Precious Cargo: The Journey Continues

At the Crossroads... and the Road Ahead

2013-12-28T19:22:00.001-08:00

Perhaps I’m not a liar. The “I’m not going to foster for a while,” was a truth—albeit a little premature, but a truth nonetheless. And, “Tucker will be in his forever home by Christmas” absolutely happened.

It just didn’t happen as I expected it would. But then again, when does life ever transpire as you plan it?

I spent the first couple of weeks with Tucker putting the adopt-me bandana on him

and telling folks on the street how great he was. I went to adoption events and made business cards. A friend took his glamour shots

and Christy posted a courtesy ad for me on her adopt-a-pet webpage. But then something started to change…

The idea that an adoption application would come in for him made my heart race. I stopped putting the bandana on him. When I introduced him to people on the street, rather than touting his brilliance and humor, I merely stated, “This is Tucker.” Period. End of sentence.

They say that true love isn’t possessive. Well it certainly doesn’t make you want to give him away.

As I scrolled through videos and pictures of him at Thanksgiving dinner, showing him to my friends, one of them said, “You have showed me pictures of all your fosters, but I have never seen you this happy. No dog has ever made you this happy.”

It was true. Tucker made me smile and laugh every day. I looked forward to his wagging tail and greeting bow/stretch when I came home from work. My heart warmed every time I sat on the floor and he chose to put his big butt on my lap while he munched on a toy in search of a squeaker.

When I spoke to my friend in San Francisco about him she observed, “Half the time you talk about him like he’s your new boyfriend, and the other half you sound like you’re talking about your kid. So clearly he’s your dog.”

But I always said that I was meant to be dogless; my home and heart were reserved for those who had neither house nor love in their life. I was to help the homeless, and it would not be fair to my own dog for me to share my love with others. And anyway, my life isn’t structured ordinarily. It is a series of goals—each movie—from pre-production to post, created anywhere in the country. It is living in new places once or twice a year, and returning to home base for short stints of relaxation and days in the sun. Any dog I had would live a life of travel, with dog sitters and dog walkers in every city, going to the office with me if possible, and also, eventually, be my partner in rescue once I returned to it. He would help those who entered the home to feel relaxed and loved. He would not be jealous of my care for others, for he too, would care for them. He would be light and love, joy and happiness.

That’s a lot to ask of in a canine. I certainly didn’t think he existed and therefore never desired it. I accepted my role.

But then Tucker came along. I wasn’t leaving that adoption event without him. I truly believed that I was the one who had to find him his forever home (although I had no idea that home was so close.) I had chosen him. But I had to wonder, had he chosen me?

Some folks asked, “Why this one?” I could give the Jessica Rabbit answer: “He makes me laugh.” Or I could go with what all my friends saw at Thanksgiving: which I that I had never been happier.

The following week was merely my mind trying to convince my heart that it was wrong. That I shouldn’t have a dog. Even though many people in my job field have dogs and make it work. It’s not easy, but they make it work.

But what about not working overseas? What about my bucket list? During that week or two of introspection and outward discussion, a friend called to tell me that he was going to South Africa for a gig for six months. I was right then and there confronted with how I would feel if I had to turn down such a job. It was a millisecond of “Oh, man. South Africa!” And then even my mind agreed with my heart: “Really? In a this-or-that decision of working in another country for six months versus a lifetime of unconditional love, you had to think about it for a second?”

When I told someone else in the industry that I was considering adopting, but I still wanted to work out of the country, he said, “Well then adopt a dog later.”

His answer shocked me. It wasn’t about adopting any dog. It was adopting this dog--this wonderful, playful, funny, joyous, imaginative canine soul that I couldn’t bear to spend a day without.

People don’t plan when they’ll meet their human soulmate. Some don’t even plan on having children and alas, one day it happens, and you find yourself at the crossroads with a companion. Just because the timing isn’t quite right, do you leave them there? Or do accept that the road ahead is still there, but now you have someone to share it with?

The panic in my heart that someone else was going to adopt Tucker got to me. I had discussed and talked it out. I had logicked away all practical concerns. I just couldn’t logic away the love.

And so on December 3rd, a little over three weeks after meeting this dog that I thought I was meant to foster, I sent an email to the rescue. I wished to make Tucker’s forever home right here with me.

Lisa at Hanging with Friends Rescue called me. “What?! Did I read that right?” She was conflicted because she knew that Tucker was in a great home, but that it meant losing a foster for a time. Indeed, I will foster again, but I need some time to prepare my new partner in rescue for that task. Right now, it’s about him and me learning about each other, trusting each other, and getting him used to my crazy life.

I had taken him on “dates” as if testing him for the life to come. We went on a hike. He came to the office.

He met my friends.

He ran in the yard. We went for car rides.

He passed every test; his joyful spirit embraced each new challenge and stood ready for every new experience. It was clear that I had found my travelling companion on this road of life.

I had ordered a tag with his name on it even before I had sent the email asking to adopt him. I received it in the mail the day after the adoption was official. No dog in my adult life had worn a tag with his or her name on it. The dogs who had shared my truck and my home throughout the years had worn tags that stated, “If I’m alone, I’m lost. Call my foster mom.” As I took that tag off his collar and replaced it with the one bearing his name, my eyes welled up with tears.

“You’re home. Forever.”

I kept thinking of Lady & the Tramp, when Tramp finally decided that having a collar and a license wasn’t so bad after all. Tucker didn’t know the difference on his tag or the paperwork I signed and scanned to the rescue. Nothing changed between us. But one thing clearly changed in me: I was at peace. No more did I feel my heart race that someone else would adopt him. Everything was as it should be.

Becoming a pet parent wasn’t a single moment. It was simply accepting what was from the moment I met Tucker. Tucker is my partner. He is the dog who will see me through my forties; he will travel the country with me; he will help homeless dogs by welcoming them into our home while they search for their forever family; he might even see me get married one day. Tucker is my soul-dog.

When people ask me if I will still do rescue, I reply in the affirmative. But maybe it won’t be in the capacity. I have a companion now. He’s in this game with me. I won’t foster for a time, but I will again in the future. I will immediately be more vocal about Breed Specific Legislation as now it affects my family directly. And it reinvigorates my push to find the right company/people to team up with for my television show. Travelling with Tucker, renovating shelters across America, and making a difference in the lives of animals and people: now that’s the life for us.

Tucker’s tale with me doesn’t end at the crossroads. Instead of bending down and giving him a kiss on the forehead and watching his tail wag as he saunters toward his own path, I give him a kiss on the forward, tell him I love him, stand up, and he wags his tail as he joins me at my side. He looks up at me with his big goofy grin. I smile back, and then side-by-side we continue travelling down the road ahead—together.

Love Isn't Always On Time

2013-11-18T21:39:00.001-08:00

In the beginning of any relationship, people’s little quirks are adorable. Their snoring is cute. The way they chew with their mouth open is endearing. The way it takes them forty-five minutes to get out of the house for a five minute walk to the store is totally acceptable. Love creates a tolerance unmatched by anything else.

So I can only suspect that I love this crazy kid. Within a few minutes of being in my house, he lifted his leg on the doorway into the living room. I admonished him and he appeared genuinely apologetic. He just didn’t know. And I wasn’t the least bit angry. The next morning, he walked out of the bathroom (he likes to be by my side during most of my mundane tasks like brushing my teeth) and lifted his leg without thinking. Again, he apologized and I wasn’t upset.

Day three, when he vacated the bathroom while I blow-dried my hair (the one task he’s not up for being around for), he was out of sight for a bit longer than I suspected, and my spidy-senses started tingling. A short inspection of the house revealed that he had tagged a bookcase in my office. Luckily, he chose the bookcase with glass doors, so no literature was destroyed.

For him, where to take a shit is the most monumental decision of his life each and every time. He even changes his mind mid-squat, so I had no fear of him pooping in the house. But then, also on day three, shortly after our afternoon walk while I was outside talking to a fencing contractor for fifteen minutes, he quickly chose my bedroom bookcase in which to take a dump.

After he flooded my kitchen, I invested in a placemat for his water bowl because the ratio of water that ends up in his face versus on the floor every time he drinks is about 3:7. I also have a washcloth handy in which I wipe his face so it doesn’t act as a mobile waterfall on my hardwood floors.

Just this morning while I took a shower, he chose a cardboard box in my room to chew a hole through rather than destroy one of the many toys he’s allowed to eviscerate.

His farts are deadly. Even he leaves the room after laying a good one.

None of these things anger or annoy me. His goofy smile, his joyful spirit, his need to snuggle all make up for the things he doesn’t yet know and the things that are intrinsically him.

I initially thought I’d keep the name Bruno, since that’s what he was used to at the shelter. However, after only one evening with him, I knew it had to change. With the rescue being in Hemet, I was leading this campaign to get him adopted, and a name like Bruno for a pit bull isn’t a great start. It also simply didn’t fit him. He wasn’t a brute; he wasn’t even big (well, maybe he weighed a lot, but like a brick; he’s only up to my knee); he wasn’t mean. He wasn’t any of the things you think of when you hear or read the name Bruno.

Shakespeare posed “What’s in a name? Would a rose by any other name smell so sweet?” Well sure, it would, but if it was called a “muculent sore” I’m pretty sure people wouldn’t be excited to get one for Valentine’s Day. Words describe an entity through and through, and Bruno was an inaccurate description of this gangly, goofy pocket pit bull.

My favorite summation of him is what a friend said after watching him romp around the yard: “He’s like a ballet dancer that’s got all the moves but none of the grace.”

He falls off the couch, he bangs his head into the refrigerator, he slides across the floor into the wall, he leaps up onto the deck, he leaps off the deck and tumbles onto the ground, he chases a toy, only to miss it and get it back on the rebound. He falls into my lap to chew on a toy with his ass in the air and his front legs collapsed backward. He slides off the couch headfirst and upside down until he’s completely under the coffee table. It’s like his limbs aren’t fully attached yet and the soul inside him hasn’t yet figured out how to coordinate the earthly body it’s inhabiting.

I enlisted the social media for nomenclature suggestions, and after much deliberation and trying out words, Bruno was officially renamed Tucker. Now after only a few days of calling him Tucker, I can’t imagine him being a Bruno. He’s a Tucker: with his sweet goofy smile, his loving snuggle, his playful romp.

Now I just need to find his forever person. I’ve said that I’ve only fallen in love with a couple of the dogs I have met on their journeys. Well, Tucker goes in the record books. He’s going to break my heart when he goes. So, the sooner he gets a home, the better.

A friend of mine pointed out his physical resemblance to Tia. It honestly hadn’t entered my conscious mind, but maybe that was the initial attraction. Looking back at old photos though, I don’t see many similarities. Whatever had drawn me to him also drew Jen in and his shelter champion, so I don't think it's a personal thing. There’s just something special about this kid. He’s got a big life ahead of him, and I need to find it for him.

It’s crossed my mind that maybe he is meant to be mine; maybe he is my partner in crime. He loves other dogs, he’s affectionate, he’s eager to learn and please, and clearly he’s made himself at home both in my house and in my heart.

But.

There’s always a but.

I have a bucket list. It’s like the list of things you want to do before you settle down and have kids. I’m not procreating, so it’s my list of things to do before I get my canine life partner. I’d like to see Europe before I’m fifty. I need to work out of the country at least once, if not many times. I want to travel the world—and you can’t do that with a pit bull. (Or maybe you can, and then write a book about it…)

For now, I’m following my gut. It got me where I am on this path right here, right now, and I have no regrets. The campaign has begun—the quest to find Tucker’s person. I believe he or she is out there… or right here… but no, I’m going with out there. He’s had his photo session, I’ve adorned him with the adopt-me bandana, I’m taking him to adoption events, and I’m making it known that this special, handsome, funny, smart, and loving boy is looking for his forever home.

If you think you're his match, drop me a line. I will warn you that I have high standards for Tucker’s life partner, and I won’t let him go to just anybody. I believe Tucker has a great life ahead of him and that the universe is going to lead us to his co-pilot. Just as my instinct told me to take Tucker in, I know my instinct will tell me when it’s right to let him go.

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet/9921425-glendale-california-pit-bull-terrier-mix

Go With Your Gut (It's Usually Your Heart Talking)

2013-11-17T21:43:00.000-08:00

Go with your gut. It won’t lead you wrong. It will, however, on occasion, lead you to do things you don’t have a practical or logical explanation for. Which is how my house came to be dogless for only four days.

Last Sunday, I went down to the NKLA Adoption Event to visit Christy and the rest of the TAPS team at their booth. And of course, to wander about and say hello to anyone else I knew and check out the dogs up for adoption. The Super Adoption is for all the Los Angeles city and county shelters who bring a select collection of dogs and cats on death row to get adopted. There are a few rescues there as well, but mainly this is about clearing out the public shelters.

The idea is that everyone returns to their shelters with their trucks of cages empty—whether it’s through adoption or rescues taking each and every one, hundreds of animals that otherwise would have been killed on Monday morning have a second chance.

I found Patti, transporter extraordinaire at the National Brittany Rescue and she asked if I wanted to foster a senior for her.

“Nope. No fostering for me. Not now. I gotta fix up my yard, and the holidays are coming. No fosters for a while,” I told her with all certainty.

The next morning on Facebook, Patti discovered that I was a downright liar.

The lie was unintentional; I wanted it to be true, and why I couldn’t just let someone else step up the plate, I can’t explain; all I can say is that my gut told me to, and when I thought of not doing it, my eyes welled up with tears.

Dogs were brought up on the stage one by one and introduced by their shelter workers to give them a moment in the spotlight. Up on stage, there was a brindle pit bull mix, short and stocky, with a big goofy grin on his face. He had been at Castaic (a county shelter about 100 miles north) since September. This was his last chance.

I had seen a brindle pit bull puppy earlier at a rescue and a couple was there looking at him. Once this older brindle pit named Bruno came off the stage, that same couple stopped the shelter worker and started talking to her. Clearly they knew what they wanted. Good. Maybe this kid would get a home.

There was something about him, and after the couple walked away and I wandered around a little more, I went to Castaic’s booth to meet Bruno. He had been out and about a lot, so he was in his crate taking a break:

Terri, his handler, was the shelter worker who had taken him under her wing when he first arrived. She worked with him daily, helping to train him. He came in as a stray, and hadn’t had any real interest in almost two months. Each week, she fought for his life when it came time to red-list the dogs. The shelter manager wasn’t the biggest fan of pits, and Terri was always fighting for them. She even had to fight to bring him. The manager agreed and told her that if he came back Sunday night, there were no guarantees of his life lasting past Monday morning.

There was just something about him—this joyful spirit in his eyes that I couldn’t let be snuffed out. I went back to the TAPS booth and said that “I found this dog that I really like...”

Jen, who had photographed Lulu at the Strut Your Mutt event, said, “Hey I have a favorite too!”

We both took out our phones, and there on each of our phones was Bruno. “No way! Of all the hundreds of dogs here, we chose the same one! I was going to try to find a foster for him. Do you want to foster?”

“Yeah, I’ll foster, but I need a rescue behind me,” I said.

Shelley saw Jen and me getting all excited and she let me drag her over to Castaic’s booth to meet Bruno.

“You’re going to have to ask Christy,” she said.

It was a total parenting move: if Mom doesn’t want to say No, she diverts to Dad. Damn it.

Jen had walked away, so it was just me when Christy returned to the booth.

Shelley immediately said, “Stephanie has something to ask you.”

So I meekly presented my case. I had never initiated before. I was always asked to foster. I had no idea how to say, “Will you take this dog if I foster?”

Her answer when I got to “pit bull” was, “I’ll support you any way I can, but he’s going to be your responsibility. He’s yours. You have to find another foster when you’re away; you’re going to have to do this.”

The fact was, Christy had been financially destroyed by a pit bull just around the same time I was with Missy. Pits are hard to find homes for. But she could see this one was something special to me.

The other fact is that TAPS isn't primarily a rescue; it's a legal organization that only adopts out rescues when there's collateral damage--like all the dogs in a hoarding case... or like Lulu who was at the shelter while they were tending to some hoarding case canines.

Christy told me the top three rescues she thought might be willing to take him on, and sent me to their booths. One said, “I’m not so sure,” one had already pulled four dogs and was beyond capacity (even if they have a foster, rescues can only have so many animals on the books), and the final one, well, by the end of speaking with them, I didn’t want Bruno going there anyway.

Plan B was this: I would take his ID#, and if he ended up going back on the truck, I would put a hold on him, adopt him myself, and then find him a home. That was risky. A rescue isn’t just there as a possible reimbursement of expenses; it’s my legal foundation. If a dog needs to be rehomed five years from now, I don’t get the call. If there’s any legality down the road, I have an entity to protect me. And, it also makes it easier to get donations to pay for things. As I learned with Missy, a dog without a rescue is like a person without a country.

At 3:15, the “auction” began. First, Best Friends announced that they would be taking in every LA City animal not adopted by 4 o’clock. That left the county kids (including Bruno) on the major sell list. One by one, each of the remaining dogs went up on stage for one last push. People gave incentives. For the dog that needed medical treatment, one of the incentives was medical paid for a year… then, when no takers, medical for LIFE! Still no takers. Then, a rescue would take him if a foster could be found. A kind young woman in tears said she’d foster; and so the deal was done. This dog wasn’t going back on the truck.

Christy had said that I should put in the incentive that I would foster if a rescue took him. Money might have to be put up front as well, but start with fostering.

Bruno went up, and Terri tearfully told his story. The problem is that much like being in the security line at the airport, there are certain buzzwords that you are not allowed to say at a public shelter. “Putting a dog down,” “being put to sleep,” “killing,” and “he’ll be dead,” are all these things shelter workers and volunteers are not allowed to say. I can cause I’m not an official member of anything—there’s a lovely freedom in that. But Terri couldn’t. Only her tears could portray the harsh truth.

No adopters wanted him. The announcer said that there was a foster if a rescue took him. I saw a blonde woman in the crowd raise her hand. Bam! Rescue acquired.

Hanging with Friends is a relatively new rescue on the scene. They became a 501(c )3 just last year. They’re based in Hemet (about 100 miles east of Los Angeles.) No one in my circle of rescue friends had heard of them.

I introduced myself to Lisa, the founder, and Krista, the trainer and Hollywood-based partner. I filled out a form so they had my info, and I said to Lisa, “That’s a lot of trust. You don’t even know me,” thinking geez, how do they know I’m not crazy?

“Nah. I can get a good read on people. And anyway, someone would have whispered in my ear by now if they had a bad feeling about you. No, really, they would have.”

And so, with absolutely no plan, no prior knowledge of this rescue, no preparations done back home, I walked out of the NKLA Adoption with a new charge at the end of my leash.

And so begins my end of the year adventure. Goal: Bruno will be in his forever home before the holidays (Hanukah is a bit early this year, so let’s say Christmas.) I don’t have much of a plan, and I don’t have any guarantees it’ll happen. I’m only listening to my gut and going with it. There’s not a single part of me that believes I made a bad decision; I have no regrets. The only regret I would have had, was not stepping up to the plate. For some unknown reason, I’m supposed to be part of this kid’s journey. I’m supposed to find his forever person. Well, gut instinct, I say, “Challenge Accepted.”

The Look of Love

2013-11-10T20:17:00.000-08:00

At the last adoption event, I saw a volunteer with an adoptee who looked strikingly familiar. I couldn’t quite place her. Given the number of people I encounter in my freelance life, locating and identifying people in my memory is a rather arduous process. Luckily, she knew me.

“I’m Stephanie. I adopted Tully—I mean, Harry—from you!”

This was Stephanie 2.0, who had adopted one my favorites, the adorable and fabulous Harry Winston over four years ago.

Since adopting him and re-christening him Tully, she had adopted another, and also fosters for the rescue Mutt Scouts. The one at the end of her leash was one such foster.

She told me how Tully was doing, and we talked about fostering.

“Some people treat me like I’m evil,” she said.

I get that too. “‘How can you just give them up? Don’t you fall in love with all of them?’”

People ask me those things all the time, with a tone as if I’m emotionally stunted or a commitment-phobe. I try not to judge them for their inability to truly see what I do. It was only a few years ago that I, too, said there was no way I could foster: I couldn’t love a dog and let them go.

But the thing is, it isn’t the same as surrendering a lifelong loyal companion to the shelter. It’s finding a soul in need, giving them the love and attention they need to heal, and then helping them find their destiny; it’s leaving them someplace better than where you found them—a goal I try to have with everything: the planet, people, animals, life.

And, as my friend Kyndall said to me over six years ago on my cross-country adventure; “When you get into rescue, you have to wait to adopt. You have to learn the difference between a ‘good dog’ and ‘your dog.’”

As for Harry, now Tully, I knew his life wasn’t meant to be with me. He had big things to do, and I wasn’t his co-pilot. He’s a member of a loving pack that opens their doors and their hearts to those in need for a few weeks at a time and helps them on their way. He is a social, vibrant soul that makes all who meet him smile.

I still believe that if I had had a house when I met Tia, that she would still be with me. But other than those special two, I have not fallen in love. My charges are my friends that I play matchmaker with; the friends that I tell everyone how awesome they are and help them to find their person. Most dogs understand my position, but some don’t. It’s the ones that don’t that hurt the most, because I fear they think I have abandoned them.

I may seem like a soulless bastard for being able to “give the dog away.” But that’s because those who know what I do, aren’t there for the lonely car ride home as my eyes well up with tears; they aren’t there when I open the door to the house and feel the emptiness left behind. They’re not there as I wash the linens and put away the toys and make my place ready for the next one, or accept the fact that it may be some time before the dogbed gets cuddled on again. But that is all selfish sadness. The goal has been met; the mission accomplished. A beautiful new life begins.

Christy and I blame ourselves for not trying hard to find Lulu’s beautiful new life. My employment meant that I didn’t have the time to go to coffee houses, dogparks, and have other adventures with her. I wasn’t able to give her the attention she needed just for her, as well as the attention to getting her out there and telling the world that this kid was searching for her forever person.

Lulu was easy. She wasn’t traumatized or in need of recuperation. She was ready for her new home probably long before her old guardians decided to ditch her like yesterday’s newspaper. Her first two potential adopters came onto the scene within two weeks. It seemed effortless.

But with my travel plans, Christy’s travel plans, and Lulu being forced to bounce between my place and her “vacation foster,” the search for Lulu’s new life resembled rush hour on the 405: imperceptibly rolling along or a complete standstill. Christy and I had taken her to adoption events, but people passed her by.

When I returned from my two-week roadtrip, I became impassioned in finding this fabulous girl a home. She had been homeless for far too long. The first day I brought her back, I took this picture:

I felt it really captured the soul that is Lulu. I also wrote up an ad for her, since the copy on her adopt-a-pet page was just the story of Shelley finding her. I didn’t want Lulu being promoted as a sad case; I wanted her to be promoted as the fantastic dog she was.

Christy changed Lulu’s ad using my words and the new picture and within half an hour, a potential adopter contacted Christy.

Life truly is in the timing.

They were on a roadtrip, but wanted to meet Lulu on Sunday. Their 14 year old dog had recently passed away from an illness, and they were looking for a companion for themselves as well as their four year old rescued boxer, Cooper. I say “they” but really it was a single woman, whose grown kids were helping her find that perfect match. After all, whoever she adopted would be their new sibling, so they had a stake in the matter.

Sunday morning, Marge (the woman), Megan (her daughter), and Cooper came over to meet Lulu. Christy and Craig came as well to facilitate the meeting. We went for a short walk up the street, and Cooper and Lulu primarily ignored one another. We went into the backyard and still, the two ignored one another. Lulu was polite and greeted the people, but was still doing her own thing.

As for Cooper, she deferred to him. When I placed down a dog bowl, Cooper drank first, then Lulu took a turn. If Lulu was getting attention from Marge and Cooper came up to join in, Lulu backed off, giving him the respect that these were his people.

I don’t know if Lulu knew she was auditioning for her new life. I had been hoping for that instant connection, that spark, that whatever it is that indicated true love. But I didn’t see it. Instead, I felt a calming energy. Everyone was on the same level. It was a kind of peace and serenity.

At the wedding I attended in Seattle the groom stated in his vows, “…I had always imagined love to be what it is in the movies. But it isn’t. It wasn’t with you. There was no grand gestures, no movie-moments; it was an ease of being with you, the way we finished each other sentences, the way we understood each other without speaking a word…”

Maybe that’s what I was witnessing.

“If you’re going to add a dog to a household, this is what you want," Christy explained. "You want them to ignore each other. You don’t want them to be crazy playing. But that’s what people want to see."

I guess we’ve all been brain-washed by the media—even with it comes to doggie love.

Well, not all of us. Not Marge or Megan. Much to Christy and my surprise, we received this email just after nightfall:

"Hello Christy & Stephanie,
After meeting the other dogs today, my mom (Marge) has decided she would love to add Lulu as a member of our family :) We think she will be a great fit as far as energy level, obedience, etc. Thank you for allowing us to meet her today..."

We knew this was a good home. But I still wasn’t convinced it was Lulu’s prefect home. I was still waiting for the movie-moment love connection. We still had to make sure Cooper would be cool with Lulu at his house. We didn’t think there’d be a problem. He was a chill dog, and oddly, this was his third—and forever of course—home. Marge knew there wasn’t anything wrong with shelter dogs; it was the people who had the issues. Third time is the charm—for both of these canine kids.

Marge has a beautiful home, and Lulu showed her appreciation by immediately shitting in the backyard. Cooper wasn’t like Summer who had been altogether over-excited to have a play buddy. He was a gracious host, allowing Lulu her space to get a lay of the land and be comfortable without invading her space.

Lulu’s relaxed open mouth and lolling tongue was the sign of her comfortability there. Paperwork was signed, and this was no trial run: Lulu had a new guardian, a new family, and her beautiful new life was about to begin.

Maybe love isn’t all passion and excitement. Maybe it’s not something you can describe, and maybe it’s not the same every time. But when it does exist, you can feel it.

