn much fun, but the next day you were hungover and tired and really in no mood to deal with his needs. Go away, you thought. But he didn’t go away.
Thankfully, the roads were cleared and the weather warmed just in time for us to make our break for the islands. Lily knew something was up. She’d seen the bag packing, my ramped-up stress-level, and the cleaning (perhaps the most obvious giveaway of all). She was underfoot. That last morning as I picked up her toys so I could run the vacuum, she followed me around, retrieving each toy I put in the basket, only to drop it wherever she was to get the next toy I put away. Ian watched from the breakfast table and said, “Is having Lily around what it’s like to have a toddler in the house?”
When I finally put the basket out of reach and got the vacuum, she offered her assistance with that task too, and I learned that I could play fetch and vacuum at the same time. Later, I dropped Lily at Chris’s house and made up the guest room.*
The week went just as planned. The kids and grandparents had some nice solid time together with no dogs, except Gracie, underfoot. The snow did not fall, so I didn’t have to worry about my parents and ice and snowblowers and our hilly property. The weather was beautiful on Grand Cayman, the snorkeling amazing, the rum drinks flowing. The only time I thought of dogs was when we visited Stingray City on a sandbar where the bay meets the ocean. The gorgeous blue water is only a few feet deep. It looks just like a picture postcard.
When our boat anchored there, the captain explained how to interact with the stingrays circling our craft. I thought of The Crocodile Hunter and wondered if it might be a little crazy, jumping out of a boat into a herd of stingrays. The captain told us to shuffle our feet so we wouldn’t step on a stingray. If we shuffled, he said, we would have zero chance of being killed by their poisonous barbs. Uh, huh.
The gentle, giant creatures circled our legs in search of treats. It reminded me of Chuggy following me around the kitchen hoping for a treat, and the many times I’d nearly squished him. I’d shuffled then too. Other than trying (unsuccessfully) to make friends with an island dog, that was my only dog-thought all week.
Mostly, the week was a total break from my life—just what I needed.
When we returned, Lily came back too. Ian said she was a snow-caller because her reappearance coincided with another big snow. The cats were none too happy to see the return of Lily. Because of the snow, they were sheltering in the warm kitchen. They didn’t hesitate to reassert their dominion, smacking Lily from where they perched on the counter stools every time she wandered by. I loved having Lily around. She was great company, despite the fact that on her first day back she ate my new lipstick.
Everyone settled back in and I checked email and saw one from Foxglove’s (now Teddy) adopters. They’d had a DNA analysis done on their pup and sent me the results. It turned out that Lily was no black Lab after all. The family tree indicated that Lily was a boxer-rottweiler mix.
I have to confess that had I known Lily was a rottweiler mix, I would have never agreed to foster her. Is that horrible? Yes, you’re right; it is. I liked to think of myself as a nonjudgmental person, but when it comes to dog breeds, most of us have plenty of judgment to pass around. My aversion to rottweilers came from an incident that happened over ten years ago when my young nephew, Parker, was attacked by two rottweilers. He was walking down a sidewalk on the air force base where my brother lived when he was attacked and narrowly escaped with his life thanks to quick-thinking soldiers who fought off the dogs with a shovel and a car. Parker required hundreds of stitches and a hospital stay. I’d been afraid of the breed ever since.
Lily taught me that it wasn’t the breed. It was the owners. I should be afraid of people who do not care for their dogs properly, raising them with an unkind hand. I should be afraid of irresponsible people who don’t secure their aggressive dogs. I should not be afraid of rottweilers.
Lily was gentle and sweet and one of the most obedient foster dogs we’d ever had. I trusted her completely. I could still picture her the day I met her giving birth in Chris’s basement after a long journey northward. I remember being stunned at how brave and loving she was. I drove home thinking, How could anyone give up a dog like that?
Now, when I looked into her wide face, I could picture her rottweiler daddy. He gave her those strong limbs and broad shoulders. He gave her those powerful jaws. But he also gave her a sweet temperament, a sharp mind, and happy manner. Shame on me for judging him sight unseen based simply on his breed.
Another life lesson for this foster mama. We had no right to judge the heart of another based on their heritage—dog or person. Maybe that was one of the best things about adopting a mutt. You couldn’t hold their pedigree against them. You could only love the dog before you right here, right now.
Speaking of mutts, Itz Luv joined our dog party after arriving on the Valentine’s Day transport from South Carolina. Luvie was listed as a beagle/shepherd, but you could probably make a case for nearly any dog breed being part of her family tree. She was medium-sized; her fur was not short, not long. She was mostly brown with black edges. Her nose was long, but not too long; her ears were pointy, but flopped over. Her tail curled around in a “C,” and was usually wagging. I searched in vain for the little plastic dog that came with Addie’s dollhouse years ago. I swear it was a spitting image of Luvie. She simply looked like a classic dog.
She was a happy, easygoing girl who took everything in stride. She sat nicely for her bath, was appropriately grovelly in her introductions to Gracie, and then eagerly took on Lily with some full-contact, hard-core play. Both dogs grinned ear-to-ear as they slammed around the kitchen, wrestled over toys, and had never-ending tug-of-war matches.
That sigh you heard? That was me relaxing because now I’d get some uninterrupted work done.
It was refreshing to have such a simple dog. No issues, no barking, no whining, no pining, not even very much peeing-in-the-house. She was happy in her
crate; she was happy out of it. She slept through the night, walked nicely on the leash, and ate her meals with no hesitation. If they were all this easy, everyone would foster. I picked up my phone and called my friend Allison who had been searching for a dog for months. She’d come to meet plenty of my fosters whom I claimed would be “perfect for your family,” but this time, I told her, I meant it. This is a good dog.
Luvie’s only issue was cats. She was a bit obsessed. She raced from window to window, tracking their activities outside. So far, she’d done nothing other than be certain we knew where the cats were at any given moment. She didn’t get close enough, or they didn’t allow her close enough, to discover her true feelings about cats.
Allison was approved to adopt Luvie, but it would be a trial adoption. All adoptions to houses that had cats were by default trial adoptions. I was pretty sure this adoption would stick. If she had to choose a side, I was certain Allison would go with Luvie. Who wouldn’t? Besides, cats and dogs work these things out. They’ve been doing it for centuries. Her trial period would come and go and she was indeed a good dog and is still in her happy home as I write this.†
That week Lily went to be spayed. This was the last step before she could go home with her very excited adopters—a wonderful family that included an ultramarathon-running dad. Finally, Lily would have someone who could keep up with her!
When Lily came home from the vet’s office, we pulled the Frank bed in front of the woodstove and she remained there the whole night. It was eerily odd to see Lily so still. I sat with her reading my book and stroking her soft ears. I loved the heart of this dog. Here was another dog I could have adopted. She loved us and we loved her. So, why was I, once again, letting a good dog go? She had perfect adopters, I reasoned. There were so many more dogs to come, I told myself. And yet, the tears came.
Another Good Dog Page 16