Another Good Dog

by Cara Sue Achterberg

  There were signs that Edith was feeling better. On the fourth day, she began leaving the box for reasons other than necessities. “What do you need doll?” I asked, offering food, water, and opening the door. She sighed and lay down near me. She just wanted my company.

  Edith thumped her tail when any of us came near the box, whacking whichever puppies were in the vicinity in the process. She loved her “satan balls” so much that whenever I opened the fridge, she lifted her head and gave me her full attention, hoping I was going to pull out the magic container that held them.

  Edith was doing better, the puppies were thriving, and it all seemed too good to be true. Because it was. I received news that Edith Wharton was heartworm positive. Unprotected dogs (those not on a heartworm preventative) can be infected with heartworms via a mosquito bite. These worms can grow to be a foot long and lodge themselves in the heart and lungs. Without the difficult, painful, and costly treatment, the situation progresses and the dog will die. Edith’s heartworm numbers were high. She was exhibiting clinical signs. That soft little cough I thought was a cold was caused by the exertion on her compromised lungs. I watched her pant heavily whenever she was hot or with any exertion (nursing, walking around the yard) and my heart sank. Her body was incredibly thin for reasons other than growing twelve puppies, she was also hosting heaven knew how many dangerous worms.

  I emailed the heartworm coordinator for OPH and asked about treatment. I was told that once the pups had weaned, Edith would have to wait a month to be spayed.† And then after that she would have her heartworm treatment‡—a brutal, painful experience that I wasn’t looking forward to, and at the same time I was because when it was over it would mean that we had truly saved her. Because if OPH hadn’t stepped in and rescued Edith, nursing all those pups with little nutrition, the shelter’s euthanasia list, or the heartworms, would have certainly killed her. Edith, I realized, was my biggest rescue.

  I rubbed her sweet head and told her, “By Christmas you’ll have a whole new world and this will just be a bad memory. No more puppies, no more heartworms, no more nobody caring about you. I promise.”

  My only niece (I have seven nephews!) and her adorable husband came for a visit from California when the pups were just two weeks old. Mary was a diligent nursery supervisor, always making sure that the two runts—Eudora Welty and George Eliot,§ got their share. We managed to leave the puppies long enough for a trail ride through the early-autumn countryside and a visit to York’s Central Market, one of the oldest and longest-running markets in the country. Mary and Daniel weren’t the only visitors we had that fall. Our home became a destination for lots of people in need of puppy therapy, and the puppies worked their magic on everyone—especially me.

  *Which Addie and I kept calling SATAN BALLS for some unknown reason.

  †Dogs can’t undergo anesthesia for at least six months after their heartworm treatment, so Edith would be spayed before her treatment to prevent another unwanted pregnancy.

  ‡If left untreated, heartworms will eventually kill a dog, but the treatment can also sometimes kill a dog. Post-treatment, the dog must be kept as still and quiet as possible to make it less likely that as the worms break up they don’t create a life-threatening clot.

  §George Eliot is a famous woman writer (look her up) but naming her George led to several mixups as adopters and adoption coordinators assumed she was the boy pup (that was Hemingway).

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Happy Endings

  Lucy was doing well at Juanita’s, but still had no adoption applications. We traded regular messages about her quirks and habits and sweetness. Juanita works nights as a nurse, so getting Lucy to one of the many adoption events held on the weekends proved difficult.

  I spent one Saturday at the New Freedom Fest, a festival celebrating our little town that draws thousands of people. OPH’s booth always does well and I’d committed to being there, so I dragged myself away from the puppies to help out. I brought along some of my books to sell and sign to benefit the rescue. Lots of people stopped by the booth looking at our adoptable dogs, not that many were interested in the famous author. Again and again I thought, “If only Lucy were here. She might find her family.”

