Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I)

by Teresa J. Rhyne

  We have no dog in our home.

  It’s too soon.

  I could barely get up and get myself dressed to face a day without Seamus, and I was wallowing in the horrors of what I was reading, so how was I going to take care of a sick, needy foster dog? I went back to the Facebook page showing the beagle in the prison kennel, her big soulful eyes looking right into the camera. Despite having been at this miserable municipal shelter and who knows what condition before that, she looked like she was smiling. As if she was saying, “Hey there. Come get me. Let’s be friends.”

  We had no dog in our home.

  I emailed Chris at work.

  Would it be insane to foster a beagle for a few days? There’s a beagle that needs a foster home, but she has kennel cough. She needs to go to a home with no other dogs. Sadly, that’s us.

  I was crying as I typed. Maybe that meant I wasn’t ready. But Chris responded quickly.

  It might be a good idea. It might help you. I’m okay with it if you think you are.

  I’d always thought I would foster beagles, any dog, really, when I could. I’d been involved enough to know that the foster system saves lives. When an animal needs out of a shelter and a rescue group doesn’t have room, or, in this dog’s case, there was a medical reason the dog couldn’t go to the rescue organization, a foster is crucial. I knew I wanted to foster. I just wasn’t sure about the timing.

  I don’t know if I’m ready or not. I want to help her. And we can help. It’s only for a few days, maybe a week I think.

  I sent Chris her photo.

  She’s adorable. I think it would be good for you. I’m in if you’re in.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. Chris was spectacular with Seamus, and he grew to love and care for him every bit as much as I did. And normally, other than when it came to animals, Chris was a more emotional person than I was. I took his consent as a sign I hadn’t lost my mind. This was a rational thing to do.

  Okay, I’m going to tell them we can take her for a few days. There may be a beagle here when you get home tonight.

  Anne and Janet worked together to put a plan in place. Kindly, they asked several times if it wasn’t too soon for me. When I assured them I thought it would be good for me and the dog both, they found a sponsoring rescue group. Anne would spring the dog from the shelter the next day, paying the ninety-dollar adoption fee herself. She would drive the dog fifty miles east to Janet, who would bring the dog, a humidifier, antibiotics, and a collar and leash to me. I’d foster the cute girl for a few days or a week, however long it took for the cough to clear up so she was adoptable. The plan came together before I fully realized what I’d done. Whatever I had done, it felt right.

  There is no dog in our home.

  But there soon will be.

  On Sunday, Chris and I waited, anxious for our new arrival. I alternated between excitement at helping to rescue a beautiful beagle, fear that it was too soon—that I’d made a hasty and bad decision—and guilt. Guilt that I was cheating on Seamus with…

  “She doesn’t have a name,” I said, the realization dawning on me.

  “Veronica or Betty?” Chris said. He was an Archie comics fan and had once named a car Veronica.

  “Betty,” I said at the same time he said, “Veronica.”

  “Daphne it is,” he said.

  In my fog, I wasn’t entirely clear where that name came from, but I liked it. Daphne sounded sweet, and it matched that adorable face of hers, which I could still see in my mind.

  Daphne herself arrived soon thereafter. I was surprised to see she was big, over forty pounds. I was not surprised to see she was dirty and exhausted. She immediately came to me, smiling, wagging her tail, but quiet. I petted her rough, dirty coat and she licked my face, just once, gently. Again, I noticed those eyes—so big and brown and trusting. We let her off the leash and she ambled over to Chris with her tail wagging and tongue hanging to the side.

  Chris bent to pet her. “Love that tongue. What a cutie.” And on cue, she licked Chris’s face too. Twice.