How could I be sad? Sure, I had a passenger seat with just a leash and a harness in it, and an empty house back in Burbank, but you know why I keep doing it? Because of this:

Because the next day, I received this email from Megan:

"Lulu is doing great! She has figured out how to use the doggy door and is comfortable enough to do her business in the backyard. Cooper must really like her because he actually tried to play with her a few times this morning and they went racing around the backyard together :) She also likes to play tug of war inside with us and seems like she's a pretty good fetch dog. We are really enjoying having her with us!"

Because you can change the world: one dog at a time. It’s not just a dog’s life you change, it’s the people connected to that dog. Look at Stephanie with Tully, and the numerous fosters who have the pleasure of couch-surfing at her place; and now Lulu has added her joyous spirit to this family who had just lost a loved one.

We’re all connected in this crazy story called Life. We choose to partake or not. Our role in it is defined by us. My role is taking those in need in, and then “letting them go” to pursue their destiny, to change the lives of others, and in the end, I’ll say goodbye to them so they can be in a better place than where I found them.

Lulu, my dear, you are a special soul, and I am blessed to have to spent so much time with you. Our lack of ambition in finding you a home worked out for the very best. It got you just where you needed to be when you needed to be there. May you enjoy snuggles and play with your new brother Cooper and tug time with your new mom. May you always be joyous and open your heart to let your family in. Trust me, no one is ever going to let you go again.

Change is Just Up the Road

2013-10-27T19:15:00.001-07:00

“I hate routine, but I fear change.”

Those are the words of my friend who, after 13 years of living in the same place, has moved. He was saying how his brain has rebelled against the fact that this is his new place, and that eventually (once escrow closes), he will never return to the place he called home for so long.

I wonder if some dogs know on that fateful ride to the shelter, if indeed they, too, will never see their home again. Or, if being the loving, trusting souls they are, their brain and heart rebel against the reality until the very last moment. And then, alone behind bars, there is nothing but fear and the others left behind to give them comfort.

I am always astonished by a canine’s willingness to trust me—to put his or her life in my hands, and just go with the flow. But some dogs are more sensitive than others. Having had Lulu for so long with her above-average coping ability, I forgot that some dogs need a little extra reassurance, and that they sense life-change coming from hundreds of miles away.

Callie slept through the night without awakening as she had every night previous. However, the little sniffle that I had noticed the first day and had faded with the second, had returned like a Nor’easter. Her bed had a giant snot mark on it, and I could hear the congestion with each breath she took. I had to get her to the rescue as quickly as possible, where meds awaited her, and the stress of traveling would finally end.

Callie was not a model passenger on this last leg and certainly could not co-pilot. She didn’t want to sit down from the moment we got into the car. When I stopped at a Dutch Bros. Coffee just across the street, she leaned through my driver side window and refused to sit back down, backing up the drive-thru by ten cars.

On the road, she needed me. She continually grabbed by arm. I had to be petting her or holding her at any given moment. My telling her that she was going to get us in an accident if she kept standing up or pulling on me elicited no response. She was well past the boundary of comprehension and deep into fear or sickness.

My mocha went cold as I pet her non-stop for the first hundred miles. She cried and whimpered. If I didn’t pet her, she needed her head on my arm.

I finally got to sip some caffeine when she fell asleep with her head on my lap.

Callie was going to stay with Cheryl, who runs My Way Home, until Saturday when her foster parents would be ready for her. The foster parents were excited, as they had two large senior dogs of their own, and they always ended up fostering little dogs. They were looking forward to having a shepherd join their pack for a bit while she awaited her forever home.

I never did get to meet Cheryl’s own dogs, as they were in a separate part of the house. I met her rescues, an old pit who had to stay in the crate because he, like Missy, didn’t have the best social skills. He was a sweet guy, but got a little too ramped up when he met a new dog, so she was going to wait till all was calm for the two of them to meet without bars between them. There was a little terrier who I just adored. He clearly had the hots for Cheryl. Maybe it goes back to my Harry days, but I love the spunk that is purely and innately terrier. Then there was the two remaining of the feral pack she had taken in. Cheryl had never touched them—except when they got spayed and were under anesthesia. They were great with other dogs, but they didn’t trust humans.

This one on the bed is ridiculously adorable, but has never been touched by human hands. I thought that was a boa around her neck, but Cheryl informed that it was actually her collar. The other dogs were so repulsed by it, they tried to rip it off her. The end result is this decorative band of pink, and since no human can touch her, she’s stuck with the bling.

I had no doubt that Callie would be fine here—and at her foster home. But she was still panting and unsure.

“She’s a sensitive soul,” Cheryl said. Callie was upset with the other dog energy in the room—the romping and playing that she hadn’t been invited to partake in. It was new to her, and she preferred calmness. Her bad eyesight might have also lent to her preference for stillness—like on Mt. Shasta.

She seemed at ease for a bit as Cheryl and I swapped dog tales. I started telling her about Stella, and Callie rose up and started whimpering. I wasn’t telling it in a dramatic way. I was simply telling the facts.

“She feels the pain in your heart,” Cheryl said simply.

I looked at Callie who was sitting and nudging my hand with her nose, whimpering at me.

All dogs are empathic; I have no doubt. But some are more so than others. Callie is one of those. She feels everything. “Latisma” is the Spanish word Katya would use—the ability to pity and have compassion for everything. Callie has latisma.

Four hours after I had arrived, Callie was fast asleep, using my shoe as her pillow. I knew it was okay to cut the apron strings. She’d be okay.

Indeed she was more than okay. By the end of the weekend, as I was about to embark on my southern journey (sans dogs, sadly), I received these pictures from Cheryl.

Change is scary. But it can lead to tremendous good things. Callie, I thank you for coming with me on my northward adventure. I hope you had fun. I thought you were living the good life on Mt. Shasta, but then I see you here on 50 acres… and the thing is, you still haven’t made it home yet. From a shelter in Riverside County, California, to the mountains of Northern California, to the farmland of Oregon to… the future is unplanned. But, Callie, my dear, by not planning, I can guarantee that beautiful, magical surprises are just around the corner.

From Shelter to Shasta

2013-10-27T13:22:00.000-07:00

Living life without a plan means you can miss out on some things. But it also means that you get to experience some unexpected pleasures along the way. Going to Mt. Shasta was one of my planned things, whether or not I had a dog with me. I found out that if I had a dog, I was limited to only two of the many trails, but that would be enough for one day’s experience anyway. The only thing that could stop me then was the US government.

Luckily, upon arriving to the first trailhead in the National Forest, I found out that despite all its power, the United States government could not close nature, but only the facilities we’ve come to take for granted when in it.

And I also assume it was a bad idea to get lost at this time since there weren’t any rangers to get you out of precarious or life-threatening situations in the outback.

So, with nothing really to hinder us, Callie and I trekked to the very top that my trusty steed could go. Dogs live in the moment, and so I don’t imagine Callie compares this day with say, last week, when she was on death row. But we as humans do. And so, as I took this picture, I thought of all the possible futures that Callie had just a week prior, and I honestly didn’t imagine this one.

There were no trail maps. I assume because facilities were closed, although I couldn’t find an empty spot for them anywhere near the facilities. The US Department of Forestry’s website was also shut down, so that was of no use prior to my expedition. I only found out which trails were dog friendly by reading citizens’ accounts on private webpages.

Callie and I found Panther Meadows trailhead simply by being observant and using my memory of the giant map at the first stop. It appears the sign was made in 1969.

Mt. Shasta is known amongst many as a spiritual, healing mountain. Gurus, mystics, and sages make pilgrimages here. It is one of the seven sacred mountains in the world.

The night before, I spied its beauty and majesty in the dark. Always snowcapped, I seemed to always see it out of the corner of my eye, but never when I looked directly at it—a ghost mountain in the distance. In the morning light, the ghost took solid form, and was still just as majestic.

If indeed a dog shitting somewhere means they’re comfortable, than Callie instantly found peace on the mountain. Not more than fifty feet into our hike, she took a dump. It was nice for it happen so quickly, so I could we could wander the campsite area for disposal.

The trail was marked by stones on either side of a foot-wide path. But once the trail came up over a ridge and onto the meadow, it became this:

Callie and I meandered, as I tried to figure out which stones indicted the trail. I saw a woman sitting beneath a tree, head lowered, eyes closed, deep in meditation. I tried to steer Callie clear of her, but once Callie spied her, she wanted to greet her. As we came closer, I saw that she was holding a large crystal, something bigger than the Riverside Shakespeare Collection, and had a tattoo on her face, and on her arms. My clod-like walking and Callie’s breathing alerted her to visitors.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt,” I said politely.

“I’m already interrupted,” she said with a sigh.

Callie came right up to her and licked her face. The woman smiled. “Black dogs are my protectors. It’s interesting that she came to me.”

She pet her, and I asked if she new where the trail went.

“Well, you’re here,” she said rather snyly.

I continued, “I was just trying to find it. I lost it when I came into the meadow.”

“Well, the New Age answer is ‘you have to feel it.’”

Great. A wise-ass healer.

“Thanks,” I replied, trying not to roll my eyes or see that her attitude had gotten to me. We had, afterall, interrupted her healing meditation.

Callie and I wandered off in the wrong direction for a short spell, but then from that perspective, I found where the trail picked up again.

I let Callie choose our speed. I didn’t know what her fitness level was as a nine-year old dog, but I knew my fitness level as a 35 year old woman didn’t include carrying a seventy pound dog a mile and a half to a car, so I erred on the side of the caution.

Mt. Shasta does have a certain energy about it; a calmness, a stillness. And each time the wind arose, I felt the need to stand still and allow it to pass as if it was a king or queen in which to give reverence. Callie and I spent more time just being than walking.

Sometimes we stood, sometimes it was Callie who chose to lay down for a moment; sometimes it was I who chose to sit. At one point I thought Callie had gone as far as she could and wanted to, but when another group of hikers passed us, Callie followed for a short spell.

A few hours into our mountain experience, Callie did a distinct about-face on the trail, and I knew this was as far as we were going. I was fine with that. Had I been alone, I would have gone further. But I was more than pleased with where Callie had led us. We took our time on the way back down, soaking in all that beautiful, calm stillness, and trying to imbue it into our souls.

Once off the mountain and back in civilzation, there wasn’t much for a girl and her dog to do in the tiny mountain town of Mt. Shasta, so we headed north.

If we headed straight up I-5 without stopping, we’d be way ahead schedule. I had told Cheryl, Callie’s rescuer, that we’d arrive on Thursday morning. It was only Tuesday afternoon, and we had only six hours of driving left.

I had thought of spending the night in Grants Pass, Oregon. I am a mountain-girl, not a lowlands woman, and so any time I can be high in the forest, I’ll take it. And it would be a decent drive to get us into Sandy, Oregon, Callie’s destination, Thursday morning.

After passing Ashland, Oregon, another place I had thought of visiting but upon reaching it, just wasn’t feeling it (I guess I was going with the New Age way of finding my path), I saw a sign for “Rogue-Umpqua Scenic Byway.”

Oh, a byway. That’s sounds interesting. I don’t imagine it’ll take us more than an hour or two off course, and dump up back onto I5. So I impulsively took the exit.

Forty-five minutes later, I found a sign that gave the map of this “byway.”

Well, it’s a bit more than an hour. But that’s okay. We had plenty of time. My only rule of the road was that we find a place of lodging at nightfall. Not for safety-sake, but simply because I was taking this drive to see things, which I needed sunlight to do so.

Callie got her first taste of Oregon here—literally. She walked right into the Rogue River without a second thought, and began lapping up the water.

I hoped it was safe to drink. It seemed fast-enough moving to not harbor too much bacteria. She didn’t feel like going for a swim, but it was clear that wet paws didn’t bother her one bit.

On our driving tour that took us close to Crater Lake, we stopped only a few times. Callie still had some issues getting in and out of the vehicle. She had made an attempt in the morning at the motel, lost her footing, and fell. Since then, she had lost a bit of confidence.

Callie came with me to see the rapids of the Rogue River, walked a couple of bridges, and saw the waterfalls.

For her first time being a co-pilot and being dragged along on my adventures, I think Callie did wonderfully well.

At the end of our three-hour tangent, I discovered that we by-passed Grants Pass by about a hundred miles. I thought maybe we could stay in the town at the very end of our byway, but spending only a few minutes in the town, I opted to leave. It just didn’t have a good vibe about it.

Twenty miles north, we stopped at a place that I had a much better feeling about. So much so, that the parking lot I stopped in to call for hotels was the parking lot for the hotel I chose for the night.

I acquired food from the next door diner that I could walk to, and I discovered that Callie already had much of that peace and stillness of Mt.Shasta in her. When I returned from getting food, she was cozy and calm on her bed. She was a fantastic traveling companion. I didn’t worry about her soiling the sheets or barking when I left. She was an old, wise woman, and was content right where she was on the journey (even if the bed was a tad too small.)

It's Never Too Late to Change Your Life... or Just Your Plans

2013-10-21T23:19:00.000-07:00

Candace of START Rescue had responded immediately when I told her I was headed to Seattle and would love for a canine in need to accompany me. START does a monthly run from Riverside Shelter (and other places in Southern California) to rescues in Eugene, Portland, and Seattle. I was surprised by her initial pick for me to take to Eugene. I hesitated. Something didn’t feel right. But I couldn’t explain why, so after sleeping on it, I told her I’d do it, and added a day to my schedule so I could drop off the dog in Eugene and still have a full day in Portland.

Two days before take-off, she asked if I would be willing to take a different dog, this one to Sandy, Oregon, just an hour east of Portland. Perhaps that was what my little gut instinct was alerting me to: a sudden change in plans (which is precisely why I no longer plan things, but merely prepare.)

START sends up vans in a similar fashion to the run I did two years go, except they have trucks specifically designed for crates, easy access to the dogs the entire time, and have the same folks do the run each month. It is still a bit stressful on the dogs though—on average, sixteen hours in a crate, traveling overnight in a truck with many other canines. It’s the human equivalent of flying to Australia with a bunch of loud, smelly, insecure people and not even having a bathroom onboard.

This new slated passenger of mine was Callie, a nine-year old German Shepherd mix from Riverside shelter. Yup, nine, because people in Los Angeles dump their elderly animals when they just don’t feel like caring for them anymore. This sweet girl originally clocked into the shelter at 66 pounds, but my main concern was her height when I saw the video of her. Her head came up to the man’s waist. Granted, I had no idea how tall this man was, but I was pretty sure regardless, she was quite a bit bigger than Lulu. But thanks to Double Bogey on my original roadtrip, I knew how to set up my truck to give the lass a decently comfortable ride—and I could do it better since I wasn’t jerry-rigging it at a reststop in Kansas.

Of course, I had to wait until I sent Lulu off to her vacation home before cleaning the dog linens, washing the bed, and readying the truck for my new guest. I totally felt like I was cheating on Lulu, discarding of any traces of her existence before allowing the new black dog to take her place.

I had just put everything in the washer when Steve of START Rescue called to say that he had just gotten Callie from the transporter who had brought her from Riverside. I had planned on picking her up around 4pm, and then giving her a bath to wash the shelter off her. However, as luck would have it (for me, not for poor, sweet, old Callie), Callie had an accident on the way up, so Steve was taking her straight to the groomers so I wouldn’t have to drive a shit-covered dog 900 miles. I thought that was rather considerate of him, and although probably a terrible moment for Callie, it really did work in her (and my) favor in the long run.

As soon as the linens were dry, and I had set up my passenger seat, I went to Steve’s to pick up Callie. She didn’t like getting into the vehicle (reasonably so; on the last ride, she shit herself.) Steve updates his supporters in a weekly email blast, and he tried to get a video of Callie taking off for such purpose; jumping into the truck and on her way out of Los Angeles, but the girl just wouldn’t do it. Steve had to set down his video camera (a.k.a. phone) to pick her up and place her in the vehicle.

Not as dramatic, but the intent is the same, even though we were just going back to my house for the night and were going to start the long haul the next morning.

Back at the house, I discovered that this really was quite a life-change for Callie. She questioned the stairs to the deck. She easily went through the door, and when I pointed out the two dog beds she could choose from, she gladly chose one and lay down, but she was a bit miffed by the TV, and had no desire to be on the couch or bed.

I took her outside every two hours, not knowing if she was house-trained, and it appeared she was. However, I have heard the theory that “outside dogs” never go to the bathroom inside simply because it’s not a place they’re accustomed to doing so.

The moment I squeaked a toy, this nine-year old dog because two again. Ears erect, tail wagging, eyes sparkling, she was utterly delighted to play. Despite the strength of her jaws, she was gentle with the toy. She had accidentally chomped down on my hand while trying to get a treat, and it was as though she had a “soft mouth” like the labs who carry ducks for hunters. Her eyes were foggy, and I wondered how much she could see through the cataracts. But in spite of the lack of sight, and the onset of age, toys are still gloriously fun.

As for the actual first night, it was rougher on me than her, even though she was lying a on a bed two times smaller than she was.

Twenty minutes after falling asleep, I was awakened by her muzzle in my face and a small whine.

“Do you have to go out?” I asked, even though we had just been out. “It’s okay, hun. Go back to bed.”

I gave her a pet and a hug and she returned to her bed.

An hour later, a muzzle and whine again in my face. “What’s wrong, Callie? Sweetie, you’re safe now. Is it still scary, cause it’s new? Don’t worry. You’re safe now.” I gave her another pet and a hug and she returned to her bed.

Half an hour later, she was at my bedside. I was never going to get up at 6am at this rate. Maybe she did have to go out. I took her out and she dutifully peed, but that clearly wasn’t the problem.

Back to bed, I said goodnight, shut off the light, and got two hours this time, before she woke me up again. I took her back outside, just in case, and she went again, but I knew that wasn’t is. I thought perhaps she was just scared and needed me to pet her.

“Do you want to come up on the bed?” I asked. That way I could just rest my hand on her and we finally both could sleep. But no, she didn’t want to. When I tried to lift her, she let out a yelp like I hurt her but I hadn’t even put any pressure on her body. Steve’s initial hypothesis of her hating the car might still be true, but the main fear seems to be people picking her up.

I left a step stool by the bed and told her she was welcome to come up. She shyly declined, circled three times, and flopped down on the tiny dogbed. Three hours later, the sun was just coming up, and I although not fully ready, I, too, had to get up.

Callie had a rough time getting into the vehicle for take-off once more. I placed her front paws on the seat and as I attempted to lift her back end, she simultaneously collapsed like a ragdoll, allowing her front feet to fall out of the vehicle and land in the driveway. A few ungraceful attempts made by me and one traumatized dog later, Callie was ready to roll.

We spent our first few hours arguing about the shifter in the center console. Just like Bogey, Callie’s paws were drawn to it, even to the point of wrapping both front feet around it, holding it like a three-year old holds an ice cream cone. I used a couple travel books to try to block her feet, but they weren’t stable.

Luckily a few true truckstops still exist, and it was there that I found a clipboard to purchase and use as an effective wall. Callie even used it to rest her head later on.

However, it took a few hours before sleep happened. When she wasn’t jockeying control for the shifter and I wasn’t pushing her feet away, she wanted one of my hands on her head petting her. If I placed my hand back on the steering wheel, an enormous shepherd paw hooked onto my forearm and tried to drag it back. She was panting heavily, and I knew she was scared, but I also knew she could cause an accident, either by grabbing my arm quickly, or by throwing us into reverse. This was clearly her first time being a co-pilot.

At the end of our first rest stop venture, Callie once more wouldn’t get herself up into the vehicle. I attempted to lift her, and she did her whole canine magic trick that involves severely increasing their weight by changing her center of gravity to around five feet below the earth’s surface. When I finally got her into the passenger seat, I told her that if getting her into the vehicle was going to involve this much drama each time, then we just weren’t going to stop as often.

At the next stop, I gave her the option to get up herself, but when she turned away, I made a motion to pick her up. Immediately she backed away.

“Okay, fine. Do it yourself then,” I said with a snotty shrug.

Challenge accepted. Callie turned around to rev herself up, and then in one solid leap, landed in the passenger seat. I guess this girl just needed to be dared.

I was ridiculously excited and praised her loudly and hugged her, and every person at the rest stop turned to us with mutually confused expressions, wondering why I was so excited to get my own dog into the car.

From that moment on, Callie became a calmer, better co-pilot. She still sometimes needed assistance getting into the vehicle (but wanted to do it herself), and she still preferred that I have one hand on her at all times. But sleep finally overtook her, and for the final few hours to our first layover she snoozed contently, even dreaming.

Sometimes plans change; sometimes, life changes. For me, it was a simple change of passenger, as I hadn’t really planned but only prepared. For Callie, her entire life changed: twice. It changed when she arrived at the shelter. And it changed Sunday morning when she was released from the shelter and began her northward adventure with me.

It’s never too late to change your path and it’s never too late to help another change theirs. You just have to believe you can, and take one giant leap. Trust, and you just might find yourself in a cushy front seat, sailing 70mph towards a beautiful new future.

Banking on Hope

2013-10-16T23:14:00.001-07:00

I find that having high expectations in life can lead to frequent disappointment, whereas not counting on things can lead to great joy when they actually happen. So, although I am a hopeful sort, I try my best to not count on anything as a sure thing until it's in the past. On a practical note, being freelance means I never have a guarantee of work. When people ask me what I have lined up next, I never tell them because the fact is, I don’t count on a job until my ass is in the chair. And even then… well, things happen.

And so why I didn’t carry this theory over into dog rescue, I don’t know. I guess when it comes to canines, I am ever hopeful. I don’t have expectations, but I certainly never give up hope. I truly believe it will all work out, I do, but I never should bank on things. And I did with Lulu.

(Could she possibly take up any more space on the bed?)

We had met a potential adopting family about a month ago out on our late night walks. They had rescued and rehabilitated a pit/border collie mix and was looking for a friend for her. However, since starting doggy daycare only a few weeks earlier, she had developed some bad leash habits.

I saw it happen. Lulu went to greet Evee, and she got overly excited, lunged forward, and her person tensed up, yanking her back, making her lunge harder and freak out. She just wanted to play. But her person wanted everyone to be safe, so he tightened her hold on her. He also stood over her, holding her between his legs. Lulu, nor I, could see Evee's tail to gage her emotions. It seemed more of a human needing training than a dog.

They were in the process of finding a trainer and wanted to wait until after they met for Lulu and Evee to really get to know one another. The first step of introducing dogs is to have them on leash, so if this couldn’t be done, we were dead in the water.

There was another option though: meet at daycare. Evee was fine with any dog from daycare that she met in the outside world. It was just new dogs that caused this reaction. So, to trick her, we wanted Lulu to go to daycare.

By the time we met again along the path and the daycare had agreed to do the introduction, I was leaving town. I said it could happen while I was away, but we all sort of dropped the ball. I guess we all banked on it, but didn’t put forth any forward momentum to getting the ball rolling.

When I returned, I had two weeks before leaving town again. I wanted Lulu in that home before then. The trainer that was helping Evee instructed her people to no longer take her out for walks. She was to be sequestered to the yard and house until she was 100% perfect (hmmm.. Sounds like what I was told with Missy.) And, on top of it, the training involved feeding Evee one piece of kibble for every good deed—and that was how she was to be fed ALL of her food in a day. Have I mentioned that she’s a 40 pound pit mix? Um, that’s a lot of good deeds, and a lot of time. It was crazy. Being super smart, Evee started doing bad things, just to correct herself so she could get a morsel of food.

At least the trainer re-affirmed what Evee’s people and I knew: that Evee wasn’t aggressive; she was frustrated by not being able to play on her leash and then confused by her human’s reaction to her frustration. It would take time to correct, but in the meantime, we set up Lulu going to daycare for an afternoon to meet Evee. The staff there even did the introduction. It went perfectly.

(This is what a dog looks like after 7 hours of doggy daycare.)

And so, Saturday, two days before I was supposed to leave, we were going to have Lulu and Evee meet at daycare again, hang out for a few hours, and then head back to Evee’s house where she would do an overnight. If all went well, a trial adoption would begin on Sunday. If not, Laurie, Lulu’s fabulous vacation foster mom, would be glad to take her while I was away.

I hadn’t been promoting Lulu anywhere as being adoptable. Honestly, I didn’t have the time, but also I was really banking on this working. But at 1pm on Saturday afternoon, Evee’s person called to tell me that she received a call from her trainer, and her trainer convinced her that having Lulu would be too daunting.

Now, of course I want to smack the shit out of a trainer who has never met my foster that has just destroyed an adoption. I get that it would be tough to train two dogs at once. But here’s the thing: she never met Lulu. A responsible trainer, in my opinion, would have said, “That might be a lot to handle. But why don’t we set a time for all of us to get together. Maybe Lulu will teach Evee.”

Instead, she claimed that both dogs had to be trained in the same manner (which wouldn’t work because Lulu isn’t treat-driven while Evee is—not that she knows this.) And therefore, Evee should be the only dog for a long long time.

I’m upset at the trainer. Not at Evee’s person. I know Evee’s person has lost her confidence. She had trained her previous dog herself. But she sought professional help this time, and got conflicting theories. She doesn’t know who to trust now, but she’s also not trusting her own instincts. So, she took the trainer’s advice.

I can’t say, “That wouldn’t be a good home for Lulu anyway.” It would have been an AWESOME HOME. Had the trainer not been involved, Lulu would be in that house right now.

But maybe it all does happen for a reason. As someone said to me just today, “There are no mistakes.” Indeed, every step takes us to where we are on the path now. And for Lulu that means at Laurie’s house, playing with Summer, running around a yard, and having fun. And it leaves me with my bags packed, a sudden change in my passenger list, and an adventure with no expectations or plans, just hope and preparation about to begin.

But before I leave, one last promotion for kooky Lulu. Please pass her link along. I was wrong about who her soulmate was. She is still available, and is looking for that special someone. I can only hope that all this time wasn’t wasted; maybe, just maybe, although she was ready to find her person, her person wasn’t ready for her… until now.