  When I handed Lucy off to Juanita, I’d felt like I had failed her. It had been a long six weeks from the crazy pickup in Hagerstown to the faux-pregnancy and that awful flea allergy, plus the spay and the endless cone of shame–wearing. Add to that the challenge of teaching her how to live indoors without alienating all the people who lived there. Lucy wore me out physically and emotionally. When you put a lot of time and effort into a dog, as we had with Lucy, the payoff was seeing her find her forever home. I was bummed I wouldn’t get that ending. But I was distracted by Edith and her dozen.

  Driving back from the fest, I decided Lucy couldn’t sit home again and miss the adoption event scheduled for the next day. I would go to Juanita’s and pick up Lucy and take her to the event in a nearby town. It was high time she found her family. I owed it to her to help.

  I’ve mentioned the adoption juju before, right? How sometimes dogs hang around and hang around and you just don’t understand why they haven’t been adopted, and later it all becomes clear? During the six weeks we’d had Lucy, she’d never had even one application. It didn’t make sense to me—there was so much good about Lucy. Sure, she was a hound. In fact, she was ALL hound, but surely someone out there wanted a houndish hound. There had to be someone who wasn’t put off by the food obsession and the busy chewing, who enjoyed the songs that hounds sing.

  On Sunday morning, Lucy and I joined the OPH crew under the canopy outside the PetSmart. Shortly after we got there, a young couple and their little boy approached the tent and asked, “Is that Lucy?” as if Lucy were some kind of rock star. Having taken Lucy to four adoption events, I could honestly say that no one had ever referred to Lucy in that tone. Most people were there to see the Labs or the tiny dogs, and plenty of dads would stop and say, “Oh, look at the hound dog,” but no one had ever been that delighted to see Lucy.

  When I told them that yes, this was Lucy, they were overjoyed, even teary, and cried, “I can’t believe she’s here!”

  Sarah and Tim had found Lucy on OPH’s site, and just the day before had decided that she was the dog they wanted. They’d emailed OPH, but it being a Saturday, hadn’t heard anything yet. They were so excited about the idea of finally finding their dog that they’d come to PetSmart to pick up a few items. I’m not sure they even knew that OPH would be there. Their little boy looked at Lucy and said, “She’s gonna be my sister!” He bounced around like only a five-year-old who’s getting his first dog can.

  I warned them about her hound-dog habits—the food, the nose, the howl. They smiled and nodded. They knew about hounds. They’d had hounds before. Lucy leaned into her new dad and wagged all over. She seemed as sure as they were.

  We learned that they had already applied and been approved, and had just been waiting to find the right dog. And here she was! They hadn’t expected to see her and couldn’t take her home right then because they still needed to get supplies and send a picture of their non-bully breed dog to their landlord.*

  I gave them the leash and they took Lucy inside to pick out toys and be fitted for a harness. I watched Lucy with this family with whom she already seemed to belong. I got my happy ending, but more importantly, Lucy got hers.

  Over the next month, the puppies grew, morphing from wiggling lumps to barking, whining, adorable little butterballs. I fed and fed Edith, but she barely gained an ounce. The puppies on the other hand were now all nearly five pounds. It was time to start feeding them puppy food and less Edith food.

  I soaked puppy kibble in milk-replacer and then fired up my Cuisinart to turn it all to a pale gray mush. Then I filled three small plates and set them out in the puppy box. Edith and I watched from the side. In moments, the pups realized that this new item in the box was not for walking on, but for eating!†

  It w
as getting pretty cramped in the box for twelve puppies, so I prepared our puppy room, which had been sitting idle since Oberyn left. Standing in the doorway, studying the space, I still couldn’t figure out how we would keep twelve puppies in there for four more weeks. The Hamilton puppies had been a tight squeeze and this crew was even bigger. Laying an extra sheet of vinyl flooring on one end extended the space a few feet. If I could talk Nick into taking the door off its hinges and replacing it with a baby gate, that would buy us a little more room. Bottom line—the space was too small. But it was my only option, so we would make it work. I figured if I could get them outside as much as possible to wear them out, this space could be for sleeping. Best-laid plans. I’ve got tons of them.