  Janet brought in the humidifier, and Daphne simply lay on the rug while Janet explained the medications and humidifier to clear up the kennel cough. As we talked, the realization that I would be responsible for this dog began to sink in. I needed to care for this dog. This dog was not Seamus. I hadn’t picked up or put away any of Seamus’s toys. His beds were still where they’d always been—one downstairs by the couch, one in the laundry room, and one upstairs in our bedroom. His smell, at least from a dog’s point of view, had to be everywhere. Did Daphne know this? Did it bother her? I looked more closely at her, already asleep on our floor. Her coloring was the usual brown, black, and white tricolor of beagles, with the black saddle. But she had adorable brown confetti spots on the whites of her paws and legs. And her paws were big. She was big. Much bigger than she should be, which I thought was unusual for a dog who’d been a stray and in a shelter for two weeks. Just then she rose and walked over to Chris on the couch. Chris patted the blanket on the couch next to him, and she nimbly jumped up and snuggled in next to him, resting her head on his leg. Whatever she smelled, it wasn’t bothering her. Anything was better than where she’d just been.

  “This dog is adorable,” Chris said.

  “She is pretty cute. Anne and I spent time loving on her when she brought her to me. She’s very friendly. Just a happy little dog,” Janet said.

  She’s a good dog, and she’s cute. But she’s a foster dog. We’ll help her, and maybe she’ll help me. But it’s too soon. I can’t imagine being attached to another dog.

  “Can you see the lump on her chest?” Janet said.

  A lump. They’d told me she had a growth—something that had to be removed. That, to me, somehow was different from a lump. My heart froze.

  “A lump?” I said.

  “I don’t know if it’s anything, but when we take her in to have her spayed, we should have that removed too.”

  Chris petted Daphne on her back and side and soon enough she rolled onto her back for belly rubs. The lump was clear and obvious—about three-fourths of an inch in diameter and protruding from her chest nearly an inch. I did not like the look of that lump. Lumps, on dogs or on humans, in my experience were never good. I’d had enough lumps.

  Chapter 12

  A Place in the Sun

  This lump was not my problem, I told myself. And then I told myself that again. And again. My job was to nurse this beagle through her kennel cough so the rescue group could take her, have her spayed, deal with that lump, and find a good, loving home for her. We could do that much. I wouldn’t think about the lump. I couldn’t.

  I slept downstairs on the couch with Daphne in Seamus’s bed next to me and near the humidifier. Since we didn’t know if she was housebroken or could use a doggie door, I needed to be able to let her outside quickly. The way I’d been sleeping, a night on the couch was hardly going to matter.

  Around two in the morning, Daphne got up, walked out the doggie door, and went to the dirt area outside where Seamus had always gone to do his business. She returned, easily slipping back through the doggie door, and hopped right on up next to me on the couch. Well, really more on me than next to me. I slid over, turned on my side, and made room as she curled up, pressed against my stomach. She was fast asleep before I even had time to consider whether allowing her on the couch was a good idea. I rubbed her belly and kissed the top of her smelly head.

  I awoke to her face in mine and an immediate lick to my cheek. I stroked her head and she moved closer, pressing her body against mine. She still had not made any noise—strange after having a beagle as vocal as Seamus had been. But, true to the beagle breed, she was adept at expressing herself. She was thankful for us; that was apparent. She was also dirty; that too was unmistakable. She, my clothes, and the blankets would all need a good washing as soon as we got her over that cough and
the risk of pneumonia.

  I rose from the couch and went to the kitchen to make my coffee. Daphne followed me, swaying her tail so joyously her whole rear end moved with it. Once I got my coffee ready, I went to the refrigerator to get one of the PetStaurant containers out for Daphne: Angus beef with wheatgrass, broccoli, carrots, kelp, and pear, infused with flaxseed, acai berry, and burdock. It’s a safe bet she had not been eating that well where she’d been. I realized then, though, that I didn’t have a bowl for her. I couldn’t use Seamus’s bowl. It was Seamus’s bowl. It was still there on the floor where Seamus ate. I put the container on the counter, much to Daphne’s dismay, and went to the laundry room to search the cupboard for an extra dog bowl. Daphne followed me, swinging her butt back and forth, her tail a metronome keeping the beat.