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet/9536915-glendale-california-labrador-retriever-mix

Love Signs

2013-10-12T19:13:00.005-07:00

Never underestimate what you mean to someone—including a dog.

As I might have mentioned, Lulu is not the most outwardly affectionate canine I’ve ever met. She’s quite cat-like, preferring to be at the other end of the couch, or the end of the bed, or lying in the middle of the floor. On occasion, she’ll reach out for some affection as a cat would, pressing her head into my leg for a neck-scratch, and then once satisfied, she’ll return to her aloof state at the opposite side of the room from me.

Although not into engrossing public displays of affection with those she knows, she is quite flirtatious with strangers. If they show even the slightest degree of being interested in her, she runs up to them like a puppy, ears back, tail a-waggin, and shows them her amazing imitation of a gazelle, bouncing up and down and back and forth, all the while letting out little puppy whines.

She needs to greet every canine we pass. Some she merely sniffs with a brief hello, but others she’s ready to engage in an all out romp—especially little dogs. For the vertically challenged, Lulu gets down on her belly and attempts a playbow from there. Some play back, but the ones that don’t, daunt her for only for a second and then she’s on to meet the next canine.

All of this excitement is for others, not for me. I assume she considers this an arranged marriage of sorts, but in her heart of hearts she knows her true love will arrive one day, play a Peter Gabriel song loudly on my front lawn, and take her away from this boring existence.

On the Sunday after following her first week with me, we attended Strut Your Mutt, a fundraiser for Best Friends where TAPS had a booth. When Lulu saw Shelley, who rescued her from the shelter, it was as if she was her long-lost love. Lulu let out puppy whines, gazelle-dances, and merely collapsed from exhaustion with the energy she expended in her excitement in being in Shelley’s presence again.

I do not state this with jealousy; it’s just a fact—Lulu has never been that excited to see me. But that’s okay. I’m not her lifelong partner. I’m just her matchmaker, her human chaperone to help her find her forever family. When Shelley’s mom asked if she could walk Lulu around, I had no qualms. Shelley, too, was free to take her around the event. Lulu is a socialite; she loves getting out and meeting everyone.

Jen Krausse, another member of TAPS, said she’d take some pictures of Lulu for her adoption page. Coming equipped with a real camera (and more importantly some skill and talent), I knew she’d get way better shots than anything I had with my iphone. Jen directed me and I attempted to direct Lulu, but she just wouldn’t listen. I held her leash and said, “Look at Jen,” but instead, she smiled up at me. I asked her to sit, and she did sit, but faced me. I told her to stay and then walked in front of her holding her leash, and she came toward me.

“Okay, that’s it: Shelley, you have to hold Lulu. Stephanie can’t hold Lulu’s leash,” Jen advised.

“What? Why?” we both asked.

“Because Lulu likes looking at Stephanie,” she said with a sigh.

Umm…

“Stephanie, you get behind me. Shelley, take Lulu,” Jen directed.

Sure enough, the moment I was behind Jen, Lulu locked eyes with me with that giant smile on her face.

“Huh. Whaddya know?”

“See, I told you,” Jen stated.

“I wish I could find a guy who likes to look at me that much,” I quipped.

“Well, I’m sure if you took him home, fed him, and let him sleep in your bed with you, he, too, would like looking at you.”

Valid point, Jen. Thanks. I’ll give that a try.

Although Lulu liked looking at me, she still wasn’t affectionate. The only physical interaction I had with her was each morning in her attempts to coerce me out of bed which consisted of shoving her face into mine, draping herself across me, and jumping off and on the bed repeatedly. None of these things work, but dammit, she’s going to keep trying till they do.

Our typical schedule was as follows: 6:30am: get up and go for a walk, home by 7am. I’d leave around 8am to go to work. Return at 2pm to walk around the block with her, play fetch a few times, then back out the door at 2:30. Return home again between and 9 and 9:30pm. Go for an hour walk. Cook a chicken breast for her (her three day hunger strike forced me to go against my morals and deal with the disgusting task of pulling apart dead animal so she would have some nutritional value.) By the time she was finished eating, it was 11 or 11:30 and maybe I’d get a chance to eat too. Then in bed by midnight, and start the whole thing again at 6:30am the next day. That isn’t a life for a dog. That isn’t a life for a human.

It proves what no one has ever believed: I cannot have my own dog with the job I have. There simply isn’t enough hours in the day.

When I had to leave for the weekend for my brother’s wedding taking place clear across the country, I was actually happy for Lulu to go to a new foster home. Summer, the foster family’s yellow lab, is a most gregarious soul. When we entered their backyard, Summer showed Lulu the pool by diving into it and then retrieving a toy and wanting to play and jump around. Summer is the best host ever for a canine foster kid. Once Lulu got her bearings, sniffed around, and felt comfortable, the game was on. The two of them became fast friends.

Laurie, Lulu’s new foster mom, asked what I thought about having Lulu remain there after I return; I said of course. I’d miss her, but she was clearly happy here; how could I say no? Lulu deserved better than staying home 12 hours a day alone listening to my ipod on shuffle. She deserved a home with many family members and a canine companion who could understand her in a way us humans never could.

I tried to kiss Lulu on the head good-bye, but she pulled away from me. (I was used to it by that point.) Laurie took a hold of her collar so I could walk down the hall and out the door. It was only then that Lulu realized what was happening. She stopped short, closed her relax and panting mouth and looked forlorn.“Wait! Where are you going? I thought were all staying.”

“Have fun, Lulu! I’ll be back! Love you!” I didn’t think she’d be sad for long. Summer wouldn’t let her.

Laurie texted me over the weekend to say that Lulu and Summer were BFF’s. They played together and even went on roadtrips together. There was no doubt that Lulu was happy there.

Laurie offered to keep Lulu for a few more days after I returned, and I accepted. I had to catch up on my job and not having to leave by a certain time each night was mighty helpful. Friday night, after 8 days away, I went to pick Lulu back up so that Laurie’s family could go on their own vacation.

I admit that being back in my empty house those few days after I got back, I missed her. I didn’t miss crack-of-dawn walks or rushing out of work to make sure she was taken care of. But I did miss the joyous soul known as Lulu. I missed her smile, I missed her company, I missed her energy. My house seemed just a bit sad without her. But I certainly didn’t think she’d be sad without me.

Ringing the doorbell at Laurie’s house prompted both Summer and Lulu to announce loudly that a visitor was on the doorstep. When Laurie’s husband opened the door and I entered, both Summer and Lulu tried to greet me simultaneously.

“Hey Lulu, remember me?” I tried to get her attention but a large yellow lab was in my way. There was some growl-argument between the dogs as Summer wanted to greet me, but Lulu wanted to get to me.

“Hi, Lulu, did you have a good time?”

Lulu started in with the puppy whine and gazelle dancing that had only, until now, been reserved for everyone but me. She then headed to the door, and ran back to me, impatiently whining. And then running to the door again.

“Lulu! That’s rude! You had fun. I saw the pictures.” She couldn’t get out of the house fast enough.

I was perplexed. Why would she prefer to go home with me than hang out with this fun, vibrant, interesting family?

But apparently she did. I told her to thank her human host, and she ran up to him and wagged her tail and then when she stilled herself long enough for me to get a harness on her, we went home.

I had told a friend that my Friday night would be hanging out with my foster dog, although I assumed that within minutes of being back, her excitement would end and I would be as interesting as an end table.

Sure enough, only an hour after getting home Lulu’s excitement for me died down to complete and utter unconsciousness.

I am used to having the lazy, the sick, the hermit dogs; the ones who prefer a human to other dogs; ones who like some adventure in their life, but also need a steady dose of stability; the ones who are independent enough to play on their own, or are content to simply lie on the deck and contemplate the purpose of the universe.

Lulu is a bright, joyful, social soul who wants to get out and enjoy life. She wants to meet as many creatures as she can on this planet and engage in fun and joy and play.

I saw her shelter papers for the first time this weekend and was stunned to learn that she was a “repeat offender.” Her first stint at Coachella Valley Animal Incarceration Facility was in 2009, when she was less than a year old. She was adopted and brought back four years later. Could there really be two people that stupid living in the same county?

Lulu is the dog your friend had growing up—the one that was obedient and playful but relaxed and fun; the one who made you want your own dog. Lulu is the dog who is constantly urging you to get up and enjoy the day because life is too short. Lulu is the dog who is here to enjoy the precious short time she has here on earth and to drag you along to see just how extraordinary life is.

Maybe she is too much for just one person. Maybe her joy and perspective on life needs to be spread around a bit, so she won’t have just one forever family. I feel blessed to know her. And from the way she greets me now, the way she would rather smile at me than be in front of me, the way she steals my spot on the couch, and the fact that no matter what fun adventure she is having, that still, at the end of the day, she would like to come home with me; all this leads me to believe that maybe, just maybe, I do mean more to her than I thought.

She was just holding her cards close to her chest. I totally understand. Truly I do. But know this, Lulu: I don’t have a dog’s heart, but I’ll do my damnest to come as close as I can with my human one, and love you back as hard and as steady as a canine heart can. I apologize that for all the stuff I didn't notice before; I have a human brain, and it's rather inept at picking up signs.

And don’t worry, Lulu. I’m trying to find that perfect family for you. Although your joy and light and life and humor should be shared with as many as possible on your journey through life, you deserve one constant companion—the one you will always go home to.

If you know someone who needs a helping hand discovering the world and would appreciate a smart, beautiful, loyal companion to do so with, please check out Lulu:

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet/9536915-glendale-california-labrador-retriever-mix

Setting Free a Broken Heart

2013-09-09T22:53:00.002-07:00

A friend of mine was recently going through her old childhood belongings while packing up her life to move to Canada. She came across this little matchbox car with a dog in the backseat and immediately bequeathed it to me:

I took it as my sign to get back to basics; to go back to what started it all for me: the open road and a homeless canine riding shotgun. The entire Missy fiasco made me fearful of ever taking in another foster. I couldn’t help Missy; I couldn’t take her anywhere for fear of her reactions—to dogs, people, bicycles, life. And on top of it, she devastated me financially. I had no back-up. I had to ask my friends for money to help. Missy ended up sleeping a few nights in Belinda’s car with her when the adoption fell through in June. It wasn’t until 4th of July weekend that Missy ended up in what I can only hope is indeed her forever home: the adopter’s brother in Arizona. The entire experience was more traumatic than the one I had with Stella and Stella died.

Okay, maybe fostering Missy wasn’t as traumatic as that, just traumatic in a whole new way.

And so, I take my cue from the matchbox car made in England a decade before my birth: it’s time for me to hit the road.

But not just yet.

That adventure is planned for October as long as the roads stay clear up the western seaboard. But in the meantime, I’m still gainfully employed, only rather than being two thousand miles and two time zones away from home, I’m a quick one mile bike ride down the street.

All that being said, for those who made wagers, the final count is three weeks: 21 days from the time set foot back on California soil to the time I welcomed a homeless canine to join me at my hearth.

I did say No the first time. Christy sent me an email about a dog needing a foster. CROPS has evolved into a 501(c)3 under the name TAPS (The Animal Protectorates.) The current battle is a hoarding situation out in the desert, and so Christy and Shelley are making frequent trips to the shelter where the dogs are being held as evidence. As Shelley waited for the paperwork on one of the evidence dogs, a 50-something year old man came in with a well-trained, well-behaved medium-sized dog. His reason for getting rid of this beauty who had been his loyal companion for five years was as follows: she peed on the bed.

He had gotten a 2nd dog, and Lulu, this intelligent, sweet dog by his side did exactly what a dog is supposed to do: she didn’t eat the new dog, she didn’t fight her, she simply claimed her property as her own (and maybe, had the ulterior motive of vengeance… maybe.) Rather than find a solution to this problem, he only saw one end to the equation: get rid of her.

Oh, and she was high energy. And he simply didn’t have enough time to deal with her. But, he wanted to make sure that the shelter could give him a 100% guarantee that she would be get a new home.

Um…

This is why education is important. I wish shelters were there for people who have lost their jobs, lost their homes, and can leave their beloved pet in this refuge until a new home can be found or they are back on their feet. But that’s not how the shelter system works in America. And it certainly doesn’t work that way for a dog whose owner simply didn’t want to put forth any effort and now branded his own dog as having a “behavioral problem” (which is actually not a problem, but exactly what she’s supposed to do.)

Luckily the rescue Animal Samaritans SPCA that works closely with Coachella Valley Animal Shelter was on site and immediately flagged Lulu. She was a fully house-trained, well-trained and behaved dog whose only fault was loving an asshole of a human being who couldn’t be bothered to find out what was troubling the young lass and instead tossed her aside.

Looking at her pictures, I figured Christy could easily find a foster for this one. She appeared to be a sweet, well-balanced dog that was good with other dogs. She should have no problem getting a home. Christy also sent me an email about a German Shepherd who was also being surrendered when Shelley was there. I read the email chain down and saw that he was a terrified big boy who needed extra care, and slid on the floors and needed to have a choke chain so he didn’t back out of a collar. I started having flashbacks of Missy. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take on another dog with large issues.

But maybe Lulu.

Maybe... Look at that face... (sigh)

In one of the email chains, I got the idea that Christy had found a foster for her, so I didn’t offer up the Lulu idea. But Thursday night she emailed me telling me that she totally understood my hesitation to take another foster, but would I like to walk Lulu in Strut Your Mutt—a fundraising walk and event day next weekend. I wouldn’t need to foster, just go and spend the day.

And so as any good main character of a story does, I refused my call to action the first time, but after some thought (and checking with my boss to make sure I could leave for an hour each day to walk her), I emailed Christy back and said I would give Lulu a try. If it didn’t work, Lulu had a place to stay at a boarding facility right down the street from Christy and I have faith that Christy and Shelley would be spending plenty of time with her. And, that’s also where she will go if she doesn’t find a home by the time I need to leave town again.

There’s a backup plan. There’s a support system. I know I can call Christy anytime. I know that if needed, she’ll supply food, treats, toys, and even a bed or a crate. I know that because I’m fostering for Christy, I will never be on my own. And that is why when she asked me to walk Lulu, I said I’d not only walk her, but let her surf my couch for a spell.

Anyway, my house seemed lonely without a dog. It had, however, taken three weeks to salvage my belongings from the physical damage of Missy—the blankets that were unclean, the dogbeds that were filthy, getting more toys to replace all the ones she had ruined, and taking stock in the house again.

On Saturday afternoon, I went to Shelley’s and met this poor girl, Lulu, who had no idea why her life had been turned upside down and inside out. She had been a model dog, a loyal companion, a quick study, and then one day another, smaller, younger, prettier dog enters the picture. Lulu states her position in a reasonable manner, and she loses her home, her person, and almost her life for it.

The life she knew is gone, but she survived the shelter because the right person was there at the right time. She could have been like so many others—condemned to death for the unfortunate circumstance of being under the control of a shitty human.

Lulu had become fond of Shelley in only the three hours she had been at her house. When I arrived, Lulu was less interested in me saying hello and more upset that Shelley stepped out of the room for a minute. Lulu called out to Shelley in a high pitched puppy cry (despite being almost five years old.) Lulu, as I’ve learned first hand in the past forty-eight hours, has much to say. She verbally expresses her excitement, along with jumping and galloping which distinctly resembles a gazelle. She even lets out a bark of warning to many a new object: my bike, a stuffed animal, a statue on the sidewalk.

Strangely, she kept her mouth shut yesterday evening when the resident squirrel had an all out hate-fest from the tree above the deck where Lulu was lying. He chittered and chattered and shook his tail, completely aghast that his yard would have a dog in it. He went on and on for a good fifteen minutes, and threw down a few choice branches along with his angry squirrel words.

Lulu is a good dog. She wants to be a good dog. She know sit, and down, and stay. She comes when she’s called. She even goes into her crate with a simple, “Lulu, can you go to your bed for me?” Granted, once the door is locked, she does have quite a bit to say about it, but from what I can tell, she calms down rather quickly.

Upon return, she will be attempt her antelope bounce inside the crate, overly excited at the prospect of being set free. At least, I assume this is what she is excited about, for when I open the door, she bounds out without a second glance at me and runs around the living room and kitchen yelping and barking and telling the empty air all how incredible it is to be free again.

The crate is only for work time, and it went well today. At night, she sleeps on my bed - and no, she doesn’t pee on it.

She sleeps at the end of the bed, but come morning, when she wants to get up, she is in my face and on top of me.

She is not a cuddlebug. She is not a kiss-bull. But she is a sweet dog with a broken heart who I feel is doing amazingly well given her circumstances.

She was just dumped for no reason at all, and I imagine some of her cries might be for her person—the person that she would never believe would leave her, who actually has. So many dogs are thankful, appreciative of getting out of the shelter and are overjoyed with the prospect of a new life that is far better than the puppy mill/hoarder/dog fighter/general neglectful or abusive home from whence they came. But Lulu is different. All outward appearances point to her being well-cared for. She has white paws—and they are white! Her black coat is shiny and soft. She is the perfect weight for a dog her size. She is sweet and loving; a bit timid at first, but polite.

I don’t believe Lulu had a particularly awful life before I met her. But sometimes people just go through the motions without the e-motions. Maybe he groomed her and fed her, and let her sleep on the bed, and it looked like a good family, but deep down, if he can throw her aside for expressing how she feels, then clearly he didn’t love her.

And so, Lulu is my first foster back in the saddle. I don’t need to teach her manners, or how to exist in a home; instead, I just need to help mend her broken heart. And prove to her that she deserves a person who loves her for who she is—timid and shy, excitable and joyful, loud and bold, polite and dainty; someone who will love her through it all, the good and the bad—Lulu’s human soulmate.

I’ll be her wingwoman on her quest (and who knows, maybe she’ll be mine.) Christy is waiting for the most perfect photos to put up Lulu’s ad, and to give me a chance to get to know her so we have an accurate description. In the meantime, if you’d like to get to know this girl on your own, drop me a line. Prove to this girl that true love does exist.

Second Chances Are Always Worth the Gamble

2013-05-17T20:54:00.003-07:00

I don’t gamble for a reason: I never fold. I don’t know how to walk away. I believe in second chances... and third and fourth chances and maybe even a fifth. Which is why Missy was such a frustration to me—not only financially, but emotionally. Why wasn’t I getting what I needed? Why was a successful happy new beginning nowhere on the horizon?

It seemed like she wasn’t where she needed to be, but really she was simply on the path getting to where she needed to be—she just had to take the scenic route to be fully prepared for her purpose.

I wouldn’t ever be prepared to give up on her. And because I don’t give up, due to stubbornness, due to optimism, due to pure stupidity—perhaps all three, my friends know they cannot change my mind, so they might as well be enablers.

Already hemorrhaging money at an alarming rate to pay for Missy’s care, I was disappointed and distraught that my stash of toys had depleted completely. I didn’t have the funds for new toys, but Missy needed some. My bitching and whining to my friend Carolina about the lack of playthings in my house spurred her into immediate action. In less than 24 hours, she packed up a box of her own canine kids’ toys that they didn’t use and shipped them to Missy.

No, it’s not a bomb.

It’s a box of canine goodness.

While Carolina took care of Missy’s fun factor for me, I focused on finding the unexplored avenues that might lead to Missy’s forever home. I say I don’t give up, but I knew all along Troy wasn’t the one for Missy. I wanted it to be, but I know all too well: we don’t get what we want; we get what we need.

Sarah had a solid back-up plan if Missy didn’t have a home by her end date. Her friend met with Missy, totally loved her, but like me, he can’t have a dog of his own. Although some have managed it, we don’t see how our freelance production life can also include that lifelong relationship. He could step in to foster, but only for four or five weeks before he had to leave for a humanitarian effort this summer. (Yes, a humanitarian effort across the planet—clearly an exceptional person, the type you’d want to have a dog, but you know his life is meant to help thousands, not care for just one being.) So we had Plan B... the run down path off to the side that might not lead to Missy’s forever home, but would be a port of call while Belinda sorted out another plan.

I am no longer scheduled to return for a few months, and even if I was, I am not the foster for Missy. I was terrified to take her anywhere; I didn’t have confidence in her; she needed a yin to her yang. We were just two yangs out of balance. So if Missy went to another foster, then that would be it: I would be walking away from the table, never to return. But I would hope I would be leaving her in a better place than where I found her.

I then remembered the one avenue not yet explored: a woman named Kathy had responded to one of Belinda’s ads just around the time that we were sorting through the Missy and Sawyer meetings. Belinda had sent her an application and said that she’d be next in line should Troy not work out. I asked Belinda if we could do a meet and greet anyway, as I had a gut instinct Troy just wasn’t going to work out. There were delays and difficulties, but I was determined to explore this.

When it finally was decided that it was too much of a risk for Missy to be with Sawyer, Belinda shared Kathy’s number and I had Sarah give her a call. Neither Belinda nor I are salespeople; we’re more passive. But in this case, I had to get aggressive. Belinda had contacted her a couple of times, but hadn’t heard back. She then found out the woman had a family emergency and her husband had to leave town for a bit.

I stated my position to Belinda bluntly: “I just want Sarah to call her and say, ‘Hi, I’m Missy’s foster mom. If you have any questions, feel free to ask me. I’d love for you to meet her. Let me know if you want to get together.’ If she doesn’t respond, I’ll drop it. But I need to try.”

Sarah made the call that night and immediately set up a meet and greet. She convinced her that she should met Missy because then we’d know if it was a definite No. If she was still interested, she could come back when her husband returned.

I needed hope. I needed a lure, something to keep me optimistic so I didn’t refocus my energies on other ideas.

Two days later, I got the email from Sarah saying that Kathy had to cancel due to bad migraines.

Was it a true obstacle, or was it an excuse? Sarah assured me that her conversation with Kathy really made it seem like she wanted Missy. Kathy and her husband Dax had had pit bulls before—pit bulls with social problems as a matter of fact. One had passed away of old age, the other lived with her in-laws. She respected Missy’s limitations and wanted to help her. They wanted to rescue a dog, not buy one. They wanted to give a second chance to a dog who desperately needed one.

Sarah kept the next scheduled meeting under wraps to not get Belinda and my hopes up. Then on Sunday night, we got a surprise email from Sarah entitled “Missy Loves Kathy and Dax!”

“Hi! Kathy and Dax came by to meet Missy and they all loved each other. She tried to follow them out the front the door when they left. : ) We've talked about her needs and their expectations, etc. and it sounds like they are a very good fit... Dax was ready to take her home today! Kathy is a little more realistic, ha ha, so I think that's a good balance too...”

I’ve always found that the men are always more compulsive, whereas women are more realistic: they like to nest and prepare—this is a lifelong commitment after all. But there’s just something about a boy and his dog—it’s love at first sight and nothing on this planet can tear the two apart. The fact that Missy tried to follow them out the door tells me she had found her man.

Kathy had another migraine, so the home check didn’t work out on Tuesday. I had doubt once more. It should be easy, shouldn’t it? I’ve never had a migraine and hope to never experience one; from what I’ve heard it really is debilitating. Would Kathy be able to handle Missy if she had a migraine? The sands in the hourglass were running thin, and I didn’t want a repeat of the first parting with Missy when Belinda and I were up past midnight trying to find a new solution that didn’t involve a concrete kennel.

The plan was for Missy to spend the weekend with Kathy and Dax, but we needed to be assured that their home was safe. They were looking for a house, but currently lived in an apartment. They had the landlord’s permission to have a dog. But I was still worried. So I asked Sarah for their last name so I could cyber-stalk. They hadn’t yet turned in their application, and although Missy needed to be somewhere in two weeks’ time; she needed to be safe.

My internet search made me doubtful yet again. The man had a record. Damn it. But what kind of record? A few more searches and although my doubt was there, I began to believe maybe this was Missy’s purpose.

“Sober for 12 years,” he had written on a page. It’s sad to me that murder and narcotic addiction hold the same criminal sentences. They’re hardly the same thing. I didn’t want Missy to go to a murderer/rapist. But if she can help a man on his road to recovery and be that stable force in life... isn’t that the type of grand purpose I had thought Missy was meant for all along?

I alerted Sarah to my findings, and she, being the faithful church-going sweet soul she is, has far more trust in people than I do. She didn’t have doubts; she only saw the second thoughts I had: that he would be good for Missy and Missy good for him.

Wednesday afternoon Sarah got a call that Dax wanted to spend time with Missy in the park. Sarah had to work and wasn’t going to let Missy go unsupervised, so she had to turn him down. But I really appreciated his enthusiasm. For any homeless pet, being wanted is the single most important thing—above food, a warm bed, and a roof over their head. Just to be wanted is enough to sustain them.

Belinda, Sarah, and Missy went on the home check Thursday night. Kathy had seen a doctor for her migraines and gotten some meds, so she was on the mend. The home check went well, and Missy seemed comfortable in the home. She had never been to another abode, so the fact that she was comfortable was a good sign. Sarah really liked the way Missy and Dax related to one another... it was a match.

Friday afternoon, Sarah packed up Missy’s things for a weekend getaway—a trial run. I had never done something like this, so I was quite anxious. Why don’t they just adopt and be done? I needed Sarah to be off my payroll, and I wanted Missy to be securely in her new family as quickly as possible.

Sarah sent this picture of a Missy. (She assured me that I would get my dog bed back... Missy was just taking it to have stuff of her own on her trial run.)

The trial run taught us a few things. The first being that Missy cannot be a therapy dog for wheelchair-bound people. It was Kathy’s first time walking Missy, and Dax was not with her. Missy did excellent. She was gentle with the five year old girl who wanted to pet her, and patient while Kathy chatted with a neighbor. But when a person in a wheelchair came rolling up the sidewalk, not even acknowledging Missy, Missy reacted.

No, she didn’t lunge at the wheels.

No, she didn’t bite the man’s face off.

No, she didn’t stand in front of the wheelchair and stop it from moving.

Instead, she grabbed the man’s blanket off his lap, threw it on the ground, and sat on it.