  The puppies moved into their new space and I began limiting Edith’s time with them. I wanted the puppies weaned so we could start the work of saving her life. At five weeks, they were old enough to stop nursing. Each day I took away another feeding session with Edith until we were down to only once a day and then I shortened that session until we stopped altogether. I emailed the heartworm coordinator and medical director for OPH. Now what?

  Cheryl, the heartworm coordinator, laid out a schedule for Edith. In three weeks she would start her pretreatment meds. In four weeks she would be spayed. In six weeks she would go to the vet for her heartworm treatment. Six more weeks of worms growing. I looked at her sleek coat and her growing waistline as signs that she would win this battle, but it didn’t erase the little ball of terror niggling at the back of my mind—what if?

  Nancy, Edith’s adopter, was coming by regularly to visit with Edith and take pictures of the pups. I’d known Nancy peripherally in our small town. We were friends on Facebook, but I didn’t know her well. Her youngest son had been in school with Brady. Nancy was a photographer and had regularly shot the shows Addie performed in, kindly sharing pictures with me after the events. It didn’t take long for us to bond over our mutual affection for Edith and the pups. Very soon she felt like an old friend.

  Nancy was in love with Edith and already imagining their future together. I started a fundraising page online and dozens of people donated to help pay for Edith’s heartworm treatment and were following her story. And me, well, I adored this girl. If she didn’t survive treatment, which was an unlikely but real possibility given the advanced stage of the worms and her high energy level that we were only getting a glimpse of now, well . . . well, a lot of hearts would be broken. Not the least of which was Edith’s. She deserved a happy future.

  Puppy adopters, blog readers, friends who stopped by all asked me where Edith came from. I didn’t have a real answer. Obviously, someone had loved this dog at some point in her life. She couldn’t have such a generous and friendly demeanor if she hadn’t experienced love already. I wanted to think that her previous owner was just ignorant. She didn’t know to give heartworm meds. She didn’t realize how important it was to spay your dog. She never considered microchipping her. And Edith got lost. That’s the best-case scenario, but it was still a scenario that sucked. The bottom line was someone, somewhere in South Carolina didn’t love this dog enough to do the right thing again and again and again.

  Edith’s story is all too common, but she was a lucky dog. Nine out of ten dogs in her situation never left the shelter. Pregnant and heartworm-positive—very few rescues will take that on. Once again, I was proud to be part of OPH.

  By the time the puppies were six weeks old, they each had an adopter. The adopter visits were constant and I could barely keep track of who was adopting who. The countdown began and I prepared the adopters for what was coming. Get a crate. Find a trainer. Clear your schedule. These puppies were big and smart and could easily takeover a life. Beware.

  “We’re running low on puppies,” said Ian after he’d poked his head in the puppy room one Sunday and noticed there were only three puppies left to be picked up by their adopters. The quiet in our house was remarkable. The silence rang like it did when the baby finally stopped crying and fell asleep all those long nights a decade or two ago when we were young parents.

  Isn’t it hard to give them away?

  If you foster dogs, this is a question tossed at you on a regular basis. Yes, it is hard to give them away. Every time. Sometimes it’s harder than others.

  I wouldn’t miss cleaning up after twelve puppies, but I would miss each of these precious pups who I’d come to know and love. I would miss George’s impish ways and Zora’s constant need for hugs. I would miss Louisa May’s soft, soft coat, and the quiet way Eudora leaned in to me, wanting my attention but not demanding it like the others. I would miss all these pups. Just like I missed all the dogs and puppies that came before them.

  In the beginning, fostering for us was about having fun with a new dog, trying each one out as if it could be our own. Each adoption was a decision for me—should we keep this one? And each time when the decision was made to let a dog leave, I felt sad, guilty even. Somewhere along the line, though, I’d stopped thinking of the dogs as mine. It didn’t hurt less, but it was easier. I didn’t imagine any of them staying. I had an important job here. It was to prepare the dogs for their new home. If I did my job right and OPH’s adoption coordinator team did their job right, there was a very good chance that the next home these dogs moved to would be their last. So when each dog left it wasn’t because I’d decided not to keep it, it was because I’d helped it find its home, and now we could save another good dog.