  I found a ceramic bowl with fake dog-themed wine labels around the side and “Bone Dry” on the inside bottom, no doubt a gift from someone who knew my love of dogs and wine. I brought the bowl back to the kitchen and dumped the entire Angus beef dinner into it for her. She was chubby, yes, but I suspected she could do with a hearty, nutritious, quality meal. She had not eaten the kibble dinner we’d offered the night before, and we chalked it up to nerves, the kennel cough, and all the traveling she’d done that day. She’d turned down treats as well, unheard of beagle behavior in my experience.

  “Here you go, baby girl.” I set the bowl down. “I think you’ll like this.”

  She answered me by devouring the meal and then, in true beagle fashion, looking up to ask for more. The beagle eyes are always asking for more—more food, more love, more walking, more fun. Her thick tail thumped back and forth, and again, her back half followed. She practically twisted into a complete “O,” her rear end swinging around near her nose. And then back to the other side.

  Chris came downstairs then, and Daphne hurried to him. I saw from my rear vantage point that her excited walk had the same sway to it. Girl could shake it.

  “Daphne, you’re a little doodlebutt,” I said.

  Chris laughed. “What did you call her?”

  “She’s Daphne Doodlebutt. Look at that butt go.”

  Daphne raced back over to me in the kitchen while Chris watched the “doodles” and laughed. “It fits.”

  “It does.”

  I should have known then that once a dog has not only a name, but also a nickname, she’s staying. But I didn’t know that then; my grief still shrouded my thoughts. Daphne Doodlebutt was adorable, but she was a foster dog. I could not cheat on Seamus.

  I went upstairs to take a shower. When I came back downstairs, I couldn’t find Daphne. I looked in the living room, in Seamus’s bed in the family room, in the other bed in the laundry room. She wasn’t there. I shouted upstairs to Chris.

  “Is she upstairs with you?”

  “No. She hasn’t come upstairs.”

  I raced out to our front courtyard. It’s not that big; surely I’d see a forty-pound beagle. But I didn’t. She wasn’t at the gate, on the chaise, or on the patio. There was no beagle to be found. Just as the panic began to swell, just as I thought I’d lost my foster beagle in under twelve hours, I heard a noise. Swish. Thump. Swish. Thump.

  I turned in the direction of the sound and saw a beagle tail swing out from the climbing jasmine that covered the air-conditioning unit enclosure. Then a beagle head peeked up. She was lying in the jasmine, half buried. She’d burrowed into the vines, no doubt how she found safety and slept as a stray. It did look comfortable.

  “Baby girl, you don’t have to do this anymore. Come on inside.”

  Her tail swished and thumped, but other than that, she didn’t move. I looked around. Well, it was a soft bed she’d found, the sun was shining, and she had access to the house if she wanted it. No reason not to just let her be. I rubbed her head and she licked my hand.

  “Okay, sweetie. You do what makes you comfortable.”

  For the next two days we fed and cuddled Daphne and diligently administered antibiotics. I brushed her coat and rubbed her down with pet wipes so she both smelled and looked better. She went to work with Chris during the day and slept on the couch with me at night, the humming humidifier nearby. Occasionally, we still found her burrowed into the jasmine, but at least now we knew where to look for her. She slept soundly, snoring contentedly, day and night. She would wake up once or twice during the night and either drink some water or head out the doggie door to do her business outside. Then she’d come back to the couch, lick my face, jump up, and snuggle in next to me. I’d rub her belly and she’d again lick my face. But quickly, she (if not I) was back asleep, snoring loudly.

  Hourly, it seemed, she was improving, looking healthier, gaining energy and certainly appetite. But still, she never barked. There was never the patented beagle “AAARRROOOOOOOOOO,” never a whine or a growl. Just the snoring. Loud snoring. Very loud snoring. And the cough persisted, as kennel cough can do. In talking more with Janet, it seemed we’d keep her longer than a few days. The cough was going to take some time to clear up. I assured Janet that I did not mind keeping Daphne longer. I didn’t mind at all.