Evidently she thought it was hers. Or, she’s just a bully and steals disabled people’s accessories. Either way, she should should never volunteer at Hospice.

The next thing it taught us was that a change in environment can change a dog’s attitude. While Sarah spent most of her day in my house trying to get Missy to stop going ballistic when the resident squirrel taunted her from the deck, or not to bark at people walking on the opposite side of the street, in Kathy’s and Dax’s place, Missy sat at the window daily, in silence of her own volition, watching people walk by and squirrels race back and forth across the top of a nearby fence.

The most important thing it proved is that when it’s right, it’s right. Despite all of Sarah’s warnings that Missy would need help learning dog language and wasn’t ready for socialization, Dax took Missy to a dog park. Sarah and I had tried Missy on leash with other dogs, but were both not trusting enough to see what would happen in an off-leash situation. We knew dogs could be different when off leash, but neither of us felt confident enough should something go awry. And that lack of confidence is detrimental to the experiment.

Then there’s Dax, who Sarah tells me is an enthusiastic, go-getter guy with confidence and warmth and love and is ever-optimistic. He took Missy to a dog park he knew wouldn’t be heavily populated. One man was there with a few other dogs. Dax went in fully confident, keeping her on a leash to begin with, letting the other dogs and her greet one another and then when he felt it was right, let her off leash. The result: Missy PLAYED with other dogs!

This was a dangerous risk. Should he have waited for a trained professional to be there? Yes, probably. But, in all honesty, one of the avenues I was considering was sending Missy to a guy who professionally helps socialize dogs. He would do exactly what Dax did. Here’s the difference: the man I would have paid was a professional; Dax is the man who loves Missy with his whole heart. Dax doesn’t want to put her in harm’s way. Missy trusts him and he trusts her. Sarah didn’t want to take Missy to adoption fairs because she didn’t trust her and thought it would be bad for her. I took her a couple of times, but was always expecting the worst. Dax had no such preconceived notions. He gave her a chance.

By Sunday night though, we still had not heard if it was official. Belinda and I agreed to waive the adoption fee. We would rather see them spend $200 on Missy’s vet care than giving it to us. We would never recoup the entire amount we spent in monetary terms; knowing she’s loved and finally where she’s meant to be is all the compensation we really needed.

Monday night Sarah sent the official text: Missy’s with her new family!

Contract signed, application completed, and Sarah went to say her final goodbye to Missy. I called her as soon as I got the text.

“You okay?” I asked.

She had said she thought it might be difficult to say good-bye. This wasn’t just a pet-sitting gig. This wasn’t just a foster. This was a dog she helped raise; she molded Missy into the dog she is today.

“How was it seeing her again?”

Missy greeted her, but then returned to her folks. Missy wasn’t looking to go back with Sarah. She had found her place. This was her home; these were her people.

“She looked good. Healthy, and so happy. Dax really exercises her too. So I think she might just be too worn out to misbehave.”

“So you’re not sad?”

“How can I be sad? She was so happy. This is where she’s meant to be.”

Dax told Sarah how he sees Missy as a part of building the best life he can live; how much he loved her, and how he knew they would do right by each other. I have to wonder if Missy saw all that too, that very first night they met. Did Missy know instinctually that this was her person—the one who was meant to be her life partner? I have to believe so. We women, we know; we know when it’s meant to be and nothing can will stand in our way to make it happen.

It’s been a long journey. From that very first email plea I saw for a momma dog and her pups needing a ride to San Diego in October of last year...

...to my first encounter with the scrawny, misunderstood, nameless dog in January...

...to days of training...

...and snuggle time...

...to leaving Missy in March, and handing her (and my house) over to a complete stranger...

... and finally the ultimate destination: Missy’s forever family.

Never doubt you are ever anywhere but where you are meant to be. If you get off track, the universe shows you signs and gives you opportunity to return to the right path. And sometimes the path may not seem right for it seems too long, but know that every step is going toward the future you were meant to have.

This journey has taught me a good many things: to be grateful for where I am in life; that I am not destitute and that although painful and stressful, gambling on a dog is always a win no matter how momentarily detrimental it is to my bank account; that because I never will walk away, I need to make sound choices on what I walk toward; and despite all my doubts and all my stressing out, that the universe will always provide—perhaps not on my time schedule, but always in the nick of the time; and that most often, it’s always the second chance that brings you the most joy.

Sarah has said to me that the house is different without a dog. Indeed it is. My house is happy with a canine resident. Despite my rash sentiments in an earlier blog, I, and my house, will foster another homeless dog again. Granted, the dog needs to be funded next time, but I will indeed take the gamble. Because being a pit stop on the way to a dog’s forever family is one of the greatest joys in my life.

Missy, I hope the time you spent with me and with Sarah and at Casa de Canine will be a joyful memory to you. It seems you already know that where you are is indeed exactly where you were always meant to be. We were just here to prepare you. You have the tools to be a more polite dog in human society... so please, for goodness sake, stop stealing people’s blankets!

Love ya, Missy. Keep Dax and Kathy safe and loved. You were always meant to be theirs, and they were always meant to be yours.

All I Need Is A Miracle... For Missy

2013-04-26T14:15:00.000-07:00

My apologies for not being more diligent with my updates on the furry squatter in my house. I may work only fifty percent of the year, but I cram all the hours of a normal 52-week-a-year job—and then some--into that same timeframe. This is the first chance I’ve had for my brain to switch modes from film production finances to canine concerns.

Missy has been doing just fine, transitioning well by being in the same locale, but with a different roommate. Missy is quite pleased with her new caretaker. Unlike her first un-fun caretaker (me), Sarah allows her to disembowel her toys:

Sarah just informed me that my five-year stock of toys in down to nothing.

All my gift cards I get for Christmas to use for such a purpose as this are nowhere near me. However, my good friend Carolina (who was the one who sewed up many of the toys only eight months ago) has offered to send Missy the toys from Bark Box that are a bit too big for her two little beagles. Thank you, Carolina! (And thank you Layla and Saffie for allowing your mom to donate your unused toys.)

Sarah has extended Missy more trust, allowing her to run outside off leash on her own for quick pee breaks. Missy pees and immediately returns indoors. When Sarah sits in the prime writing spot on the deck, she allows Missy to wander the yard untethered. I know I was always being overcautious, so I don’t mind her extending the trust. At this point, Sarah has been caring for Missy almost as long as I had.

(Missy in disguise.)

Missy has continued her training with Sarah. She heels like a rock star now, with very few mess-ups. She does, however, still have the bitchy talk-back attitude when she disagrees with Sarah. If Missy gets out of control barking, Sarah will put her in her crate to calm down and be quiet. But even then, Missy will lie there, letting out the muted half-hearted “Berf” noises just to prove that you can cage her up, but you can’t shut her up.

Some people have said Missy’s lack of an adoptive home must be the universe’s way of telling me that she must be mine. I whole-heartedly disagree with that interpretation. Missy and I are far too much alike to ever be life-long partners. We butt heads far too often and end in a stalemate. I admitted to Sarah that I had taken Missy down once on the street when she was ignoring me. I grabbed her forcefully, flipped her over, held her down, and yelled at her for not listening to me. The reaction came from anger, which is why I know it was completely wrong.

Sarah was kind enough to say that sometimes that is the only way to get a point across to a dog. If she’s in public, and she has potential to be a danger, you gotta do what you gotta do. And then Sarah admitted that she made the same move on Missy just a couple of weeks ago in the living room when Missy wouldn’t stop barking and was ignoring Sarah’s instructions. The absolutely frustrating thing is that Missy just doesn’t ignore the instructions, she adamantly ignores your existence when she doesn’t want to listen. You can poke her, prod her, yell in her face, and she stubbornly refuses to acknowledge or accept your presence in her reality.

Missy is not an easy sell. She needs work... but maybe more importantly, she needs the right dynamic. She needs a yin to her yang. And she needs someone who she can completely trust. I am not that person for her. But I believe there is someone for her.

Carol Ann, Sarah’s mentor and dog trainer, has met Missy. Her assessment that Missy is more well-behaved than some dogs in their forever homes gave me great hope. Carol Ann was going to submit Missy for a veteran program that matches military veterans with the dogs they need or want. I honestly believe this very well could be Missy’s mission in life. I’m quite sure a veteran would be able to provide Missy with the structure and discipline to excel.

But, we haven’t heard anything back yet.

Missy’s ad is up all over the internet.

Here: http://www.adoptapet.com/pet/8500428-los-angeles-california-american-pit-bull-terrier-mix

Here: http://www.petfinder.com/petdetail/25840369?rvp=1

Here: http://www.petfinder.com/petdetail/25843921

Here: http://www.petfinder.com/petdetail/25540093

Even on Home Buddies Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Home-Buddies-North-BurbankGlendale-CA/117609214948403

And Sarah even got Missy onto Dogshaming.com:
http://www.dogshaming.com/2013/04/adoptable-fridays-missy/

Belinda reposts her craigslist ad 4-5 times a day. Her internet publicity is at a high, and yet we don’t have suitors lined up at my front door.

Belinda received two hits from her craigslist blasts. Troy was the first to respond, and the farthest thing from a war veteran that you could get—which is fine; I am open to all possibilities. He told Belinda that he is a session musician, but a quick Google search turned up that he was a bit more than just that... he’s a drummer who tours with some pretty significantly mainstream bands (well, mainstream for the hair band genre—which is why I recognized the names.) Looking at his picture online, I could see his attraction to Missy—they make a good-looking couple. And of course, Missy adores this long-haired rocker.

But there’s a snag: a little Chihuahua-possible-Min-Pin-mix named Sawyer. Troy’s ex and he have a dog together, and although Sawyer doesn’t live with Troy anymore, Troy would certainly like his new canine companion to be able to play with his first kid when he comes to visit.

I could only hope Missy would see Sawyer as a puppy (since let’s face it, she didn’t eat her own puppies) and that she wouldn’t view him as something in the Cat/Squirrel category.

Carol Ann joined Sarah for reinforcements on the day of the meet-up. Missy primarily ignored Sawyer’s existence, as thus far in her training, it’s been desensitization, not socialization, so that Missy would be able to walk down a street without lunging at every dog trotting by. Sarah gave her tons of treats, and Missy ignored Sawyer.

Sawyer took this to be rude. He’s used to playing with the big dogs at the dog parks, and was pissed that Troy and his mom weren’t allowing him off leash to go play with this new big dog. Missy handled Sawyer’s barking and trying to get her to a play up to a certain point. But once she reached her threshold, that was it. Her confusion to his dog-speak led her to lunge and bark and get stressed out.

Sarah didn’t think Sawyer had any training, but I didn’t find that odd. Most people don’t train their dogs. If your kid is a B student, you don’t get him tutoring. But if he’s failing, then he gets the extra attention to be an A+ student. Such it is with Sawyer and Missy. Sawyer is the social, average kid with a bit of an attitude. Missy excels at the “book smarts,” and has been getting the extra schooling, but still lacks social cues. So in essence, Sawyer is the wiseass jock, and Missy has become a stereotypical nerd—someone who can explain to you the mathematical proof for our existence, but is dumbfounded on how to order a drink from a bar.

Despite all this, neither Sarah nor Carol Ann called it quits. Sarah sent Troy and Sawyer home with some training tips and homework, and they will meet again tomorrow.

My concern is of course for Sawyer’s and Missy’s safety. I don’t want Sawyer to get hurt, not just for Sawyer’s sake but because if Sawyer does get hurt, Missy will be put down. Because of Missy’s breed and her potential ability to do serious damage, she needs to be exceptional. She can’t get away with being like Sawyer, who doesn’t always listen to Troy. Sarah’s concern is whether or not Troy has the commitment and determination to keep up with Missy’s training and be the leader Missy needs to not feel insecure and stressed.

Belinda had gotten another hit for Missy on craigslist shortly after Troy had expressed interest. She told them she another potential adopter but they could fill out the application and be next in line should it not work out. I’m trying to get Belinda to get the people’s info to Sarah so they can do a meet and greet even without the application.

Because the truth it, the dog world does coincide with the financial side of life. And the finances aren’t in good shape.

Belinda suffered a major accident at the end of March—she broke her leg. Broken bones are painful enough on their own, but trying to live life on your own in Los Angeles on crutches and unable to drive a car is near impossible. Just crossing the Valley every morning to get to work is an expensive cab ride. Taking the bus is impossible due to it being a multi-block walk to the bus stop from her apartment and another 3-4 block walk to work from the nearest bus station at the other end.

So, Belinda has been unable to take Missy to adoption fairs or be a physically active part in getting Missy a home. She can only do so much from a computer, and the first couple of weeks hopped up on pain meds or sleeping enough for her body to heal wasn’t the most productive time.

And of course, there’s the added expense of ambulance bills, emergency room visits, giving gas money to friends to drive her places, cab fare if necessary to get things done. Belinda’s life is not an easy one right now--physically or financially.

And so it is of utmost importance that Missy gets into a forever home or a foster home as soon as possible. I had given Sarah the May 1st goal of finding Missy a home when I knew I would not be returning when I originally planned. But May 1st is only a week away, and we’re still waiting for a miracle.

Belinda mentioned wanting Troy to foster Missy. I said foster–to-adopt is a great idea, but we need to know she, and Sawyer, will be safe. Belinda just wants him to foster for four weeks, while still seeking a forever home. That would give her four more weeks to figure it out.

Six weeks ago, I was offended by David’s question of, “And what happens after 3 weeks with me?” I said we’d figure it out when we got there.

But now I understand: he deals with rescuers all the time, most of which have no plan beyond that moment. It seems to be the same here. Belinda was unable to raise her half of the money for the ten weeks for Sarah, and now given the circumstances, doesn’t have anything to contribute.

She did find a donor who was willing to pay for Missy’s boarding—but only at the boarding facility I fought hard to not send her to—the one where she will sit alone in a concrete kennel, never in contact with another dog or person 24 hours a day. The donor will not contribute the same amount of money to help keep Sarah on.

I’m not back on feet yet from my major house purchase, and there’s still a lot of renovations to be done to make my house safe and termite-free. I need another solid month or two to be financially stable. But what about Missy?

Do I wash my hands of it, and allow her to go to a kennel? How can I? Do I have hundreds of dollars a week to spend on her care? Of course not.

I can’t be the destitute rescuer. Hell, I’m not even a rescuer; just a foster, a caregiver, and therefore an advocate for the dog’s well-being. But as an advocate, if someone else can’t provide her necessities, it falls to me, doesn’t it?

I had created a boundary after Marty’s medical hassles: I would not foster a dog unless he or she was fully funded. Missy had been funded when I got her—but the funding was pulled once she was in my hands. I don’t even know if Belinda was paid back the money she fronted to get Missy started with me.

And so now my boundaries are as follows: I will only foster and overnight for a select few—Katya, Christy, Tails of the City, and 2-3 weeks overnights for organizations like S.T.A.R.T when know the dog is going on a transport to a rescue. I simply don’t have the financial means. So many rescuers are unable to pay their electric bills or their rent because they spend all their money on the dogs or cats. I won’t be like that. I believe in putting on my oxygen mask before putting on my child’s... or as some Southwest airlines safety speeches jokingly implore: “if you have more than one child, put the mask on the child you feel has the most potential.”

Missy has potential, but it’s going to take a long time. This week Sarah has been ill, and Missy has been stressed out. She lunged at three people this week—one of which she did while in the middle of taking a shit. She stopped mid-squat to attack. That was some serious regression. I don’t think she’s “unpredictable.” I think it’s a pretty straight up prediction, that when stressed and feeling insecure, Missy will lash out. But does that mean she can’t have a home? Does it mean she is sanctuary-bound? I hope not. I’d like to believe that the perfect match it out there for her. I wish it was Troy. And it might be.

Time will only tell—time we have about as much of that as we have money. May 4-5 is the big NKLA Best Friends Adoption Event. If Missy doesn’t have an adopter by then, she may not get one for many many months. The fact is, there are millions are homeless pets. If you want to adopt, you have literally millions of choices. Making Missy stand out is hard enough, but when the pool of adopters thins out on May 6th, it’ll be even tougher.

I try to keep my thoughts hopeful; I try to keep believing that the universe will lead me in the right direction, and that I won’t always get what I want, but I will always have what I need. What I need is a good, permanent home for Missy. She’s not a bad dog. She’s an intelligent, independent dog who needs a job to do and needs her mind occupied. She has a lot of love to give, and she (along with every canine on this planet) deserves a chance to share that love and feel love in return.

All I can do now is keep hoping for a miracle... keep wishing and hoping that Troy is the right one for Missy and try to believe that Sawyer and Missy will be safe together. I do believe Sarah was the right choice—and far better than a kennel back when we hired her. And I believe Troy is a better option as a foster than a kennel right now. But maybe there’s another avenue we haven’t explored yet. I’m open to any other suggestions that will lead Missy to her forever person.

In the meantime I will follow Missy’s lead and center my chi while meditating for a miracle. In watching Sarah do Yoga every morning, Missy has begun her own spiritually centered morning routine. I leave you with your moment of Zen: Missy’s own Yoga routine. (Turn up the volume... chanting is an important part of the process.)

Letters From the Homefront

2013-03-21T21:26:00.000-07:00

Learning not to fight the universe’s vast ocean waves and succumbing to the current to see what grand shores I would rest upon is not an easy task for me. I fought hard when David said he wouldn’t take Missy. Even Belinda fought back, resisting the need to change our plans. But in the end, it was what was needed. The current took us, we let go, and Missy ended up on a grand island shore.

We never would have even thought to look for other options—the option for Missy to stay right where she was and have the training come to her. And I certainly never would have come upon the site that led us to the person who was supposed to care for Missy all along: the fabulous Miss Sarah Parker.

Sarah met me at 5:30AM Monday morning. I hadn’t slept really, just napped here and there between tasks of cleaning up, prepping the house for her, and packing up my belongings. Missy was happy to have company—even at this ungodly hour of the morning. Pre-coffee for both Sarah and me, we muddled through the logistics, and just as we finished up, my cab rolled up to the curb.

It could be from lack of sleep, but truly it was my gut instinct that was at peace in that moment. I hugged and kissed Missy good-bye without even a tear. She was in the best hands possible, and maybe, just maybe, she would be in her forever home before I saw her again. I closed the door to the cab and waved to the dimly lit shadows in my front window: Sarah waving as she crouched down behind Missy, wrapped her arms around Missy, and the two watched me drive away in the pre-dawn hour.

Half an hour later as I retrieved my phone out of the x-ray machine at the airport, I saw I had a text. “She isn’t into napping. She misses you already!”

I hoped she wouldn’t sit there all day. I wanted her to cuddle up with sleepy Sarah and snooze until dawn. Sarah later reported that she finally dragged Missy away from the window, but Missy only lasted a few minutes before returning to sentinel. An hour later, missy gave up, opting for the more comfortable position of awaiting my return on the couch.

While I jetted across the nation, Missy and Sarah settled in together. I imagine it was a bit of a change for Missy, but not nearly the trauma it would have been to go to David’s house. Missy still had her home (my home) as stability.

Sarah had told me her intent of trying to get Missy to walk with a gentle leader, which I was fine with. It’s a good tool, but not something I could get the hang of. I suggested she wait until Missy trusted her and they created a bond first since I had never put anything on Missy’s face before. But I trusted Sarah's judgement: if Missy was ready, she was ready.

By evening on the first day, Sarah emailed me this pic of Missy on the gentle leader, like a pro!

It’s not my favorite training tool, as it makes me feels like I'm leading a horse around, not a dog, but for Sarah, it’s helping Missy correct her reactions to stimulus on the street faster (and more effectively) than the Martingale collar ever did. She never noticed the choking aspect of the collar and would keep her tantrums up when she saw a dog/squirrel/cat/moving being. But with the head collar, her visual and mental focus quickly can be turned away from the stimulus.

That’s not to say it is not without its hazards. As I explained to Sarah, you have to be really observant with Missy; you have to see, react, and respond to every possible trigger before she notices it. Sarah has gotten road rash only once due to a cat, but Missy didn’t get away. So the proverb is, “Missy keeps you on your toes or face first on the pavement.”

Day three began “Heel.” In less than a week, she is maintaining Heel even out on the streets. It was a long process, but just today, Sarah announced that Missy passed a cat and remained in the Heel position!

Inside, Sarah is teaching Missy how to control her barking when it comes to outside forces. If Missy barks at the window, Sarah will ask her if she needs to “check it,” and then once shown, she tells her, “Okay, thank you.” “Enough!” is the new most-spoken word in and out of the house, as it is used for Missy's verbal squirrel attacks, and other barking fiascos that warrant no checking but merely human logic.

Today brought another phenomenal text announcement: "Yesterday AM she also managed to sit and stare the squirrel in the face through the window. I was doing Yoga and managed to get her to calm down on the floor with me. Slowly but surely... :)"

Maybe I should have tried Yoga for Missy.

In all this though, I believe that Sarah has indeed become enamored of the street girl. It is this investment, this caring, that I don’t believe she would have ever received at David’s, or even the other train and boarding places I desperately tried to enroll her in. Waking, eating, sleeping, living with a soul you are training to have manners, teaching to do things, to communicate, and seeing the results not just once a day, but every minute of the day: that’s how true dog training works.

When you own a dog, you can take a dog to classes, but the work isn’t just one hour a week—it’s every minute of every day, creating a bond and a relationship. Sarah has done that. She isn’t Missy’s owner; she’s an at-home teacher who gets to the results of her training all the time.

Sarah hasn’t had many guests over, but when her friend Matt and her went to the movies the other night, she asked him to come inside the house to give Missy a chance to learn “Go to you Mat” and “Stay” while people entered the house. Her focus mat has moved inside now, and Sarah is using it as a place for Missy to be near the fireplace so she can still see outside, but isn’t allowed to move.

(That's a zebra toy Sarah had in her car and needed to get rid of... It is now missing its ears and a bit of mane, but has yet to be disemboweled.)

It took three tries of Sarah telling her to Wait, opening the door, her getting up, Sarah closing the door, and starting over before she stayed long enough on the mat to try again. She couldn’t wait any longer on the third try and rushed at him, but Matt had already been told not to give her attention until she stopped jumping on him. She calmed down fairly quickly and they went for a walk.

Back at the house, Missy claimed Matt as her boyfriend (Sarah’s words, not mine.) She sat on his feet while they stood in the kitchen and looked up at him all googly-eyed. She was so taken by him, she even tried to hump him... three times. (Poor girl just doesn’t know how to express herself.)

In the living room, Sarah no longer existed for Missy. The woman she had just spent a week with, the one who has bought her toys, given her enormous amounts of sausage and praise—she meant nothing to her; all that Missy cared about was the cute boy at the other end of the couch.

I do wonder if Sarah has even begun on her new novel. I know how time slips away when you’re with a canine. And Sarah is still maintaining her dog-walking gigs five days a week from noon to 4PM.

Missy has learned to sleep at the end of the bed (Sarah can’t have a dog all up in her face when she’s sleeping,) and she’s learning that when Sarah is on the floor in the morning, that she is doing Yoga and is not on the floor to play with her.

Sarah has also gotten in “Drop It” lessons, using treats to begin with, but now without. Missy seems to like the fetch idea now that she’s caught on that if she drops it, Sarah will throw it again.

I’m grateful for Sarah. She cares for Missy, is invested in Missy, and is teaching her so much. And she “gets” Missy. She has said a number of times that Missy is incredibly smart—and how sometimes it would easier if Missy wasn’t so bright. Missy knows when there isn’t a treat for a reward and won’t always pony up the necessary response without the reward. And she also recognizes what I said long ago: that Missy seems to really enjoy the challenge of figuring out what you want her do to. I wouldn’t say it’s eager to please; it’s eager to please herself. She’s proud when she’s done something well. You can see it.

I picture her being a police dog. She’s intelligent enough, but the reason I say that is because she has this independent sense of self. The girl isn’t going to blindly obey; she takes her own perspective and her own opinion as a deciding factor. I think that quality makes a great partner.

Of course, the Police Academy is big dreaming. Right now, she needs a home. Sarah gave Missy a bath (and kudos to her for trying to record the event!) and is prepared to start making the treacherous steps forward to canine interaction.

And this is her in the backyard afterward (it’s also proof of why I need to fix the fence—the tie-line is a danger):

If you can, pause at 00:20. Missy's revving-up moment is priceless.

So, to my friends, I am indebted to you. Your money is going to someone who not only trains Missy daily, but truly cares for Missy, and spends time with her not just training, but living with her, taking her for walks, playing with her, snuggling with her.

It wasn’t the option I thought would happen. I never suspected this would be the outcome when I said, “Why doesn’t she just stay here?” back in January. I suspected 2-4 weeks, and she’d be in her forever home and I’d be working again.

But once on the path, there’s no going back. Like Belinda who couldn’t go back, but could only pay the vet bill for Missy’s boarding in November when she learned Missy hadn’t gone to that rescue. Now I’ve dipped my toe in, and been swept up. There’s no going back. I couldn’t have taken her to a kennel. I just couldn’t. If had, then my hands would be washed of it, it would be all on Belinda, and Missy would waste away at boarding indefinitely. I couldn’t do that.

The fact is that although I say “this is the outcome,” this isn’t the outcome, the end; we’re still on the journey. Missy isn’t even done with Week 2 of training and she’s well on her way to being desensitized to animals and going to adoption fairs. Sarah aims for Missy to be ready for adoption fairs by the end of April. I, of course, am aiming for end of March. When I hear how far Missy has come just in a week, I know she can be a polite canine in public in only couple of weeks. I don’t expect her to be perfect; but I know she will rise to whatever challenge is presented to her—even if for her own pride.

I thank you, my friends, who have financially and morally supported Missy and me. I thank the universe for relentlessly pulling us away from our original plan and plunking us down on an entirely different path. I am hoping, for Missy and for my sake, that Missy has a home by May 1st. This is the need I am sending out to the universe. If my job is extended (which I hope and need it to be), I cannot keep paying Sarah. And Missy needs to go directly from Sarah’s loving care right into her forever family’s home, with no stop-overs.