  Three weeks after the last puppy left, Edith went to the vet for her heartworm treatment. Driving home after leaving her for her overnight stay, I sent up silent prayers. It was cold and miserable and being the jinx-paranoid, sign-seeking person that I am, I worried this was a bad omen. Heartworm treatment is brutal but necessary. Without it the worms would basically consume Edith’s heart and lungs. I tried not to picture the physical reality of the worms being killed by the treatment and how they would get out of Edith’s body. The danger of a clot would hang over Edith for months. She wouldn’t be truly heartworm free for six months, maybe more. It would be up to me and eventually, Nancy, to keep her quiet and unstressed to reduce the possibility of a life-threatening clot.

  The next day, when the receptionist from the vet’s office called to tell me Edith was doing well, and I could pick her up, she teased, “And if you don’t pick her up, I would be happy to take her home.” Seems Edith had stolen more than a few hearts in her short time at their office.

  Over the next two weeks, I kept Edith as quiet as possible. True to form, she was an excellent patient, but near the end of her enforced quiet time she began to grow restless, and her eyes took on a new shine. She stopped backing down from Gracie, claiming the Frank bed for herself and stealing Gracie’s food when she wasn’t looking. She shocked us with her accomplished counter-surfing abilities and nearly ate a piece of the thousand-piece puzzle I’d almost completed. I fished the pieces out of her mouth and scolded her for the first time in her three-month stay with us.

  Two weeks later, Nancy took Edith home to start her life. She wouldn’t get the all-clear on heartworms for six months, but it was time for her to start her much-deserved happily ever after. And it was time for our next fosters to arrive—three puppies named Dusty, Russell, and Hershey.

  “More puppies?” everyone asked. “Don’t you need a break?”

  No, I didn’t need a break. I needed another good dog.

  *Their landlord had his own BSL (breed specific legislation) prohibiting his tenants from owning bully breeds like pit bulls and rottweilers.

  †Well, sometimes it was for walking on and eating.

  Epilogue

  And what about my dog? The one I was going to find by fostering all these dogs. Time and again, I tried to envision what my life would be like if I kept Carla or Frank or Lily or Lafayette. I did want a dog that was truly my dog. But what stopped me from keeping any of them was Gracie. If I’ve learned anything in this adventure it’s that I don’t really know what any dog is thinking, a
nd yet I’m convinced that keeping any of our foster dogs would have broken Gracie’s heart.

  Gracie may not be perfect, but she’s the dog I chose seven years ago when I met her as a puppy in the apartment of a foster who had stepped up to rescue her litter. You never know what you’re getting when you adopt any dog, not really. But you make a commitment when you decide to adopt. I made a commitment to Gracie, and maybe if I stopped wanting her to be something she wasn’t I’d be happy with the dog she was—my dog. Fostering couldn’t have been easy on her, and yet she’d accepted foster dog after foster dog, sometimes grumbling, but never getting angry. Perhaps having always been second banana to Lucy made it easier for her to share us with so many other dogs. Maybe we’d unknowingly trained her for this important job of fostering foster dogs. I watched her roll on the brown carpet, leaving a fresh coat of white hair. Maybe, just maybe, Gracie was perfect—for us.

  Another foster, Juanita, and I were talking about me writing this book, and I said, “But I don’t know what the ending is. I started fostering because I was looking for a dog to replace Lucy, but I haven’t found her, and I don’t think I will.”

  “Did you ever think that maybe you’re getting what you’re looking for with the foster dogs?” Juanita asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The dogs give us love and challenges and fun and companionship and a sense of purpose. Maybe those are the things you were looking for in a dog, and maybe you’re getting them now. Maybe your dog is all these foster dogs.”

  I thought about Juanita’s words long after she left. And I think she’s right. I think that my dog is all these foster dogs. All those years ago, we rescued Lucy. And she gave us love and loyalty. She was our faithful companion and protector as we raised our babies. She was my best friend when I was lonely in a new town and my personal trainer, helping me discover my passion for running. But now what do I want from a dog?