  I did, however, need to take her to see a vet. She could hang around, but that cough really needed to be gone. I made an appointment with Dr. Lawrence, since Dr. Davis was on vacation. I’d never met Dr. Lawrence, and it had been just over a week since we were at the same clinic with Seamus for the last time and I had left sobbing and distraught. I entered with great trepidation. Daphne, on the other hand, trotted in fully prepared to make new friends.

  The staff greeted me with knowing, concerned looks, but I could see they were all thinking, “You have another beagle already?” I mentioned, perhaps far too many times than was necessary, that I was just fostering this one. She belonged to the rescue group. My loyalty to Seamus was indisputable.

  In the exam, though the lump was not my problem, I pointed it out to Dr. Lawrence. He was down on the floor, petting Daphne and laughingly accepting her “kisses” as she slathered his face with her tongue.

  “I see that. It’s probably nothing. Maybe just a fatty lump. We should remove it when we spay her.” He rubbed her belly. “I love hounds. She’s a perfect beagle specimen. What a sweetheart. We had a beagle growing up. My parents love beagles too.”

  Yes, she was a sweetheart, and I was glad he liked her, but I was focused on the lump. Seamus had many fatty lumps during his life. I knew this was not a fatty lump. I pointed to the other abnormality I’d noticed. Daphne had a deformed toe on her back left foot. There was a lump on the side and the toenail grew up and curved back toward her, rather than down to the ground. It didn’t seem to bother her, but it wasn’t right either.

  “That may be an old injury. But if it’s not bothering her, just keep an eye on it and keep the nail trimmed down. If my parents lived closer, I’d be talking to them about adopting this girl. What a great dog.” Daphne again rewarded him with several full face licks. She certainly knew how to win people over. The doctor was much more concerned with her cuteness than her abnormalities.

  I made a note to tell the rescue group about the nail, and I pretended not to notice that I’d reacted badly to the thought of someone else adopting her, that the possibility of saying good-bye to Daphne stung me as though he were taking my own dog away from me. She was only my foster dog, but I hadn’t thought about what it would be like to let her go and have an empty house again until the doctor mentioned adoption of Daphne. I’d forgotten the other part of fostering—the letting go.

  As a courtesy to the rescue group, Dr. Lawrence did not charge me for the exam. He gave me the new antibiotics and said to check back in a week. If the cough was cleared up, we could schedule the spay and lump removal surgery.

  So she’d be with us another week. Or so. I was not disturbed by this news.

  I paid for the antibiotics at the front desk, handed Daphne a dog treat, and turned to leave.

&nbs
p; “Just a second, Teresa,” the office manager said. “Hang on.”

  I stopped and waited as she came around to the reception area. She put her hand on my arm and quietly said, “We have Seamus’s remains. Did you want to take those now?’

  I shook my head and rushed out the door. I immediately felt bad for leaving “him,” but I couldn’t bring myself to deal with his remains yet—I’d come back for them…for him. I knew I’d fall apart all over again if I took the remains then, and I wouldn’t be able to care for Daphne or myself. In the car, I let Daphne lick away my tears. It was good to have her there with me then or I may never have pulled it together enough to drive home.

  That night Chris sat on the couch between Daphne and me, rubbing Daphne’s belly with his left hand as she sighed contentedly. Soon, his right hand was rubbing my bare leg, keeping time with his left hand. I smiled, thinking he didn’t realize what he was doing.

  “You realize you’re rubbing me too, right?”

  “Yeah. I was just thinking I’ve got Chubby and Stubbly by me.”

  For the first time possibly ever, I was hoping I was stubbly. And I realized, for the first time since I’d returned from India, I was smiling.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “I’m just kidding. I was just thinking how nice this is.”

  “It is nice.”

  “She’s a great dog.”

  “She is.”

  “So you know we’re keeping her, right?”

  I turned to look at him. “No. We’re fostering her.”