Missy, I’m doing the best I can; now you do your best: go out there and strut yourself and flirt with the boys and find your person!

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet/8500428-los-angeles-california-american-pit-bull-terrier-mix

"...And to My Dog, I Leave the House."

2013-03-10T21:07:00.001-07:00

Friday morning was supposed to be the beginning of a final 48 hours with my troubled, infuriating, and beloved charge. I had left a message for David on Thursday telling him that we had raised enough for two weeks’ of training, but was aiming for 30 days if we could get it by the time her two weeks were up. I inquired as to what I should bring with her (toys, leash, etc), and if we could drop her off on Sunday rather than Saturday. I wanted as much time with her as possible, and an extra day would mean the clock wouldn’t start ticking on her new foster search for 24 more hours.

At 10 AM on Friday, David called me back. He apologized for not getting back to me the day before; it had been a busy week.

“That’s fine. So, is Sunday okay, or do I need to leave her on Saturday?”

“Well, see that’s the thing. Now I’m booked until April.”

“What?!”

“It’s first come first serve,” he said while earlier he had said, “It’s not about the money.”

“I told you I was raising the money for her and we would do this. That was three days ago.”

“Well, things change. That’s great that you raised the money,” he said a flat, not impressed way.

I broke. It had been an already stressful week, and the seams of my emotional fabric were frayed.

“Really? It’s not about the money? You knew she had nowhere to go. You knew I was raising the money. So now there’s just no room for her?”

“Well, there’s nothing I can do," he stated matter-a-factly.

“You could have called!!! I have a thousand dollars of my friends’ money specifically for her to go to you, and now you can’t do it! What do I tell them? That I lied?!”

Now my stress wasn’t just where would Missy go, but what about all the money that I had raised. My friends generously contributed for the betterment of the dog, not for her to be boarded.

“Well, here’s an option,” David began.” “There’s a boarding facility right across from me...” He constantly talks down to me as if I know nothing; he has no idea how linked into the rescue community I am.

“I know,” I said. “It’s a kennel.”

“Well, his rate is $20 a day, and I can talk to the owner—“

“I believe the rescue rate is $16—“ I had already inquired about this.

“—well, I’d have to talk to him. But Missy can stay there and then I’ll train her every day. I can walk across the street and get her and bring her over and work with her.”

“My friends are paying for her to be in a HOME, not in a kennel!”

“Well I just told you, that’s not an option, so I’m giving you this solution.”

“And how much is that going to cost?”

“Well we can talk about that. We’re talking about that right now.”

Good God, I wanted to punch this man. I had always found him to be a pompous ass, but because he was a good trainer and handled Missy well, I put up with his arrogance and inability to communicate nicely with humans. I accept that this is a frequent personality flaw with people who work with animals. But now he had crossed the line. He had fucked me over big time, and now I had to explain that to my friends who put money in the pot to pay for him.

“If it was $75/day, why not half for $37.50?” He proposed.

“How long are you going to work with her?” I asked.

“Probably half an hour. Look, if she stayed with me, I don’t train with them for more than 30 minutes a day.”

Interestingly, boarding in a kennel at his facility is $50; the train and board in his house is $75; his personal one hour training sessions are $175.... this man’s pricing model was a joke.

“So you think I should pay for $20 for boarding [I wasn’t going to argue that point with him at the moment], plus $37.50 for you which is $57.50 total a day for her to be in a concrete cell?!”

He explained that because the kennel isn’t booked up, the manager has plenty of time to spend with the dogs and she would be cared for.

Bullshit. I wasn’t taking Missy to a kennel. And, since David just fucked me over leaving Missy with nowhere to go and me having to come with how to make this right with my friends, I wasn’t going to pay him one damn penny.

If nothing else, he should have called me when he had become “booked,” since he said he purposely keeps March light with few dogs and he would be happy to help me out.

I emailed, texted, and called Belinda in a panic. Missy had NOWHERE TO GO and I was leaving in two days, one of which few boarding places are open.

Belinda was infuriated. He called him in an effort to tell him that he had to push someone else to April. That he knew our situation. That he knew I was raising the money. That this was her only option.

He didn’t give a shit. When Belinda brought up that Missy couldn’t go to a kennel due to her issues of trust and her inability to handle new situations well, he didn’t give a shit. “Dogs don’t care if they’re in a home environment or if they’re in a kennel,” he stated to both me and Belinda. In fact, he was a bit condescending about my concern for Missy when he spoke with Belinda.

I don’t want this man even within a city block of Missy. He has NO comprehension of canine emotions and instinct and intellect if he truly believes that a dog doesn’t care if she is secure in a home with a person or alone in a concrete, chain-link box for 23.5 hours a day. He isn’t just an ass; he's a moron.

By noon, the anger had fizzled and been replaced by crisis management. Missy had already had to deal with me sobbing so hard, she probably thought she or I were dying. Missy had licked my face, given me a toy, tried everything in her power to make my happy. Now it was time to let go of the negativity about the situation and move on to solving where this girl was going. Missy would NOT—and I mean NEVER—be trained by David again. But if I didn’t find a suitable place for her by the end of the day, she would end up in a kennel--a perfectly fine kennel mind you, but a kennel nonetheless—the one place I promised myself and Missy that she would never go.

Scouring online, I found another board and train place just north of Burbank. I called Paradise Ranch, explained my issue, and they kindly set up a 3pm appointment after hours for me so that they could assess if they could take Missy in. It would be $107/night for training and boarding, but since they did cage-free group activities, maybe she needed just boarding at $45/night. And this boarding was indoors, in a home-like setting with real beds and people and dogs.

I imagine that what I went through is similar to urban mothers who bring their child into an interview for the top notch kindergarten class in that part of the city. It defines their future. Everything rides on how that kid does alone without mom there to help him. It was the same thing for Missy.

I sat in the lobby filling out her application, and watching her and the trainers on a big screen TV. The surveillance camera looked out over the yard. Missy stood with a male trainer and on the other side of the fence, although I couldn’t see it, they were testing her. I looked up just in time to see a person with a backpack walk by on the other side of the fence from Missy and Missy lunge forward, struggling against her leash and the trainer to get to the man.

She hadn’t done that in over a month... maybe even six weeks. It was like watching the nameless dog I had taken in two months ago, not the evolved Missy who had just been with me five minutes ago. I knew she would lunge at the dog, but I don’t think they even gave her a chance to calm down and try to meet through the barrier. The trainer hung onto her tightly, and Missy thrashed about, even more upset about being restrained. Firstly, I would have given her some sort of direction such as to sit and calm down, or given her the chance to go to the barrier since both parties would be safe, but it didn’t appear that the trainer would. They were testing what Missy would do, given her own devices and decisions. And her decisions were bad ones.

The two trainers, Elias and Cora, came in to discuss how my kid’s interview went. They were very nice, and broke the news to me kindly: Missy had failed.

They had one suite which was not around other dogs, but it was booked. And even then, they’d be hesitant to take her. They couldn’t train her on socialization. The dogs needed to already have that in order to be admitted.

It was this reason that I had originally booked David to train her: so that she would be accepted by more places, once she got over her “not knowing how to talk to dogs” problem. They gave me a couple of leads of people to call, but it was already 4pm on a Friday afternoon. The other place I had inquired about taking her when I initially called David required a half-day assessment and $400 just for that. It was like paying a mechanic to diagnosis your car; I find it immoral.

I called Belinda, and she said, “Okay, well then, we need to start thinking outside the box. I’ll keep working on ideas and you do the same. I am so sorry!”

She knew this was emotionally devastating to me. I just don’t do rescue enough to accept that kenneling is a sad but necessary evil. It saves a physical life, but can drain a soulful life in the process. Missy had never had a person before, not even a home probably. Now that she had had that with me, I couldn’t just bring her to a cage. I knew that it would devastate her, just as much as it would kill me.

So, home I went with my rejected kid who couldn’t get into the best school in the district, to think outside the box. I hadn’t eaten. I probably hadn’t even gone to the bathroom. Crisis mode for me means no physical survival activities are necessary.

I Googled my way into the depths of the internet. Someone in the vast world wide web had to be the answer, the miracle. Maybe David’s assholic move was the pre-miracle, the thing that was necessary to find what Missy really needed and where the next fork in the road was.

I can’t tell you how I happened upon it. It might have been a search for “pet sitter,” but alas came te site that would bring me much needed hope: www.rover.com.

It was set up like www.airbnb.com, which is a site for people renting out their homes to vacationers and short-term stay people. At rover.com, you could find pet sitters that will take your dog in while you're on vacation, or ones who would come to your house.

Well this certainly was outside the box.

I mean, we had thought about paid fosters, but we were looking for the least expensive option if Missy couldn’t be trained. And training really is what she needed.

By the time Belinda came over about 9:00 PM, I had one found person that I thought would be perfect... but she was expensive. It was too good to be true really. I mean, aside from the price.

"Sarah P." was listed as a writer with plenty of time during the day to spend with your dog. She had experience as an apprentice dog trainer, she lived in Glendale, she would stay in your house and take care of house-sitting duties as well... and according to her profile, she was available.

“Call her,” Belinda said. “Call her right now.”

I had to email first, so I set up a profile and emailed her. I had put in the dates of March 10th through May 17th. Granted jobs change, things change, it could be much sooner, or it could be later, but that seemed like a damn close guess for now. And anyway, if Missy got adopted beforehand, we wouldn’t need her services.

Within minutes, I got a reply with her phone number. Her rate was $50/night according to the website, which when considering David was $75/night, and boarding at a kennel was $20 a night, that seemed reasonable. She couldn’t go to cage-free places, so the $50-$60 a night range wasn’t even an option. I was about to call when Belinda and I looked at the left hand side of the screen that gave the total: $50 x 69 nights = $3450.

What?!?!

Little bit of sticker shock. Funny how numbers, the most logical thing on earth, can create such emotion depending on how they’re arranged.

Sarah P. was currently hanging out with a blue pittie she was pet sitting, so I could call her even though it was 10:15 at night. In speaking with her, it really did seem like she was the miracle we had been waiting for. She hadn’t done so long of a gig before. She saw that we needed someone immediately but when she saw the dates, she was like, “Well, geez, I gotta take that!” As any freelancer knows, especially if you’re used to weekend work only, you don’t turn down a ten week job.

Sarah is a writer, and I had mentioned in her email that this was an inspiring place. I loved that she would be around all day, except when she was out walking other dogs—long term clients, five days a week. She was currently querying a book, and was about to start a new one on Monday. Being in a new space, a whole house with a new dog she could train—it was all too perfect for her too.

(It is quite possible that the first book written on these premises to be published may not be mine.)

She had a class to attend on Saturday from 11-5:30 (how to socialize dogs and play groups!), so she said she’d stop in before class. Belinda agreed, and we set up for a 10am meeting Saturday morning.

I still wanted to pursue other avenues, just in case this wasn’t a match (although, let’s face it, neither Belinda nor I could conceive it being otherwise.) In the numbers game, I explained to her that my friends’ money shouldn’t be put toward boarding Missy or just a pet sitter. It should be for training. Of the $50/night, I felt $10 should be mine out of pocket. I didn’t need a full time house sitter, but since she would be making sure the house didn’t fall down (or at least call me immediately if perchance it did), I should pitch in something of my own. Belinda would have been stuck with $20/night had Missy gone to a kennel. That left $30/night remaining that could be taken from the $1000 we had raised.

But should the $1000 be used for this? I was torn. Obviously we needed it. I couldn’t spend every penny of per diem on location to house Missy; I go on location for the added money because it carries me through when I’m unemployed. I needed my per diem. I could sacrifice $10 a day, but no more.

“Well the money could be used for professional training sessions if Sarah is willing to attend. Sounds like she might be. And if she’s a trainer, then Missy is getting training. Look, people donate for the dog, not for the specific cause.”

“But I told them $75 per day, so people contributed days. I don’t want it to be a lie. But now I don’t want her going to David’s even if and when there is room. I’m done with him.”

“Look, things change,” Belinda said. “Your friends are incredibly generous. I wrote all of them a thank you note and all of them responded with how much they wanted to help Missy. This helps Missy. She gets to stay here. She’ll get ten times as much care as she would with David. And some training. Look, do you know what it’s like to raise money for a dog on death row, you get almost all the money, and then the dog gets euthanizd anyway? I’ve contacted the donors and told them and offered to give them the money back and every single one of them will say, ‘No, keep it. Save another.’”

People like to help. I get that. But my word is my honor. If I say I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it. Granted, it wasn’t me but David who fucked up the plan, but as Belinda pointed out: it wasn’t the right plan. She and I fought for it, but the universe clearly had a better solution. Sarah P. was the right path to take... and maybe, just maybe, this gig was the path she needed to take in her life.

Belinda left at 11:15. Both of us were starving and she being a vegan and me leaving in only a few days,meant there were no options for her to eat in my house and few left for me too. I stayed up another three hours searching other profiles on rover.com just in case Sarah wasn’t the answer. Because if she wasn’t, the only alternative for Missy was a concrete cell, and I just couldn’t accept that.

Go with your gut. Always. We want things to work out a certain way, but sometimes what we think we want, isn’t right. I had met with a potential free foster for Missy on Thursday, but she just wasn’t right for her—I felt it in my gut. If I had let Missy go with her, bad things would ensue.

I wanted Sarah to be the right one. I wanted this work. I needed it to work. But above all, my gut instinct had to direct me to accept her. Saturday morning, I found myself telling her about how things worked in the house as we did the tour, rather than just giving a tour. I found myself telling her what I did with Missy, rather than asking what she would do. Missy already adored her: this woman came with a fanny pack full of scrumptious goodness; how could Missy not look up at her lovingly and do whatever she asked? When Missy jumped on her, Sarah turned away, exactly what you’re supposed to do to tell the dog that’s not acceptable. From the first step into the house, Sarah had the job.

Belinda came (bearing a coffee and croissant for me – if I haven’t mentioned it before, Belinda is utterly awesome!) after Sarah had arrived, so she and I hadn’t had time to discuss money or a how to interview her. Belinda spent some time playing tug with Missy while Sarah and I walked around the house and talked. After all, this wasn’t just going to be a caretaker and trainer for Missy; this woman would be watching over of the single most expensive investment of my life: my house.

(Interesting to note: when writing up my instructions on how to care for my precious charges, my house notes tally three pages; Missy runs six pages single-spaced.)

If Belinda and I were infinitely wealthy, Sarah would have moved in that moment. But Belinda hasn’t won a game show yet, and I haven’t sold the rights to my first book... so, we’re a little protective of our money. Sarah offered first: Three grand for the whole shebang. That was $450 savings, which was enormous, but still more than Belinda or I had in our back pocket. It wasn’t that we didn’t think she was worth it; she totally was. She wasn’t just a housesitter or pet sitter... she was a full out replacement me.

She had to get to class, so we told her we’d talk and call or text her in an hour or so. Belinda and I sat down, and we began playing with those logical symbols we call numbers, and tried to keep our emotion out of it. Of the thousand raised, almost every dollar was from my friends. Belinda’s friends hadn’t contributed yet. Even though she and I both hit all our networks with the site, my friends came through first--probably because I had never asked for money before. Time, moral support, a good thought here and there, sure, but never actual mullah.

The fact was, Sarah was worth it. David would have given her a crate in a house and 30 minutes a day of training. She would have been around other dogs, but it would have been stressful for her to make the transition. I didn’t realize how stressful until I saw her on video at Paradise Ranch. This allowed Missy the consistency of staying in the same place, it gave me someone to be using the house and keeping it occupied, and Missy would get training... Sarah wasn’t certified yet, but she had knowledge and wanted to use it. But above and beyond all that, I believe that Sarah will truly care for Missy. She will invest in her emotionally and intellectually. Missy will get to snooze on the couch in the morning, sleep nights on the bed, wander the house, sunbathe on the deck, and just be—that thing dogs do so well. She’ll just have a different caregiver... a better one in fact: Stephanie 2.0, the novelist and dog trainer/pet sitter, not Stephanie Beta, not-yet-published writer and dog emergency foster/transporter.

At some point during this whole crisis, Belinda asked me, “Have you read The Untethered Soul?”

“No, but I’m guessing you’re telling me I should untether my soul and be open to possibility,” I said as I rubbed my head, trying to ignore my empty stomach and hopeless heart.

She was right though: I had to let go, succumb to the ocean waves, let the universe carry me to those distant island shores.

“David did the biggest favor for us. Missy wasn’t meant to go to him. She needs to be here.”

Belinda is right. My gut is right. I’m hoping Belinda can raise the remaining funds. In the meantime, we have enough to get started, and if Missy does get adopted before the 10 weeks is up, we’ve all agreed to one week’s severance pay for Sarah so she doesn’t lose money by refusing other jobs.

I leave in twelve hours. Sarah will be here, probably in her pajamas and a baseball cap, as the cab rolls up to take me to the airport at 6:20 AM. I’ll say my goodbye to Missy and pass the leash, and the life, over to Sarah.

I don’t know how the little lady will handle it. I’m hoping she’ll easily transfer the trust and the bond over to Sarah. This is new for me; having to walk away before I’ve found the entrance to the path she should be on. Or maybe I should just accept that this, here, and now with Sarah, is precisely where I was supposed to take Missy all along.

Giving Thanks to the Village

2013-03-08T03:25:00.001-08:00

Throughout my journeys in dog rescue, I have been struck with awe at the kindness and generosity of strangers. Tonight, it is the kindness and generosity of my friends and colleagues that brings me to tears. My heart is overflowing with gratitude.

Let’s be honest: asking for help doesn’t come easy to me. I have been disgusted with myself these past couple of months with how often I have had to ask for help. And I have been equally grateful to others who have provided that help. I had to admit that I couldn’t train Missy on my own; in response to that, I was given two training sessions to learn how to teach Missy the basics. When I stupidly mis-clipped her leash to her collar and Missy trotted off across the PetSmart parking lot, my yell for assistance was answered by an employee on his break. And when Missy was attacked at the end of the block, my cry for help was answered by neighbors, strangers, and a fire truck full of firefighters.

Even the small complaints of “I don’t know what to do,” (which is really, “Please help me” in disguise) were answered by friends like Amy who came by to meet Missy and teach her (and me) a few things, and Katya and Mike who safely discovered how Missy was around other dogs and gave me pointers on how to continue training her, and Christy who is forever answering my stupid emails and voicemails asking for advice.

With less than a week left and no new foster or forever home in sight, I was a mess. I was hopeless and helpless. The confidence I had for Marty when I said to Amanda, “Marty will be in a home in two weeks,” simply wasn’t there for Missy. I wasn’t expecting a miracle. I had been hoping for one, but the flame of hope was dying out.

And then a miracle did happen.

That miracle is the amazing and kind and generous cast of this insane production called my life. Friends I’ve known since I was four year old, and friends I have only known four years... they’ve come together in my time of need.

My Plan B for Missy, should a foster not be found, was to go to David’s in-home training program. Essentially, I’d be headed to my distant location job, and my foster kid would be packed up and sent to boarding school. She wouldn’t be in a concrete cell with cinder block walls and a chain link door; she’d be in a crate in David’s house to sleep and during the day, she’d learn to be with other dogs and get training with David.

Because of the generosity of Missy’s silent financier, I didn’t think it would be a problem. Granted $75 a day is a lot, but $20 a day to be boarded in a kennel with no stimulation or comfort indefinitely seemed like a greater waste of money to me (not that I had either $75 or $20 a day to spend; it was a theoretical opinion.) Belinda sent a request to Missy’s financial supporter for two weeks’ worth of training, knowing that 30 days worth was a large chunk of change, especially when she already spent $400 on lessons.

When she didn’t hear back, I went into panic mode.

I couldn’t drop Missy off at a kennel on Saturday. I couldn’t. I can’t. I won’t. In my mind, I angrily put aside my much-needed fence and now my much-needed deck (I learned today it is being ravished by termites; it’s only a matter of time before it’s gone and they move onto the structure of the house.) I would have to pay for Missy’s training.

I then learned Chipin.com, rescue’s most trusted resource for fundraising, was closing its doors on March 7^th. I scoured the internet trying to find a replacement site that I could raise the money on. The universe sent me a lifeline. I left Christy an advice-seeking voicemail last night about sites to use, and this morning Christy received a fundraising effort from youcare.com—a site she hadn’t heard of. I sent the info to Belinda and within in an hour, Belinda set up a fundraising page for Missy’s training.

Even though our ultimate goal is $2250, Belinda set her goal low: $1000. That would be almost enough to get two weeks. I knew I’d be contributing whatever we couldn’t raise, but if we could raise the $1000, that’d be only $150 I’d need to put in. The dream of my fence was beginning to reappear.

If Missy’s silent sponsor did respond to Belinda’s request, then Missy would get a full 30 days. If I could get 100 people to donate just $20, we’d have enough even without Missy’s sponsor. I could do that. I began to have confidence—the kind of confidence I had for finding Marty a home, I now had for raising $2000 in two days.

The flame of hope brightened and strengthened.

To my grateful bewilderment, in only four hours from the site going live, a third of the $1000 goal was already raised. I told Belinda how incredibly overwhelmed I was with my friends’ generosity.

“Are you crying?” she asked, surprised.

“No... Well, yes. I just can’t believe how much they gave!”

As I write this, only twelve hours from when it all began, with only a dozen contributors, we are just $65 short of our goal. Actually, Belinda is expecting a $50 check from one of her supporters, and a friend of mine said she’d contribute in the morning. So really, we did raise $1000 in less than a day.

This morning, before I began the Missy fundraising effort, I read a blog that Katya wrote about a dog she tried to help, but couldn’t: (http://katyalidsky.tumblr.com/post/44738607494/chesters-music.) My eyes welled up with tears; I was so sad for her. I wrote to her that she shouldn’t feel like she failed this dog. And here’s why:

As we walk along our path in life, we encounter many souls. We stop for some, some join us for a time, sometimes we even veer off our own path to help another find their true path. But we can’t help them all. We can’t carry every one that needs help; our hands get full. But that is not our failure. We can only hope that there is someone behind us on the path that will pick up those we can’t carry.

Tonight I am thankful for all those souls on my path that walk not behind me, but beside me. The cast of characters in my life’s journey are helping me carry this one, helping me help Missy. They helped by providing moral support, by sending out messages of her journey, and today they gave from their wallets. Some may not have even a dime to spare, but they gave anyway.

My Christmas and birthday gifts consist of PetSmart and PetCo cards and dog blankets and dog toys. My friends and family know that the greatest gift I can receive is one that I can pass on to those I want to help. The gift people gave today--the gift of schooling to Missy, is two-fold. It is for her, certainly. But it is also for me.

Just because I write certain things to other people, doesn’t mean I apply the same words to myself. I feel like a failed Missy. On a grand scale, I hope to leave this earth a better place than the way I found it. When it comes to each dog, I need to leave them in a better place than where I found them (or rather, they found me.) Taking Missy to a kennel would have ripped my heart out. And I’m quite certain I would not have been able to contain my pain in front of her. Taking her to David’s, although it will be hard, will not be the same sense of failure, betrayal, and abandonment.

I truly believe – I need to believe – that this training will give Missy the leg up on a forever home, and if not that, at least a foster home where she can be happy with other canine friends. I knew what she needed, and I wanted to help her, but I couldn’t do it alone.

This gift my friends gave me isn’t just of money. It’s time. For the past few days, I have been spending my days either prepping for my job or trying to find somewhere for Missy to go. And, when not actively doing that, simply being depressed and sad about the situation. Missy has spent the past few days alone on the couch, giving off an air of depression, probably picking up on my stressful and distressing vibes.

But now, thanks to this support, I can relax for a moment. I can do what I want to and need to be doing right now: spending every last second I have with Missy simply with Missy. Not searching for money and a foster. Not being upset and distraught. But doing what every dog does so well, that thing that I need to keep relearning to do: to just be.

Here is the link to Missy’s fundraising campaign:

http://www.youcaring.com/other/Missy-Rescued-Staffie-needs-Boarding-Training-/45670

You can still give even though we’ve reached our goal. Every dollar will go toward her training, and the more we get, the more training she will receive.

Missy thanks you, Belinda thanks you, and I thank you. From the bottom of our hearts. I am forever grateful and thankful. Missy will get training, I will get peace of mind, and for the next two days, I will get to just be with this beautiful golden girl, knowing that because of all of you, I do indeed get to leave her in a better place than where she found me.

Sassy, Street-Wise Female Seeks Partner in Crime

2013-02-22T15:35:00.001-08:00

Many people describe a dog as being “eager to please.” It’s just about standard in any dog ad I see. But I don’t think that’s a true across-the-board statement for the canine species. Take Missy here. Is she doing what I ask because she wants me to be happy? Nope. She’s doing it (if she is doing it) because either a. she enjoys the challenge of trying to figure out what I’m saying and is proud that she has, or b. she feels that whatever I am requesting happens to be a good idea to her as well.

That’s what you get when you have a super smart, independent dog. Oh sure, she loves to cuddle and she wants to play and constantly wants to bully me into letting her on my lap (when I’m at the dinner table,

or sitting in a chair reading,

or some other inconvenient place where my lap in inaccessible.)

This doesn’t make her a bad dog. But it certainly makes her a unique sell.

And sell I must; the PR campaign has begun as the countdown to employment has started to tick. Missy needs a new couch to surf or her forever home to magically appear before March 2^nd. There might be a few day leeway on that, but just be certain, I want her to be comfy in her place in only 10 days time.

Missy’s initial assessment when she was couped up in a vet’s office was that she’s an “active” dog. She’d enjoy hiking, running, playing fetch for hours on end. Not sure if just getting out of the crate changed her attitude, or if the enormous amount of good food she gets through training has packed on enough pounds, but she’s not the “active” dog people have been describing. She gets ramped up and runs about every now and again, but it’s not like she needs to be running five hours a day. She’s no Marty either though; she’s not content to lazily walk along the sidewalk, snooze on the couch all day long and not pick up her head to eat dinner.

I’ve never had issues promoting my canine companions, as I’ve been lucky: they’ve all been easy. Missy is a work in progress. She’s come a long way in her six weeks here with me. David’s training has made a huge difference. Missy is more focused, listens a good 20-30% more often than before, and she seems a little more relaxed. I still can’t seem to coordinate myself to the leash training, which is the thing I need most, but I can’t fault Missy. It’s me who can’t get her shit together.

In complete disregard of David’s advice, I’ve resolved to take Missy out into the world. Do I have 100% control of her? No. Does she have 100% recall when I tell her to Come? No. But I don’t know any dog that obedient. In fact, I think completely obedient dogs are kinda boring. Don’t they have their own opinions? I know Missy does.

Missy went back to the vet this week to get her limp checked out. I had gleaned from our previous vet visit that the doc thought Missy might be “vicious” or “unpredictable.” At that point, Missy didn’t want anyone touching her. This time, the doc got pretty far into the examination without a problem. It wasn’t until she and the tech tried to get Missy to turn over that Missy clamped down on her hand. Missy shouldn’t have bitten her (she didn’t break skin, but still, putting a human hand in her mouth is unacceptable), but I could see why Missy did it. She felt threatened suddenly. She didn’t want to lie down and two people were trying to hold her down and expose her vulnerable belly. I would have fought back too.

Later on, Missy rolled over on her side on her own to get a belly rub from the doc. Missy isn’t doing what you ask because it’ll please you; she’s doing and not doing what you ask because it will please her. The vet seemed unconvinced.

After a few hours in her vet tech’s care (Missy needed to get her ears cleaned and x-rays done, so she spent the morning there) the doc came out to tell me what I had already known but was nice to hear from someone else. “Missy isn’t vicious; she just has an attitude.”

That pretty much sums it up. She’s not going to rip your face off if you touch her, but if you try to make her move in a position she doesn’t want to be in, she will tell you firmly, loudly, and possibly too harshly, to get your damn hands off her.

I explained to the vet that Missy and I are actually quite similar in some respects, which in some ways makes training easier but in other ways are just two stubborn beasts butting heads. I have thumbs; she has teeth. Believe it or not, that’s a fair fight.

Missy expresses her discontent or disagreement with me in various forms. If it’s not butting me with her head or slamming into me full force at a running gait, she growls into a crescendoed bark. When I tried to ignore her barking to get me to play while I was reading, she took it up one more notch and put my arm in her mouth. That was a definite Not Allowed, but I must commend her ingenuity in her effort to get what she wanted.

Her mat training has given her more focus, and having her sit and wait at thresholds has given her more patience than she had weeks ago. But if she remained confined to the backyard and house, there was no way she would find a new home, nor could I tell people what she was like in the outside world.

I wanted to know if she was “okay with dogs” because let’s face it: it is the first thing adopters ask. So I took her to the one place I knew there would be dogs in a safe environment: the adoption fair at Centinela Feed Store. I wasn’t there to adopt out Missy; I just wanted to see what she’d do if she was ever allowed into one.

After a few spats and almost-spats, I determined that she’s fine if a dog is a good distance away. Little dogs are less threatening. But any dog of any size an inch front of her face: this is where all hell breaks loose. The pretty blue pocket pittie that we were next to got the brunt of one of Missy’s sudden hissy-fits for no reason except she was a foot away. This poor little bully, who already had a sad face, slunk back, ears down, and buried her head.

After a good amount of time standing in the sun and being in and out of the store for coolness breaks, Missy chose to hunker down in the coolest spot she could find.

I figured she had had enough for the day. We returned home where I planned our next outing and Missy sought relief from the heat.

Our first venture began at PetSmart. I was on the hunt for a smaller, more manageable treatbag so I didn’t have to tie a toolbag-sized treat bag around my waist any time we went for a walk. I figured a dog-friendly self-contained place would be a good starting point, rather than say, Griffith Park with wildlife to contend with.

The drive was fine, as Missy was excited to finally get back into the truck. Once in the parking lot, my biggest fear came true. I wasn’t at a rest stop in the middle Nebraska, just a parking lot in the little mountain town of Tujunga, but when Missy launched ahead, the leash went to it’s fullest length and then SNAP!, a metal ring from her collar flew to the side, the leash hit the pavement and Missy kept trotting away from me, the same level of adrenaline rushed into my heart.

“Missy, COME! Somebody help me! COME!” I yelled to Missy but also was hoping the two people I had seen in front of a nearby store would come to my aid. They ignored my plea even when I yelled “Help!” a second time. An employee from PetSmart had recently walked around the side of the building and it was he who came running. Missy didn’t hear my initial panicked plea, but the second “COME!” made her turn and look at me.

She was 15 yards away, but I saw my panic register on her face. “Whoa. What’s wrong?” her expression said as she trotted back to me.

The PetSmart employee was by my side as Missy returned to me and I was frantically explaining that the collar broke... but it hadn’t broke. I had, for the first time ever, latched the leash onto the hook for the tag rather than the hook of the collar. The tag and hook were what had flown off onto the ground. The collar was intact. It was clear that like most things in my life, my problem was self-induced.

We visited three pet stores that day because finding exactly what I want is always a long, complicated journey (see last sentence of previous paragraph.) Missy did well, and no longer lunged at people. She wasn’t fond of dogs, but people were now becoming a normalcy and nothing to bark about. It wasn’t until I got home and took off her harness that I saw the evidence of just how stressful it had been for her. Dandruff covered her back as if she had been in a snowstorm. With that new knowledge, I realized that the day was even more successful than I had initially believed.

Inclement weather (yes, that's hail on the deck) kept us at home for a few more days, but I was determined to make her a social dog.

Maybe one day she would even be good with dogs... but then something happened – and this time it wasn’t self-induced.

On our short evening walk around the block on Monday, just as we reached the corner at the end of my block while Missy was about to find the perfect pooping spot, a blur of canine came from behind us and jumped her. He took both Missy and me by surprise. I had never had a dog attack while mine was on the leash the other wasn’t – he didn’t even have a collar I could grab. I did the only thing I knew I could do: I yelled for help. I tried to push the other dog off Missy, but she was already having the upper hand. Dogfights always sound worse than they are, and Missy was clearly winning. I didn’t want to pull her back, giving the other dog a way in to win.

The response to my call for help was astonishing. A van travelling south pulled up next to the curb laying on the horn to distract the dog. A firetruck heading north stopped on the opposite side of the road and rag their sirens. Neighbors came out of their houses. In all this commotion, the dog took off back across the four-lane street as the owner headed my way along with a team of firefighters.

Missy was barking (but luckily not lunging) at the men surrounding us. I was feeling her legs and looking at her body everywhere. The owner apologized and explained that company had come over and left the front door open. The dog dashed across the street (without getting hit is a miracle.) “He doesn’t really fight. He just likes to dominate and then he’s done.”

I told him he needed to get a collar on that dog. There was no way I could have gotten him off my dog. Nothing to hold onto. One of the firefighters asked if I wanted them to call animal control. I thanked him, but said I didn’t want a dog needlessly put into the system as a vicious dog. Missy looked unscathed (physically), and it wasn’t negligence – it was an accident. What would have happened outside PetSmart is Missy had seen another dog after her leash broke?

The outcome of the event was the best one could hope for in an event as traumatizing as a dog attack. Certainly this wasn’t going to help Missy trust dogs. And I wasn’t sure how to gain Missy’s trust back. I had been teaching her two things: 1. not all dogs are out to attack her, so she doesn’t need to attack first, and 2. I would protect her. In this moment, not only was a dog out to attack her, but I couldn’t protect her. She had to hold her own. All I could do was enlist other humans.

I’m purposefully not taking Missy anywhere I know dogs to be. However, she still needs people-time. And so we had our first journey to the coffee house on Wednesday. One of the regulars who had met Marty back in December said, “Hey, that’s not Marty. Did he get a home?” I said yes. “Oh, I brought these toys for him.”

He had a frisbee, a rope, and a giant “pit-sized” ball. I thanked him and said I’m sure Missy would enjoy them too. Marty made quite an impact. And look how hard it was to get him a home. Missy needs even more magical universal timing to get her to the right place... and we have a lot less time to do it in.

Missy still had issues with dogs passing by and a bike too, but otherwise she was polite and gentle with all people who came by. She even relaxed enough to just sit or lie down. It wasn’t as easy as it was with Marty, but that was only because I had to be on the lookout for other canines.

Missy finally has an ad on adopt-a-pet. Sure, she needs some more training, and isn’t always going to do as she’s told. But I think she’s ready to find her person. She’s not a chill dog. But she’s also not the crazy nutcase that I took home six weeks ago.

She’s become used to the home life, and I’d hate to see her go back into boarding.

She’s gotten used to snoozing on the couch, and getting treats for having manners, and running about the house with her stuffed toys.

I don’t regret keeping her. I think it was better than where she was before, locked up in a vet’s office, costing the rescue money and not allowing Missy the chance to really be a dog. The idea that she might go back there now though, feels like a betrayal.

So, if you or someone you know would like to take on this sassy, independent girl – even just as a foster, not a forever home if you're hesitant – please respond to her ad. Here it is (oh, and she is is highly trainable, but ignore the part about “eager to please.”)

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet/8500428-los-angeles-california-american-pit-bull-terrier-mix

Training Days

2013-02-09T17:45:00.001-08:00

People often want to train dogs for a living because they love animals and prefer their company to that of people. Unfortunately, the trainers soon learn that dog training is less about handling our loyal companions and more about dealing with difficult humans. (Read: I am that difficult human.)

It took some time to get the financial approval for Missy to get someone to train her besides me who was merely trying to learn to teach via youtube videos. I had told Belinda, “Missy either needs to get trained, or someone needs to train me to train her.”

I had no idea they would take the second option.

It had been my hope that she would go to boarding school. Not because I don’t love the lass, but because I felt she would get excellent training, some socialization, and if I got a job while she was away, I wouldn’t feel as though I was abandoning her. Instead, after speaking with the trainer, David, everyone involved (aside from me) decided that it would be best if she learn and stay in this “perfect” foster home where she didn’t have other dogs around and she could relax.

A dog that needs training isn’t a “bad dog.” She’s not a “evil dog” who is actively trying to piss you off. A dog that needs training is a dog with psychological issues that no one ever attended to. In Missy’s case, she’s hypersensitive. She barks at the slightest noise outside. Her eyes dart everywhere when she’s someplace new. She lacks focus and stability.

And yet with all that, she’s fucking brilliant.

No, seriously, to put it in my native New England speech with a hint of Bostonian, “She’s wicked smart.” She’s been self-reliant for so long with no human to guide her, that she’s developed into quite a genius.

Poor David, who wants to train dogs such as this brilliant pittie, is sadly stuck with my poor excuse of a human brain to mold. It’s evident from the onset that Missy’s intellect to pick up new habits is far better than my coordination skills to lead her into such habits.

Missy had to break some habits to learn new ones, but I had to untrain myself how I had been trying to teach her. This was why I wanted her to go to a professional. I wasn’t doing it right. Granted I wanted to learn, but as a perfectionist, I am quite short with myself when I don’t immediately pick something up. And unlike a dog who might get frustrated and whose only expression of such a little nippiness or grumbling, David had to hear my mouth going.

Which evidently, is one of my main errors: I talk too much. Who woulda thought?

“Just say the command once. Never repeat. People use too many words,” David explained.

So now, rather than repeating a word half a dozen times, it’s more sing-songy as in “Come... Come... Come--Shit!” as I acknowledge my error and try to force myself not to repeat the word.

Missy enjoys the game of learning “Come” which involves me throwing a treat for her to get and then as soon as she gets it, yell, “Come!” and she returns immediately for another treat. I’m supposed to be calling her away from distractions, but being on my own, I have to create my own distractions.

David believes in “The Mat.” It’s not a dog bed, but a simple mat where Missy learns “Go to your mat,” which means she goes and lies down to wait for me to tell her it’s Okay to get up. At first I was a annoyed with this, as my main concern was walking her on the leash, but after a couple of goes on The Mat, I could see that David’s chronology of lessons made sense.

The Mat isn’t just a place to sit and lie down. It’s a Yoga Mat of sorts. Here, Missy gains focus and attention. She must concentrate to stay Down while I walk around and away from her. She must be patient to receive her treat without grabbing it out of my hand.

The Mat is the foundation of focus. (And yes, she needs to work on her aim for getting onto the Mat.)

I noticed her being calmer after our work on it. Granted, after our first session with David, the girl was more tuckered out than I had ever seen her. David was right: a dog’s brain burns more calories than her body. After our hour and a half introductory lesson where Missy excelled and received a pound of sausage in rewards, Missy didn’t even bother to join me for dinner.

She zonked out on the couch, and stared glassy-eyed at the TV for the rest of the night.

Subsequent training sessions didn’t elicit such a reaction, but she does seem more focused. That being said, just like me, that doesn’t stop her mouth from going.

David has said that with the focus and training, she should stop being so barky at everything around her. I think she’s just got a lot to say. If we’re about to go for a walk and I pick up my phone to respond to a text, she’ll sit and stare at me for half a minute. Then a little grumble begins to come from her throat. It rises up for the next ten seconds until it erupts into a full blown frustrated “Let’s Go!” in canine-speak.

My instruction to stop the barking is aversion therapy. If she barks, call her to me and give her a treat. “But then she thinks I’m rewarding her for barking,” I said.

“No,” David replied. “You’re rewarding her for coming and sitting.”

“So when she arrives and sits, and I give her a treat and then she barks again with her mouth full (which is exactly what she does), what do I do?”

I’m not sure if David understood, as he didn’t give me a viable solution.

During my first session, I told David that Missy was treat-driven. She did as he said because he had treats. He said, “No, she does what I say because of how I’m communicating with her.”

And yet, without a treat, she doesn’t do crap for me. I told him that upon our second session. He said, “Eventually you phase out the treats. For now, you need them.”

So, my guess is that it is a combination of how we communicate and the treats.

Interestingly, Missy does not allow David to touch her the way I do. He said if she doesn’t Sit, I can gently touch her behind, but he can’t. He showed me, his finger just alighting on her backside, and Missy’s head whipped around, ready to snap.

I, on the other hand, have full reign. I had been fully taking for granted the trust this dog put in me. We’re at the end of a full four weeks now. The longest foster here. All my others moved on within a month (except for the legendary Tia who, had I had this house back when I had her, she probably would still be with me.) It is only now that Missy has finally relaxed enough to sleep on her back—which is how I’m used to seeing my fosters snooze.

Missy’s a tough chick from the streets. When she meets you, she needs to tell you up front and loudly, “Don’t fuck with me, or I’ll fuck you up.” Once she has sufficiently terrified you with her menacing approach, she sniffs, bows her head and then leans into you for a pet.

This is a major problem.

I want to take her hiking, to the coffee house, down the street, but David keeps telling me she must be backyard-bound until she is 100% trained. I disagree. I’m not going to take her out during rush hour pedestrian traffic, but she needs to be desensitized. The girl barks at people on the sidewalk when she’s inside the car and I’m driving. She needs to learn to shut up and accept the world around her. She can’t do that being in the backyard.

If Missy went to David’s for boarding school, I imagine she would get better stimuli. Since I don't have a kennel full of dogs and visitors throughout the day at my disposal, I'll have to make do. I need to be able to have people over and not fear that she’ll be unwelcoming and possibly dangerous. I need her to be able to walk on a leash around the block. I don’t know how far I’ll get before a job will call me away, so I need to do as much as possible as quickly as possible.

I want her to meet new people and show them what a sweet dog she is. I want them to know the kooky girl whose muzzle becomes a waterfall anytime food in her vicinity.

I want them to know the uber warm fuzzy cuddler she is for me in the evenings while watching TV.

And I want them to know the highly intelligent and independent canine she is.

Her ad is still not up on adopt-a-pet or petfinder.com. I worry about what will happen when I become gainfully employed. I’m hoping David will take her for a couple weeks of training if she can’t go into a foster home right away. Some dogs know that I’m just a transitional person. Some think I’m their forever home. I can’t get a sense from Missy what she’s thinking. She seems quite happy with her Bunny and her couch and bed and my bed (she’s been sleeping on my bed with me for a couple of weeks and appears to be fully housetrained now.)

She loves lying in the grass or on the deck.

She seems content to just be, with no labels or titles. Perhaps it’s best that way. Life is way less stressful when you stop thinking about it.

So while I learn from David how to handle a leash, I’ll try to pick up some Missy’s perspective on life. Not her perspective on the mailman or on squirrels, but at least on how to just be when it comes to the grand scheme.

Missy needs to relax, and well, so do I. David is the official paid trainer, and Missy the student, but I have a feeling I’m going to learn just as much as Missy will, not from David, but from Missy herself. Students always make the best teachers.

Lessons in Life and Love

2013-01-23T21:51:00.001-08:00

I’ve come to the conclusion that the dogs with the most to learn have the most to teach me. I had it easy with Norman. It was my pre-school class of life lessons – just getting into the swing of things, and no homework. I thought Marty was a handful, but really he was a breeze. He was Freshman year of high school: at the time it was devastatingly hard compared to junior high, but in hindsight, it was a breeze.

And then came Lucy. Evidently, the universe felt I could skip college and take up a masters degree in life learning.

Lucy was supposed to be just a weekend guest, a reprieve from her current boarding situation at the veterinarian’s office. She had an appointment with a trainer and rescuer on that Sunday to assess her and give her lessons. I had finished a job on Friday and thought a new job on Monday might be available – so it fit my schedule perfectly. But then the job fell through, and I couldn’t rightly see any reason to send the girl back to a tiny cage when I had a whole house to myself. So, before even meeting her, I booked her to Casa de Canine.

Completely opposite from Marty’s frozen state, this fifty pound pit bull was crazed, her eyes and nose darted everywhere and her feet slipped on the floor as she tried to race in every direction at once. Belinda, her rescuer, had said on a video introduction of her that Lucy was “active.” I welcomed that, as I wanted a hiking and walking partner to get me back in shape. But the thing is “active” is one of those words like “cozy” and “vintage.” Cozy doesn’t mean inviting; it means “tiny.” And vintage... try “found in the garage and we’re not sure what it once was.” “Active” in this case, wasn’t a running partner, but an untamed, untrained street dog with two months of pent-up energy.

Lucy arrived at South LA Shelter pregnant. She had her pups there and raised them until they were all adopted. As is what happens with so many pregnant canines in the shelter, the puppies are adopted and the mom is left to die. Lucy was just a pup herself. Belinda (a cat rescuer) networked Lucy, raised some funds, found a foster, and arranged for Lucy to get spayed, have a few days at the vet’s office to recuperate and then be transported to the foster two hours away.

A month later the vet called: “When are you picking up Lucy?”

Errr....

The foster had spoken out of turn; the rescue had never agreed to take on Lucy. That left Lucy sitting at the vets while Belinda came up with a very late Plan B. Belinda had to get this dog a foster and preferably some sort of assessment by a dog-expert so she could place her more appropriately. That’s what Sunday was for: meet down at the LA Coliseum for the free dog training and meet a pit bull rescuer.

Lucy, who didn’t know her own name, was most definitely not ready for this class. The dogs leapt from one bench to another, off leash, following their owners with precession and dedication. Lucy was out of her league with this class, and I was out of my league with her. I knew I could do the basics: sit, stay, come, lay down, etc. But teaching a dog to walk on a leash, teaching her to not lunge at people, teaching her to have some sort of respect for the human world: this was beyond my common knowledge.

A light bulb went on in my head: this is what Amanda was used to; this is why she was so over-reactive to Marty. She had grown accustomed to the out of control, unruly pit bull. She couldn’t believe Marty really was a gentleman.

Lucy, on the other hand, was no lady. She is the first dog to piss in my house. Right in front of me. Only twenty minutes after she had gone out. When I admonished her, she didn’t even acknowledge my existence.

The rescuer we were supposed to meet to assess Lucy did not show. It was probably for the best. You can’t rightly train a dog when she doesn’t even care what you think and you can’t even call her name.

Testing out a few names, Lucy was dropped for Missy. I don’t believe that’s really her name, but she responded to it 50% of the time (which was 100% more than she responded to Lucy.) Her crazed, a.k.a. “active,” personality calmed some after a couple of days. I had construction going on in the house, meaning she had to be either in a crate or outside while it was going on. The crate Belinda loaned me was three times larger than the vet’s office cage she had been in for two months, but it still didn’t feel right. However, not only could I not trust her to not attack the boys working, but I had no idea when she’d just drop trou and take a shit on the floor.

Which is also why she unfortunately sleeps in the crate in the living room every night. It feels so unnatural to not have her in my bedroom, but I can’t risk her having an accident (or, what appears to me to be an “on purpose.”) She is crate-trained, so when I tell her to go to bed, she does just that and I have no worries that she’ll last the night.

While workers tore down my stand-up shower to create a laundry closet, Missy and I worked outside on her skills. She was a bit underweight when I got her, so adding a few pounds in treats for a job well done certainly wasn’t an issue. I watched Victoria Stillwell youtube videos trying to glean how to get her to walk on a leash without pissing me off within thirty seconds.

Most dogs catch on that when they pull and you stop, that to get you to walk again, they back up taking the tension off their leash. Missy doesn’t get this. Much like she doesn’t get boundaries: i.e., the counter is not something to put your paws on to reach more treats; the doors are made of glass, and thereby impermeable to thrashing canines trying to get at the squirrel across the yard; when I say, “It’s okay, stop now,” I actually know what I’m talking about, so SHUT UP.

First and foremost, Missy had to give a shit. Perhaps she had never bonded with a human before. She seemed sweet for the most part, except when she lunged at people while out walking. (After day two, I had to restrict our ventures to the backyard until I at least had control of her on the leash and she’d listen to me.) I informed Belinda that Missy needs to go into professional training – it may be something I can’t solve. By day four, she cared what I thought -- mainly because while I was thinking, I had a treat in my hand. She’ll do anything for a treat. And given her possible street status, I didn’t even need to buy special treats: just plain old dog food was enough to get her attention.

Despite spending two months in an animal hospital, Missy’s health wasn’t top notch. When I picked her up she had a cone on her head and a bandage on her tail. The sad diagnosis was “Happy Tail” – when a dog wags her tail so much in a cage that it cuts opens and won’t heal.

I opted to forgo the cone as I saw her neck was red with a rash from it. Within two days of her being at my place she was an itchy mess, rubbing herself on walls, me, even the stucco. When I took her to the vet, she scratched so hard on their reception desk area that it took the paint off. And that wasn’t even the main reason I took her in. Last Tuesday night, while I dealt with the aftermath of contractors at my place, she took the bandage off her tail. The side of my house now has blood splatters on it. And, I just realized last night, so does my living room wall.

Missy is distinctly different from Marty in this: she has a benefactor. There is no hassle when she needs health care. Within only hours, Belinda had made an appointment with the nearest vet to me and a credit card was already on file there. My foster was a trustafarian of sorts. Fostercare is by astronomically easier in this case.

Missy got her tail re-bandaged and some meds for her ever-increasing itchiness. Unfortunately, although steroids decrease itching, they increase the need for food and water and thereby also urinating. House-training was going to get even more difficult. But, I wouldn’t be missing chunks of wall from where she scraped her ribs across the corners.

Belinda met me again at the Coliseum this past Sunday, coffee and breakfast in hand. She noticed it right away: Missy was starting to get in tune with me. She listened. She watched. Sure, a soccer game, a kid running quickly, a squirrel darting across the lawn – all those would leave me a faint memory in Missy’s mind. But, in an average normal situation, Missy cared what I thought; she wanted to please me, or maybe she just wanted a cookie. Either way, she no longer was the wholly independent street momma. She had a human.

I was that human. And she would guard me with her life. She hasn’t been aggressive, but her body language says it all. The way she sits just in front of me, scanning the horizon.

Hell, she even guarded my laundry center before it was installed.

Now I have to teach her that I’m here to protect her and she needn’t take all the responsibility.

Any time you bring a dog into your life, there’s a period of adjustment – and I don’t mean for you. Missy has to learn how to live in a house, how to walk next to a human, how to let me lead, not her, and that although I appreciate her protecting me, she needs to know that I reciprocate in kind. A dog is not “owned” by a human. It is a relationship of balance. She protects me, and I protect her. I still need the upperhand; she’s my sidekick, not the other way around.

I don’t know how long it will take for her understand that. The vet looked at her teeth and assessed that she was a “cage biter.” Her teeth are ground down to the pulp in a few areas where she’s try to gnaw her way out of a cage – and not at the vet’s. This young girl may have never known what it is to relate to a human with humanity.

Belinda is looking into getting Missy into a professional training program - a two week bootcamp where she will be boarded and trained. But until then, I can only do my best, only just get by in the master’s class. Training isn’t just about command and response. I can do some of that, but mostly what I can do is provide a foundation: the love and bond that it takes for a dog to care; to prove to Missy that indeed we humans do have humanity. Life isn’t about popping out puppies while trapped in a cage. Life is about romping in a yard, cuddling with your person, and most of all it’s about love.

Missy, I’ll do the best I can. Maybe you won’t be able to walk on a leash by the time you leave here, but you’ll at least know what it is to be truly loved.

A Canine Christmas Wish

2012-12-30T10:24:00.001-08:00

When I ask a dog to do something like Sit or Stay, I never expect him to do it, but am pleasantly surprised when he does. The same goes with my requests to the universe--perhaps because I don’t so much as request as I state my need. And in case you haven’t noticed, “you don’t always get what you want, but you get what you need.”

“Marty needs a home by December 22^nd.” That was the statement sent up into the ether, and what came down was a plan of people, timing, and goodwill to make it all happen.

Amanda said to me as we walked back to our vehicles from delivering Marty to his forever home, “You said you’d get him a home in two weeks, and you did.” I didn’t get Marty a home; it takes a village to save a dog and a few benevolent spirits to make sure everyone hits their mark and plays out their scenes appropriately.

Jim and Denise never would have seen Marty’s ad, had it not been for Katya’s online help. They wouldn’t have been so intrigued had I not listened to Katya and Amanda’s advice to get a video of the boy. And the Thanksgiving picture my friend took of her child playing with Marty also was one of the things that led to Marty getting adopted.

Katya had her own doggie drama going on, and I am forever grateful for her taking the time to help out Marty. Her stories can be found here:

http://katyalidsky.tumblr.com/

The Story of a Rescued Dog Parts 1 through 3. She, too, needed her rescued dog to get a home by Christmas, and wouldn’t you know it? The universe obliged.

A long time ago a wise woman said to me, “Good things happen to good people doing good things.” It seems to me that when you work toward the greater good, something bigger than yourself, that the world will bend to your needs and help you in any way it can.

Marty didn’t just get a home; he got a great home, the home he was always meant to have. I have no doubt that he will live a long and happy life with Jim and Denise – that is, as long as he stops re-enacting scenes from Underdog.

I might have mentioned that Marty was having some separation issues in his last week with me.

When I came home late on our final night together, I discovered my hiking boots neatly sitting on the center of the couch next to where he lay. My dirty, smelly shirt I had been wearing previously in the day was in the dining room. (Clearly I made the right decision to change before going out in public.) And my jeans were in the hallway. The hamper had been tipped over, but nothing torn. The bed had been slept in, but not romped in; there was a dog-shaped impression in the pillows and blankets.

It saddened me even more to let him go the next day, and I wondered how he would handle it. Would he ever trust or love again? Would he think I abandoned him? Or would he soon forget me and transfer his love to Jim and Denise?

Jim had said they were looking for a chill dog. I could see why: the two of them were easy-going and kind. Marty matched them perfectly. Their house was beautiful and uncluttered. Marty expertly walked on their hardwood floors, but enjoyed the added upgrade that my house lacked: rugs. He hunkered down next to the couch and made himself comfortable.

But not before committing the ultimate faux pas, in complete defiance of my warning days earlier in the office: “Don’t piss on the Christmas tree.”

In his defense, there were no ornaments on the tree yet. It simply looked like a pine tree in their living room. I saw his intent, the leg lifted in slow motion and I rose up from my seat on the couch as I hurriedly stated in Marty’s direction, “No, no, no, no--not on the Christmas tree!”

Marty stopped mid-stream, only a few drops landed on the floor. He rocked his ears back and looked at me, perplexed on why he couldn’t do it. “It’s a tree, isn’t it? And I’m allowed to urinate on trees, am I not?”

Everyone in the room was laughing and Marty came back to me, trying to understand this strange human reaction. I was pleased that they didn’t mind, and at the same time mortified that Marty had done it.

Marty loved Jim; that was quite clear.

The bond between a boy and his dog is sacred, and it was obvious that Jim offered that bond and Marty willingly accepted. Marty liked Denise as well, but I had a feeling this was going to be Jim’s dog.

When I felt like Marty was comfortable, it was time to take my leave.

I wasn’t heartbroken, although I knew it probably wouldn’t hit me until I returned to my empty house. I only wished there a way for me to explain to Marty that I truly loved him, but this is what we had been working toward.

“Merry Christmas, Marty! This is what I got you for Christmas: your very own family. Do you like it?”

Marty couldn’t understand it, but wagged his tail to see me smile. I gave him a kiss on the forehead. “I love you very much, and am so happy that I got to spend time with you. Now you get to live here, forever.”

I couldn’t speak too many words for fear that tears would follow, and I didn’t want Marty’s last image of me to be a big soppy crying mess. I thanked Jim and Denise for adopting him and told them they could contact me any time with questions or concerns. I wished them all well and left, trying not to look back. I don’t think I could take seeing his sad face in the window.

Jim and Denise have kept in contact. Marty stayed by the window until early evening when they finally convinced him that I wasn’t coming back. They had told me that they would take Marty everywhere with them, and they pretty much withheld that promise. Jim sent me pictures of Marty on the mountains:

And Marty at the Farmer’s Market...

But when Jim didn’t take Marty with him.... well, that’s a new issue.

Marty made the grand transition in forgetting me and immediately gave his heart to Jim. For that, he expected to attend all events with his new person. Jim was working on the car outside one day and took it around the block for a test drive. When he returned, Marty was standing in the front yard.

Jim’s heart beat triple-pace. How did this dog get out? The front door was locked, and the six foot high driveway gate was still closed and locked. Marty was a magician!

A few days later, Denise discovered how the magician did it. He wasn’t so much a magician as he was a superhero. Jim went out to run an errand, and Denise watched from the kitchen window as Marty walked down the driveway, turned around, ran straight toward the driveway gate, and leapt over the six-foot barrier in a single bound.

That dog needs a Frisbee.

So, needless to say, there’s some separation anxiety. Certainly they need to work on that and they need to secure him inside the house if Jim happens to leave for a moment. But who can blame Marty, really? I left him. Maybe he thinks Jim, too, will leave and never return. Or maybe he loves Jim so much, that he simply can’t be without him.

I am ashamed of myself for believing that Marty was unadoptable when I first met him. He came a long way in the 28 days he was with me. Marty really wanted to love. He was scared to in the beginning, but aren’t we all? Giving your heart away takes trust. Now that Marty has given it to his forever person, it might take a little while for him to be totally secure with his choice. Jim will never leave him, I’m quite certain of that. But Marty needs to feel that for himself.

As with all needs, Marty’s need for security will be met. The universe worked pretty hard to get him right where he was supposed to be; I have no doubt that it will continue to work to make sure he stays right where he was always meant to be.

I am grateful to all the benevolent spirits (in the ether and earthbound) who made this Christmas wish possible. Marty, a dog who had been abandoned and living in a communal dog orphanage for almost a year, finally got a real home with two lovely people to call his own. Thank you Denise and Jim for adopting this boy. I’m sure you can channel his energy into some dog agility courses, and once he knows that you will always come back, he should stop hopping the fence. And thank you, Marty, for teaching me that first impressions aren’t everything; every dog deserves a chance. Within every frightened canine is a heart yearning to love; with a little time, a little patience, and a lot of love, you will see that heart grow and become strong, and love harder than any human’s ever could.

Much love to you, Marty, and may the beauty of your life equal the beauty of your soul.

Marty, My Boy

2012-12-15T17:41:00.000-08:00

It’s been said that one can learn to love another—such as it was in arranged marriages and people settling for their less-than-true-love. In some ways, I think dogs do this—at least with fosters. I mean, Marty is a good dog, but he’s not my dog. I’d like him to respect my requests, do as I ask, and be a gentleman. Up till now, he’s managed most of those things, but last Sunday night he showed me that perhaps he started to accept that I was his person, and he was a bit pissed about me leaving him out of my adventures.

We spent the afternoon at an adoption fair, which pretty much consisted of me sitting in a chair and Marty napping on the ground for three hours. At least we were outdoors, and I got to meet a few more rescuers.

Since Marty was so sleepy, I figured an evening alone on the couch for him would be welcome. He could nap, and I could attend a holiday party. I wasn’t worried about him alone in the house; I’d left him numerous times, usually for short stints to the grocery store or running errands. Since Christy introduced him to the front window, this is now what I see every time I back out of the driveway:

And, when I return, the very same face:

I hoped he always left the window shortly after me leaving and through canine psychic ability just managed to appear there right before I arrived back. When I returned Sunday night at 11:30, only five hours after leaving, he wasn’t at the window, and I discovered he did a lot more than just walk away from the window once my truck was out of sight.

I opened the back door to find everything that was once on the kitchen counter now on the floor.

Nothing appeared to be gotten into. His old dog food bag was torn, but not ripped open. His dishes were both empty and had been slipped about. The dining room table seemed almost intact except for the tipped over bag of biscuits in the center of the table. Biscuits, bones, and shrapnel of half-eaten treats littered the floor and seats.

“Marty, what did you do?” I asked, containing my anger and surprise, the big beast cowering beneath me. He discerned I wasn’t exactly proud of his accomplishments.

I looked into the living room. The blanket of the couch was tossed about and the center cushion was lifted out of place, a tear that went straight through the cover, inner cover and the cushion.

“Marty, this is bad!” I yelled, pointing. He lowered himself on the dog bed and turned his belly toward me, expecting punishment.

“What else did you do?”

There was still three more rooms in the house to check.

The front room has nothing in it, so there was nothing to destroy.

In the office, I found my desk chair had been rolled across the room and was up against the file cabinets. The printer cable was on the ground. I must not have had it attached to the laptop, for that at least was safe on the desk.

“Bad dog!” I said to Marty who squinted, and wished he could cover his ears, rolling them back far and down.

The bathroom was untouched (unless he drank out of the toilet bowl, but it looked full enough.)

And then the bedroom.... the blankets and sheets looked as if someone had had quite a good time in various positions. The pillows were scattered. Bone juice was smeared across the sheets under the pillows, on the pillows, in the sheets. And one pillow had a tear in it through the cover and into the padding.

“This is bad!” I yelled again at Marty who was now on the dog bed in the bedroom, as he had gone on the tour with me to view the carnage of his five-hour unsupervised romp.

We went back to the kitchen.

“Marty, this is bad! Why did you do this!” I yelled at him. I didn’t touch him. He cowered again, rolled over and pissed on himself and the floor, expecting to be beaten.

“I’m not going to hit you, Marty! But I’ve very very angry! I don’t even want to see you! Just stay here!”

I don’t think I needed to tell him to stay. I looked up at the counter to grab a paper towel and realized they were gone. The roll sits vertical on a stand, but it’s not a spindle—it’s held on the top and the bottom of the roll. I was a little perplexed. I didn’t remember using them up. Did he eat them?

I grabbed another roll and cleaned up the piss on the kitchen floor. I went back to the living room to see that he had also leaked urine on the dog bed while he had watched me take stock of the couch. It was then that I saw the roll of paper towels.

On the coffee table, lying neatly horizontal, was the roll of paper towels. Next to it was a wad of a few sheets, used and damp, as if someone had tried to clean up some wet mess, and then put the used sheets on the corner of the coffee table.

Now I was really confused. I made a quick call to the one friend with a set of spare keys to my house. “Hey, this is going to sound strange, but were you in my house tonight?”

He said No, which was the answer I was fully expecting, but I had no explanation for the towels. He and I chatted, and while I was about to chalk it up to friendly helpful spirits, he was more concerned that some living, breathing human being at been in my house while I was away and spooked Marty.

But all the doors were locked when I got home—including the deadbolts. Some stranger came in, cleaned up some dog messiness, then locked the door behind themselves, never leaving a trace? That seems unlikely. (Yes, in my mind, less likely than a paranormal experience.)

My friend came over anyway, just to help me work through this, as the idea of a live person violating my space was way more scary to me than a dead one appearing out of thin air.

“Marty, who was here tonight?” I asked the silent and still dog in the kitchen. Not that I would get a response. But I had to ask. This was one weird night.

My friend came over and began his Mythbusters’ trials, showing me that perhaps Marty could have taken the roll off the counter with his teeth. True, but it would have unrolled, was my answer. “He could have carried it neatly to the coffee table,” he proposed.

“Yeah, and then rip off three sheets, mop up where he spilled his water, but after managing that, couldn’t figure out how to open the trash can in the kitchen and deposit the used towels?” I replied skeptically.

This entire time, Marty was in the kitchen in the dark, laying low. He knew I was mad. But the damage was done. There was nothing he could do to reverse it. Although it really made me wonder if perhaps someone had been here with Marty.

I had come home to the office chair being moved before, so that wasn’t a big deal and Marty was fully capable of doing that. Everything else could be explained with simple canine sugar-rush after eating biscuits and bones. Or separation anxiety. Or boredom. Or just getting even for me not taking him with me.

But the paper towels...

Marty never told me who was there, and when I was finally too tired to analyze it any further, my friend left and I went to bed.

I was hesitant to leave Marty home alone again, but Tuesday night I had a movie premiere to go to. (Being unemployed now, I have time to actually socialize.) This time, thinking maybe the silence was bothersome to my boy, I left the TV on for him. I filled up his water bowl to the very top, in the hopes that wouldn’t be an issue. I left food for him, and gave him a few treats. I told him I had to go on another adventure without him, but his job was to watch the house.

Five hours later, I returned, wondering what mess I would encounter. He wasn’t at the front window, which made me happy. I went around the back and snuck a quick peek through the back doors. I saw the back half of his body on the couch... on the red couch, not the beige blanket. Okay, that’s not so bad. Maybe all will be okay.

I opened the kitchen door and walked in. He greeted me, but his tail was down, unsure of my reaction.

“Hi, Marty, were you a good boy?” I asked, surveying the counter and the dining room.

“Looks good so far,” I said to him.

I didn’t want to engage him in a happy welcome unless all really was okay. A quick walk around the house proved that he hadn’t been in the bedroom, and the office looked relatively untouched.

Marty returned to the living room and there was the scene:

The blanket was fully off, and there in the center of the couch, right where he had been sleeping, was my hiking boot.

How could I be mad now? The boot wasn’t wet or chewed on. The laces were intact. Upon flipping up the blanket, I discovered a bone trapped in its wrinkles. Perhaps when putting the pieces of my place back together on Sunday, I inadvertently trapped some good food in the couch.

So, in the end, just a shoe. One sad, lonely shoe. My heart ached a bit for Marty. He thought I was his person.

On Wednesday, I went out again on my own, leaving Marty in charge of the house. When I returned several hours later, he was still in the front room, keeping watch out the window. And there, next to where he sat, was one Nike sneaker.

Now I was really sad for him. I gave him a welcome greeting, and told him he was a good dog. If he needed a piece of my footwear to feel better, then so be it.

Yesterday, I went away for two hours, and when I returned, my Nike sneaker had made it half way across the kitchen floor, but no further. Perhaps I returned mid-act, or perhaps he was going to try to live without it.

People ask how fosters do it—how we don’t get attached. We do get attached. More painfully, the dogs get attached to us. That’s what’s going to kill me. I love this little guy, and I’ll miss him. But what will shatter my heart is the look on his face when I leave him with his forever people.

And that day is fast arriving... that day, is tomorrow.

A most fantastic couple, Jim and Denise, inquired about Marty and we met up on Thursday to see if indeed it was love at first sight. It was. They loved Marty, and Marty seemed to really like them too.

I watched Jim walk Marty out to the baseball field, and was thrilled to see Marty playful and happy, mouth open and relaxed, enjoying Jim’s company. And of course he loved Denise—Denise is a woman, and Marty loves all females of any species.

They had looked at a few different dogs, but this one was the best. So chill, so beautiful, so exactly what they were looking for. They had had two dogs: one lived to the age of 15, the other to 17. They clearly are incredible canine guardians. They love mutts. They have a house. They’ll take Marty with them everywhere. And, they want to spend Christmas with him, so they want the adoption to move swiftly.

I will miss this kid greatly. He’s a special old soul, and deserves his forever people. Jim and Denise will be wonderful to him, I have no doubt. But I worry because Marty has just now in the past few days begun the habit of snuggling with me, resting his head on my lap while he snoozes on the couch.

And since Thursday, I’ve allowed him to sleep on the bed at night, knowing I won’t get any more chances to do so. As often as he can, he scooches up to the head of the bed to gaze as closely as he can into my eyes (and to feel the pillows under this head.)

I can only hope that he will love Denise and Jim quickly and forget about me. That’s the flip side of fostering that hurts me so much—it’s not the getting attached and missing them; it’s the wondering how they will trust their hearts to love again and trust that this time, it really is forever. I feel like Marty believes I am his forever person, and when I show him that he was mistaken, will he ever allow himself to love again?

I believe dogs’ hearts are stronger than ours. They love more deeply than we can grasp, and they are loyal to the death. But even so, I can’t help the guilt of knowing I broke one’s heart. I know I did good by him, and I don’t regret doing it; I just wish that one day we humans can come up with a way of letting our canine fosters know that we love them, love them so much, that we’re not their life-long companion, but are just here to help them find their true love.

Marty, tomorrow you will go to your forever home. I hope you know that I truly do love you and never want to hurt you. You were never meant to be mine, but I am so blessed to share your journey with you. Tomorrow your new life begins. But for now, let’s just live in today, and cuddle just a little bit longer.

It Takes a Village

2012-12-08T20:57:00.000-08:00

It’s been said that it takes a village to raise a child. It takes a just as much to save a dog. Now that I can leave a dog alone in a house, I’m free to vary my efforts and contribute to other causes while fostering.

On the literary and political front, I’ve joined C.R.O.P.S. (Citizens for Rescue Only Pet Stores) in Burbank, and am contributing my written brain spewings to various publications in order to get the word out about our cause:

Burbank Leader Mailbag - November 27th, 2012

and again the following week:

Burbank Leader Mailbag - December 5th, 2012

And yesterday, I joined with other rescue volunteers to assist in the Mass Canine Exodus of East Valley Animal Shelter.

S.T.A.R.T. (Shelter Transport Animal Rescue Team) - no, I didn’t also volunteer at S.C.U.B.A. or any other acronyms this week – does long haul transports to the Pacific Northwest. It’s much like the run I did with Misty last year, except these guys go all the way to Tacoma, Washington, the truck is appropriately designed, and the run begins at the shelter not a Home Depot.

Eighty dogs were taken from death row, walked and cuddled by strangers, put into crates, and twenty-four hour later began new lives in Oregon or Washington.

We strangers gathered to save as many dogs as we could and help out in any way we could. It gave me joy to see even a kid there—a kid who could have been home playing video games or going to a dance lesson. She told me she wanted to do this because she loves all animals, not just her cat, and really wanted to help.

There is hope for the future.

Humans, as a species, tend to have a propensity to avoid conflict (unless it’s to their benefit.) No one wants to get involved. Take for instance Wednesday night: as I walked along the Chandler bike path, I saw a man and woman talking while two dogs ran to and fro in the street and across the path.

“The little white one started chasing me while I was running. I don’t know whose they are,” the man was saying.

The woman, seeing my vicious put bull, called out: “There’s two loose dogs here!”

I calmly replied with a smile, “Okay, thank you.”

I then joined in the conversation as I watched the Maltese bound down the hill onto the street, only inches from an oncoming car.

“Well, they’ll find heir way home, right?” the two people seemed to convince themselves.

I was not so convinced.

“The dog ran up to you? Then she needs help finding her way home,” I proposed.

I must have interpreted the dog’s meaning correctly, because she ceased playing chicken with the cars and ran up and jumped into my arms. Poor Marty just looked up at me and sniffed the Maltese’s butt.

The Maltese jumped out of my arms and took off toward her long-haired Chihuahua cohort.

The two people walked away. Ummm....

And there I was left, Marty and me, with two dogs about to get hit by cars. They might know exactly where they live, but they were in mortal danger because they’re idiots and don’t know the dangers of vehicles.

I had to trust that they wouldn’t attack Marty. I went over to the neighbor’s lawn they were currently on and bent down. The Maltese came to me with ease. I knew I could get her any time. So I let her run around and focused on the Chi. He came to me, I grabbed him, and he thrashed about, sinking his teeth into my hand. I thought he’d stop, but I finally let go, realizing he would break the skin if I didn’t. As he raced away, the Maltese jumped on him, admonishing him for such treatment.

I couldn’t do this alone. I asked a woman running if she knew these dogs. She said No and asked if I was trying to get them and what I would do. I told her the shelter was closed for the night, but I could get them and bring them home for the night. I’d check for a micro-chip in the morning. They had collars, but no tags.

And so the good woman Jessica (whose name I didn’t learn until our mission was completed), joined me in the chase of the canines.

We didn’t want them running back and forth across the street, so we stuck to the north side, and had a feeling they lived on one of the side streets. The Chi was proving to be a difficult boy. Jessica motioned toward him half a block away and he let out a blood-curdling scream as if being murdered. Then he took a sharp right at the corner and ran into the dark neighborhood.

I knew he’d stick by the Maltese, so we needed her to lead us to him. We had seen someone come out of their house during our pursuit and call out something, but we didn’t know if it was the dogs she called for. We returned to her and she said she didn’t know them, but offered us a leash to borrow.

We put the Maltese on the leash and Jessica led her to find the Chi. Meanwhile, my gentleman Marty was by my side, quietly complacent, just along for whatever adventure I might be on, and probably secretly hoping this wouldn’t eat into our normal walk time.

We found the Chi at the end of the block, and all of us went to the ground to avoid scaring him. He was timid, and I wasn’t going to try to get him since he bit me last time. Jessica was brave enough to take on that task.

“I wish I had treat,” I said, and then remembered that as a foster, as any respectable dog owner really, there is always poop bags in my back pocket and treats (or remnants thereof) in my front pocket. Sexy, huh?

I pulled out the stale treat and broke it into the tiniest bits possible for the teeny tiny dog. I threw a piece in his direction. The Chi took the bait, and I continued to toss tiny bits to him as he got closer to us. The Maltese and Marty wanted in on the deal, but I promised Marty way better treats at home and asked the Maltese to get out of the way.

Sure enough, with a little patience, and me feeding the Chi treats, Jessica began petting him, and eventually hooked her finger around his collar. I unhooked the leash from the Maltese knowing I could just pick her up later, and I carefully clipped it into the Chi’s collar.

Success! The Chi felt tricked, but was okay with it and out of biting range on the ground. Jessica had driven to the bike path (I’m one of the few lucky people who can walk to somewhere I can walk in LA.) Rather than walking all the way back to my place she offered up her car to transport this motley crew.

She had a compact hatchback. She opened the door and retracted the seat. She motioned for the Chi to hop into the back seat, but wasn’t having any of it. I, holding the Maltese like a football and still hanging onto Marty’s leash, offered to go in first. I clamored in with my usual amount of grace, landed in the middle of the backseat, and asked Marty to join me. Such a great kid he is! He’s never been in a backseat, but he followed me there now, and when he was blocking the Chi’s way to the floor, I asked him to come up on the seat next to me, and he obliged without incident.

Finally the Chi jumped in, Jessica handed me the leash, closed the door, and I, three dogs, and this good Samaritan drove toward my house seven blocks away.

As I sat in the woman’s car (we still hadn’t even gotten each other’s names yet), my hope in humanity was renewed. The thing is, when you’re helping animals, people tend to assume you’re not a psycho-killer and will gladly assist you--even drive you where you need to go.

I got to the house, put Marty inside, and then went to the garage where I had been storing Marty’s crate since he graduated from that to the couch. I used Marty’s leash on the Maltese and set up the crate. I then went back out front where Jessica stood with the belligerent little devil and took him from her.

“Are you going to take them to the shelter?” she asked.

“I’m going to try not to,” I told her. “I’ll put out a Found ad, let the shelter know I found them, and see if I can check them for a micro-chip in the morning.”

I thanked her, and it was only then that we got each other’s names.

I let the two tiny dogs stay in the crate while I asked the universe for some assistance in getting me to be in the right place at the right time. I grabbed Marty from inside and headed back out to Chandler Blvd to return the leash to the kind neighbor and hopefully hear somebody calling out dog names in the dark.

After leaving the leash hooked on the inside of the woman’s gate, Marty and I walked along in silence. I tried to open myself up again to be guided appropriately. I wasn’t getting any signs (except to not go down one dark alley.) I walked out of the alley and took to the sidewalk.

I was about to give up hope when I saw an older Korean gentleman standing in his gated front yard, looking perplexed. “Excuse me, sir,” I said and he turned to me. “Do you know anyone who has a poodle-like dog and a Chihuahua?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. Me!” he said.

“Oh good!” I said, thanking the universe for leading me here at the right time. “I have them back at my house; they were running around the street and I didn’t want them to get hit by a car.”

“Oh my goodness, thank you, thank you. It seemed quiet out here, so I came to check on them and I couldn’t find them. I think one of the kids must have gone out the gate and not latched it properly. I’ve been looking for them for half an hour.”

“Do you mind walking back to my place? I have them there.”

“Of course, of course,” he said.

He brought his leashes and together we walked back to my place. He told me their names: Zoë was the Maltese and Panda was the Chihuahua. He’d only had them for a month and a half. He hadn’t even taken them out for a walk because his children wanted to take them, but he didn’t trust them with the leashes.

Here’s a little bit of wisdom for you: If you don’t take a dog for a walk, eventually the dog will take himself for a walk.

He thanked me profusely and told me he wanted to give me gifts for Marty for taking the trouble to help. I said it wasn’t necessary, and was glad they were safe. I was even more glad that I didn’t have to take them to the shelter.

This afternoon, between Marty-publicity events, I got a knock on my door: the man and his three young children (all under the age of 10), were standing there with a bag of biscuits for Marty. I wish I had had time to let them in, but I was running out to get Marty to an adoption event.

It took three people—and the right timing--to get those two dogs home safely.

The transport took a dozen or so people on the day of transport, but many more who contributed financially to the cause, and the people who chose the animals and made way for them up north.

On a grander scale, for all the lost and homeless animals, it takes thousands of people and coming at the problem from all angles. There is no one single solution to clear out America’s animal shelters. There’s shifting of inventories as this transport was. (I later learned that while this was going on, over 300 dogs took flight from Van Nuys airport to various rescues across the western states through an airplane transport group called Wings of Rescue.) There’s the legislation to stop pet stores from selling puppy mill animals and instead require them to acquire their “inventory” from shelters and rescues. There’s spay and neuter education; volunteers holding clinics and pushing education to teach people why they should get their dog or cat fixed. There’s fosters and volunteers, people who pull animals before they’re euthanized, drive them to safety, network them across the internet, do home checks and process adoption applications and hold events to raise money or adopt out animals.

Never underestimate your own value. Just one person isn’t “just.”

Join an effort, be part of a team, give a dollar to a needy shelter, provide some love and a walk to a terrified shelter dog, foster a kitten, or give the greatest gift of all: your heart and home to a homeless pet in need.

You’re not “just” one person; you are the world to that one animal who needs you, and you can make a world of a difference when you join forces with others. Every soul matters: yours, along with every single one behind animal shelter bars. Please remember them all this holiday season, and throughout the year.

Epilogue:

Be warned that when you are the world to one dog and you leave to have adventures without him, he might just act like a jilted lover and go through your purse like Marty did to me.

As retaliation, he had to wear the reindeer antlers for five minutes.

He agreed if that's what I was doing with other dogs, then he would happily stay at home and patiently await my return.

The Office... Dog

2012-12-02T20:11:00.000-08:00

It takes a certain personality to handle office life—a personality that I don’t have. Therefore I never expect a canine to have it either. Granted I don’t work in a “real office.” The thought of spending 25 years in a cubicle on the 27^th floor pushing paper around and going to staff meetings makes my palms sweat and my heart race.

In the career I’ve chosen, “office life” is a little bit unorthodox. Rarely are cubicles involved; the office can be anything from a fold out table to a room in a 19^th century building with an executive desk. Depending on the circumstances, we can play tunes, talk loudly, curse creatively, and at this particular studio, bring a dog to work.

I was surprised to learn that Marty does indeed have the personality for the office. Maybe not cubicles, although unlike me, I think he’d fare well there too. Granted, there were challenges to overcome this week.

Marty has taken well to car rides. Unlike many dogs who prefer to just curl up and sleep, Marty likes to ride high and alert in the passenger seat, watching the world through the front windshield like a proper co-pilot should. The first couple of days I had to assist him in getting up into the seat, but now as soon as I open the door, he expertly hops right up to the floor, crawls up on the seat and gives me a lick on the face while I buckle him in.

Marty was up for following me wherever I took him until it came time to enter the building. I was supposed to have gotten a “permit” for him, a canine badge to allow him entry. However since I had made the decision late Sunday night to bring him, there was no time. I was told to just keep him on the down low, and if anyone questioned me, just say it’s in the works.

So, I was a little annoyed with my cohort that I was supposed to keep incognito, when he balked at going into the building. Awkwardly carrying my usual work bag, his day bag, a water bowl, and a dog bed, I was not in any physical position to fight with a stubborn dog on a harness.

Marty backed up and crouched down (his preferred protest position), taking advantage of all the gravitational pull he could muster and refused to even look at the front door. As more employees started to walk by, I started to panic.

“Marty, come on. It’s not the vet’s,” I harshly whispered and then, against every training suggestion ever written and much to the probable horror of onlookers, I dragged him across the threshold.

Once inside, I felt the need to explain myself and Marty to the people who witnessed this. “He’s never been in here before. It’s new to him.”

Marty was cowering, unable to move on this new floor surface which wasn’t just flat tile or linoleum; it was a bumpy rubbery surface that he had never experienced before.

I didn’t want to traumatize him with the elevator, as I can understand that this is a scary new thing, so I opted for the stairwell, unawares that this was just as frightening.

Marty had been going up and down my deck stairs perfectly fine, but a full flight of concrete stairs is a very different thing. He lowered himself to the ground and again, refused to move.

I urged him onward, and while I watched him awkwardly try to navigate the stairs, I was reminded of Dew, my timid two year-old Missouri driving partner. Marty had never seen stairs such as this before. I figured going down the stairs would take some serious courage, but up the stairs, in my simple human mind, seemed perfectly easy. Not so, for Marty.

Marty made it a couple of steps up and then turned to go back down. I gently coaxed him on, and he made it to the first landing. He shivered and lowered himself to the floor, and then tried to go back down the stairs.

“No, honey, come on, you can do it; it's just a little further now.”

He didn’t believe me. He refused to make eye contact, and instead wallowed in his fear.

“Marty, sweetie, you can do it,” I said, also crouched down on the stairs above him trying to get him to come to me (not that he always did that even on a flat surface.)

Marty did indeed rise to the challenge with me pushing him (or in this case pulling him) until he got to the final landing and collapsed all the way to the ground right in front of the door. Now we couldn’t get out of the stairwell.

“Marty, come here, come away from the door. I can’t open it if you’re in front of it.”

This has been a common misunderstanding—one we have every time we leave the house. He doesn’t grasp that standing directly in front of the door prevents me from opening it. But this time it was blind fear, not ignorance, that stopped him from getting out of the way.

When I gently shoved him, he stood half way, and I realized that he thought he was going to fall down. He was uneasy on the floor, seeming not to trust that it would hold him this high up. I had not ever seen a dog react in this way, as this seemed like a gross over-calculation for a canine.

I opened the door and Marty entered, ears flat, half-walking, half-crawling. But then alas, the oasis he had been searching for: carpeted floor.

Marty rose to his full height, and although timid in the new surrounding, he at least had solid footing. We trekked down to the end of the hallway, into my office, and the moment I placed the dog bed on the floor, Marty plopped down on top of it content as could be.

I had put the dog bed behind the empty desk across from me, creating a cave-like hovel for him. I wrapped the tie-out from my backyard around the bottom of the desk a few times and then attached it to Marty’s harness so he was free to roam the room. Silly me has only either a 4 foot leash or a 40 foot tie-out; it’s all or nothing, no in between. The tie-out got tangled around the desk and appropriately allowed Marty only about 10 feet, the perfect length to get him to the doorway of the hall.

Of course he never really went to the hall. I could come and go to the copy room or kitchen or anywhere for minutes at a time, and Marty simply stayed on the dog bed. He seemed disappointed that he wasn’t allowed to stay at home on the comfy couch all day, but had to settle for the mediocre dog bed. However, I couldn’t afford the time loss going home in the afternoon for a couple of hours. So, he was stuck here.

Marty has a live and let live policy. Even now as I write this at the coffee house, I’m watching him simply looking at the birds only four feet away from him. He’s not chasing them, just watching them. He’s pretty aloof to other dogs, content to say Hello if approached, but otherwise ignores them. I think this might be his natural mellow attitude, but it also could be a sign of his pure laziness.

So lazy in fact, that eating lunch didn’t even warrant scooting his rear end up into a sit position let alone stand.

I have since learned to place the plate far enough away from him that he’s required to move his lazy ass in order to dine.

I often worry that my fosters are bored as they have no playmates, but with Marty, I feel as though he’s perfectly content doing nothing. He doesn’t have high expectations; just being is quite enough for him.

Since the stairs proved terrifying for him, I taught him about the elevator, even though I felt rather silly taking it to go only one floor. That too, frightened him—and why not? It is a small, closed-in metal box that moves of its own volition, and once the doors close, you’re trapped in it; when the doors open, a whole new scene presents itself than when the doors had closed. After four times, Marty was okay with this new mode of transportation. But I still wanted him to conquer the stairs. What if he had adopters who lived on the second floor of an apartment building? He needed to master stairs.

My boss brought in his gorgeous and exuberant golden retriever on Thursday. I thought this would give Marty an opportunity to play, but instead Marty let out a warning growl before even seeing the new visitor. I said hello to Hudson, the two year old Goldie, and realized that maybe Marty could simply sense this kid’s energy. Marty was completely opposite on the energy scale. Hudson was clumsily and frantically running about and didn't seem very bright. Marty is more of the cranky-old man grumbling if you jostle him awake in the early morning, and intolerant of shenanigans.

On our afternoon walk, Hudson went into the building ahead of us and I watched him go up the stairwell. I then challenged Marty, telling him he couldn’t be outdone by that silly boy. Marty gave it his all, and although there was some stopping and starting, he did make it up the stairs. And much to surprise, going down the stairs was no trouble at all for him later that evening.

I must retract my initial statement that Marty is unadoptable. He just needs an understanding and caring adopter who can help him gain confidence—someone who takes him on new adventures and gives him the proper time to adjust.

Due to my snap judgment though, Amanda now believes that Marty can only go to an “experienced adopter” and that he requires extensive training. Christy came by and met Marty this weekend, and said, “Are you kidding? This dog doesn’t need training. He’s the perfect dog—just lazy and willing to chill out.”

Does Marty always listen to my requests? Of course not. He’s got a mind of his own. If he’s walking away from me and I tell him to come back, he pretends as if he can’t hear me at all. But if he’s on a leash and he walks away and I stand my ground, he stops and waits for me.

Marty would make a great office dog, or bar dog—the mascot of a store or public place where he could greet people when he was feeling outgoing and then sleep in the corner when he got tired of it all.

Whenever we’re driving around town, I see him living a trucker’s life, on the open highways of America, taking in the sights of the ever-changing landscape. But I know he’s a bit timid around new places, and although driving is his thing, truck stops might be a bit overwhelming for him.

Marty’s potential new life is limitless. But he needs to find it soon. If he doesn’t get a home before I leave for the holidays, he’s going to get shipped back to the ranch, where he’ll most likely live for many more months, tucked away and inaccessible to finding his Forever Person who I am convinced is out there waiting to meet him.

If you or someone you know is looking for a mellow companion for long drives up the coast or long days in the office or business venture, check out Marty’s ad. (Ignore the “experienced adopter” line,.. and yes, he’s still listed as Starlight, but consider that his “AKC” name; he prefers his street name Marty.)

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet/6742829-malibu-california-australian-shepherd-mix

The Evolution of Marty

2012-11-26T00:02:00.000-08:00

Change doesn’t always happen instantly. Gaining confidence is something of an evolutionary process. It’s not like catching a flyball and instantly you have it; it grows and plateaus and grows some more and at any point can be blown down by a gust of wind.

I had no real plan to help Marty with his confidence. My main goal was make him the best office dog possible in only four days’ time. Thanksgiving had proven a success, but that was still home-living. It wasn’t an office building, parking structure, strange noises like copy machines, and lots of voices of people who may or may not be within view. Before I felt he could encounter any of those new challenges, he needed to respond to his name, acknowledge when I spoke to him, and more frequently than not, do as I ask of him.

And of course, the foundation of whether or not a dog will do what you request is that he gives a shit what you think of him. So, I needed Marty to care if I was happy with him or not. I didn’t want him to do my commands for fear I’d beat him; I wanted him to do them because he liked to make me smile and figured out that doing what I asked would make me happy.

He knew ignoring me really pissed me off. I must admit that keeping up with positive reinforcement training is a rather trying experience when your student is staring at you in defiance from across the room while you repeat “Marty, come. Marty, come. Marty, come here. Come. Come on...” It’s quite easy to yell, “Marty!!! Come OVER HERE NOW!” Sometimes frustration fogs the realization that if someone was to yell at you like that, the last thing you’d do is go over to greet him or her.

Perhaps because I slept two nights on the couch and was overtired from work, Friday began with Marty and me bonding in my most favorite way: napping on the couch.

I had given him a bath on Wednesday night because although I didn’t want to traumatize him, he was way too stinky to be up on the couch or anywhere within five feet of me really. I weighed out my options and given that he wasn’t fully comfortable with me yet, it made more sense to traumatize him now rather than wait until he fully trusted me and then throw him into the tub.

Amanda had wanted me to take Marty to the vet to get the metal suture from his neutering removed—something that should have been done ten months ago. She felt it was urgent. I felt it was better for me to form a bond with him and get him used to happy car rides. However, I noticed during his bath time that his ears were caked with black gunk and he had been flapping and scratching his ears a lot lately. It only got worse after the bath. So now it was my urgency to take him in case he had an ear infection.

Amanda had said she’d try to find a vet near me Friday morning, which is why I felt it was fine to nap the morning and part of the afternoon away. By 3pm, I called to ask her if she had a vet yet. She said she didn’t trust any vet she didn’t know and only wanted him to go to her vet in Malibu, some 40 miles away from me.

At some point in the recent past I must have hit my bullshit tolerance level because I just wasn’t (and still am not) putting up with people’s nonsense. I told her it was ridiculous and a waste of money for her drive out here and pick him up when there were perfectly fine vets here that could take out his suture for free and then give me meds for his ears. After us arguing on the phone and talking over one another for ten minutes, I agreed to take him to Malibu, but she was going to pay me gas money.

This is not my usual reaction—I almost never ask to be compensated for fuel or dog food or anything, but not only am I really tight on cash these days, I felt it was the cost she should pay for being stubbornly silly.

This meant that Marty’s second car ride took him to a most dreaded place--the doctor’s. I still had two more days to prove to him that car rides were a good thing and at the end, you usually ended up with happy adventures.

Indeed Marty did have a yeast infection in his ears which I have to administer drops to once a day. He got his nails clipped, was officially weighed in at 62 pounds (not 70), and he had the nasty metal stud removed from his penis. Maybe Marty didn’t think this was such a bad car ride destination after all.

Saturday we stayed clear of the car. I tried to get some better pictures of him, but he had this incessant need to be right next to me, making it difficult to get a picture of anything but the top of his head. When he finally did listen to the command of “Stay” I kept getting pictures of him with his eyes closed.

I wish there a way to show how beautiful he looked in the golden amber autumn leaves. He really has so many different looks.

He’s got the pittie look:

The worry face:

The sleepy, relaxed face:

And probably some more I haven’t discovered yet. I just wish he would smile more.

Taking him on walks, I discovered that this shy little canine is actually an adorable ladies’ man. He knows how to turn on the charm with the women. Everyone comments on how sweet he is, how well-behaved, and how beautiful he is. I admit, he’s a handsome dog, but I wouldn’t think to say anything about it. Clearly he’s projecting something, much like old man Double Bogie from my cross-country trip did. I agreed that he was an awesome dog, but the way people came up and commented on his physical attractiveness, I was beginning to think I saw an entirely different dog at the end of my leash.

Marty loves the ladies. He’s okay with men, but the women, ah, the women... he just leans up against them, gently licks their hands, and looks up with those gorgeous amber eyes of his. Total heartbreaker, this kid.

Sunday afternoon, it was car ride time. I was surprised to find that Marty didn’t harbor bad memories from the trip to the vet. He needed a little help getting in, but was eager to enjoy the sights on our short drive to the coffee house.

Once there, after watching me topple over my just-purchased coffee and making a spectacle of myself, Marty and I settled in. Marty took to wooing the women at the table next to me and they soaked up his attention. It felt a little like I was on a date with a complete asshole who flirted with everyone but me.

Seeing as Marty is not a dick of a date but a canine in need of a home, his outgoing personality and charm is a good thing. It’s as if he knows he’s looking for his forever-person; I’m just his escort for the journey. At least, I hope this is his take on things. Sure seems that way.

About an hour into sitting there, he finally settled down and just lay on the sidewalk. (The towel I had brought for him to lay on had been soaked with coffee from the spill and then the subsequent cleaning up.)

Every person who walked by wanted to say hello to him. He really was getting a lot of exposure and it gave me hope that maybe this kid would indeed find a home before Christmas. So many people wanted to know about him that I barely got any writing done—the main excuse for me to go to the coffee house to begin with.

I felt quite confident that Marty would be okay at the office. He was mellow and easy-going. He seemed okay in the car. He wasn’t going to run off on me. He was responding to his name more often, and in a great coup, he managed to walk all the way from the living to the bedroom by himself. The morning I returned from the shower to see him on my bed gave me the hint that if he could spring up from the floor to get on the bed, he was quite capable of walking to the back door on his own.

In four days, Marty had evolved. He was learning more, listening more, and was beginning to care how I felt about his actions, not because he feared that I would hurt him, but because he genuinely liked to see me happy.

I must admit, I’m proud of the kid. He’s come a long way in a short time, a distance I couldn’t fathom him making that very first night. I feel a little guilty not believing in him when I first met him. I really thought he needed someone other me to help him through this. And it very well could be that the next person he meets, he’ll be exactly the same timid little boy who cowered in the corner of my kitchen just last week.

But just maybe he won’t. Maybe it was me that he needed: the naïve and stubborn person who doesn’t give up on a dog, who doesn’t give in to doubts but forges ahead with Hope blindly leading the way. Did I think he would get this far? Of course not. The mind is a jaded place, claiming to be realistic when let’s face it, it’s usually just a big downer. But the Heart, where Hope lives, believes anything is possible.

I’m shutting off my mind for now and listening to my Heart who says Marty has more confidence now, and will continue to grow in confidence the more new experiences he has with me, and that before Christmas Day, Marty will be curled up on the couch with his very own Forever Person.

A Home for the Holidays

2012-11-23T00:38:00.000-08:00

I am thankful for my friends. I am thankful that they accept me for who I am—which is not the girl who brings her new boyfriend home for the holidays, but rather the girl who brings her new homeless canine to Thanksgiving dinner.

It’s been a rough week—even for identities. Starlight became Max by Monday afternoon, but whenever I spoke to him, I found myself calling him Maxi, which seemed just as awful as Starlight for a dude dog who needed self-confidence. After thirty-six hours of being Max, my canine houseguest evolved into Marty, who he remains being to this day.

I spent two nights on the couch while Marty (then Max) slept on a dogbed on the floor beneath me. I couldn’t leave him alone in the living room, and it was clear that first night that he wasn’t getting off the dogbed. In the morning, I once again couldn’t afford him the time he needed, and found myself cruelly dragging a terrified canine across my living floor to the kitchen (dogbed coming along for the ride.)

Monday night I again had to sleep on the couch. Marty didn’t even know there were other rooms in the house. His entire world consisted of the kitchen and living room of which he was dragged between on a dogbed, or on his feet if the dogbed fell away along the journey.

The initial Fear he had that first night seemed to be melting away, but he still wouldn’t walk from the living room to the kitchen. He slept in the enormous crate while I was at work, and when I came home for lunch, he was delighted to see me. But the delight wasn’t enough to get him out of the crate and across the floor. Monday evening when I came home, I saw the cogs of his brain in motion. He stepped out of the crate, and in one giant stride, hit the dog bed next the crate. There he lay down, unable to go any further.

So there it was: my dog-friendly house has the most un-dogfriendly floors: hardwood. Not a scrap of rug to be found anywhere. All Marty could do was leapfrog from one dog bed to another.

Tuesday morning, in an effort to show him that the house was more than just two rooms, I took him for a ride. “Hang on, Marty. You’re getting the grand tour.”

He lay there relaxed on his dog bed, while I dragged the bed through the first threshold and into the front room. His eyes opened wide, astonished that there was more to this edifice. Next came the hallway, and although he looked into the office with curiosity, he did not disembark the vessel. He sniffed at the bathroom in passing. Then like a light at the end of the tunnel, he espied the dogbed in my bedroom in front of the patio doors. He exited the ride and carefully trod through the bedroom, arrived at the dog bed, and plopped himself down.

I had no worries that he would pee in the house or eat anything forbidden. He wasn’t leaving that dog bed of his own accord. Ever.

I finished getting ready for work, leaving him alone in the bedroom. When it was time to leave, I had to raise him up using his harness and walk him across the bedroom floor where he got back onto the vehicle which brought him there, and I dragged him back to the living room.

“Never again. Got it. You do this on your own from now on,” I told him as he got off the dogbed in the living room and crawled into his crate.

“Never” is evidently a loose term for me. He got two more rides on the dogbed scooter, and by Thursday morning, he left the bedroom (where he slept on a dogbed the night before so I could sleep in my own bed) using his own four feet.

My friends had already told me that any canine houseguest I had was welcome to Thanksgiving dinner. They have an 18-month old who adores dogs. I was less worried about Marty injuring the kid and more worried that Marty might find a child overwhelming. I had already decided not to take him, but Thursday morning, with how well Marty had been doing, I couldn’t miss this opportunity.

I had four days—four days to turn this timid creature into a perfect office dog. I couldn’t keep coming home for lunch. I had about 100 hours of work to do in 5 business days. And leaving him home alone on a holiday—that just seemed wrong.

Marty didn’t always respond to his name, and the concept of “Come” and “Stay” eluded him, but he had Sit nailed and was getting the hang of Down as well. Marty wasn’t a sprinter; I wasn’t worried about him taking off from me. I was assured that Ben, the 18-month old, was a model citizen toward dogs, and the backyard was secure and child-safe, meaning it was also dog-safe.

And so Marty was my Thanksgiving date.

And like all first dates one takes home for the holidays to meet the family, a faux pas or two are expected. Marty made his straight out of the gate—or rather, just inside the gate of their backyard. Despite having just gone for a pee break walk before our drive, Marty confidently waltzed over to Ben’s plastic slide, lifted his leg, and let out the longest stream of urine I had ever witnessed. Perhaps it was in slow motion only for me. Perhaps it really did last 45 seconds. Either way, I was mortified, my friends laughed assuring me it was funny and totally okay, and Marty was completely unaffected by his action and my response.

“As long as he doesn’t do it in the house...” my friend said, and I assured her that he wouldn’t. Indoors, Marty was the perfect guest. He easily walked through the threshold into their kitchen and then onto the living room where he plunked down on their rug, and stayed the entire afternoon.

Luckily for Marty, Ben was sleepy upon introduction, having just woken up from his nap. Marty wasn’t confronted with an exuberant two year old, but rather a slightly dazed child wondering how this heap of canine magically appeared in his playroom.

I was proud of Marty, and glad that Fear didn’t stop me from taking him. He was a perfect gentleman, staying low to the ground to be smaller than the child (or maybe just because he didn't feel like standing up.) He gently licked and sniffed. Ben was kind as well, and a mutual understanding took place between boy and dog. There before me was the seeds of that sacred bond that can never be broken: the bond between a boy and a dog.

Ben tried to share his toys with Marty, graciously giving Marty both Tigger and Pooh. Marty looked up at me wearily: “Really? This is what the car ride was for?” he seemed to say.

I looked into his amber eyes, and swear if he could speak he would have said, “You owe me, woman,” as he politely turned his head away from Ben’s gifts.

I had been filled with doubt four nights earlier. I doubted myself for being able to handle this terrified canine, and I doubted Marty for being able to handle all this newness. But it had just been Fear. I had let Fear get the better of me. I still contended the kid needed a bit more help than I could provide, but he seemed to be doing okay with the little I had to offer.

Three more days—three more days to help Marty discover his inner confidence, feel secure in new surroundings, and learn that the world isn’t out to get him. My instinct had been right: there were snags in the process and it wouldn’t be easy. But my first instinct had been right as well: this was the dog I needed. And just maybe I was the person this dog needed.

Fostering Fear

2012-11-18T23:29:00.000-08:00

Fear is a powerful entity. I’ve seen it before, but the canines I’ve encountered have all had plenty of Hope and Love to defeat the dreaded demon. Until now.

I had contacted a rescuer named Amanda the week before Thanksgiving as she was looking for a temporary foster for a pittie mix pup. There was something special about this dog, and I had a feeling I’d be able to take this pup to work with me. It turned out many people thought this canine was a special soul because before she could call me back, an adopter was found.

She asked if I’d be interested in fostering another dog, and I said that I generally don’t unless I’m unemployed. Since I still had two weeks of work left, I wanted to wait until I was done. However, if it was a dire emergency and she thought a dog might be okay in an office setting, then I’d give it a whirl.

As we chatted, I browsed her adopt-a-pet page and came across a picture of a dog named Starlight. Something about his picture reminded me of my soul-dog Tia. In my mind, I wished I could foster him.

The next day Amanda called me and told me that she had a few dogs up at a trainer’s ranch that needed to find foster homes. The ranch was closing down. She thought Starlight would be a perfect fit for me. He was sweet and kind, and according to the trainer, probably would love to be an office dog.

I was hesitant to take him on because he was a whopping 70 pounds who had had trouble on leash. I told her that he had to be able to come to the office, or I couldn’t take him. She said she’d have a Plan B if it didn’t work out.

That little gut instinct let out a warning signal. But here’s the thing: I’ve taken in shelter dogs not knowing anything about them, so why not this dog? Maybe it was just Fear creeping in--Fear that it was a dog I couldn’t handle.

That initial instinct that he was the one I needed/wanted still held true. So, after almost backing out, I agreed to take him: my first foster while working.

His transport was delayed, and rather than coming in on Saturday giving me two days to work with him and get to know him, the transport didn’t arrive until Sunday evening at 5pm in Culver City. The sweet boy seemed to be just fine while I waited for Amanda to arrive with food, crate, and other essentials for his stay with me.

I had to hope that he’d be a great office dog and be house-trained, but he had just spent ten months at a trainer’s ranch. He was living a Dogtown-like life. He had his own kennel and spent his days with a pack of eight dogs who roamed in one of the many pens on twenty acres.

He had just ridden on the transport in a crate covered in a blanket in the back of a pickup truck. I assumed he’d be happy to be upgraded to first class. No more coach flying this kid: he was going to ride shotgun.

But alas, poor Starlight wasn’t too excited about getting back into a moving vehicle. I harnessed him into the passenger seat and the moment I opened the driver’s side door, he dove out, dangling by the tether. This wouldn’t be too bad if he was Norman’s size. But seventy pounds of squirming pit bull-mix canine is not easily wrangled.

I got him back in, squished myself into the driver’s seat and tried to calm him as he pressed into me, panting and crying. Okay, maybe car rides aren’t for him. But he might get used to it. I waited patiently for him to calm down and no longer be on top of me. Once on the freeway, he relaxed into the adventure, his legs draped across my lap, and his head center above the console watching the traffic on the 405.

As we chatted, I browsed her adopt-a-pet page and came across a picture of a dog named Starlight. Something about his picture reminded me of my soul-dog Tia. In my mind, I wished I could foster him.

The next day Amanda called me and told me that she had a few dogs up at a trainer’s ranch that needed to find foster homes. The ranch was closing down. She thought Starlight would be a perfect fit for me. He was sweet and kind, and according to the trainer, probably would love to be an office dog.

I was hesitant to take him on because he was a whopping 70 pounds who had had trouble on leash. I told her that he had to be able to come to the office, or I couldn’t take him. She said she’d have a Plan B if it didn’t work out.

That little gut instinct let out a warning signal. But here’s the thing: I’ve taken in shelter dogs not knowing anything about them, so why not this dog? Maybe it was just Fear creeping in--Fear that it was a dog I couldn’t handle.

That initial instinct that he was the one I needed/wanted still held true. So, after almost backing out, I agreed to take him: my first foster while working.

His transport was delayed, and rather than coming in on Saturday giving me two days to work with him and get to know him, the transport didn’t arrive until Sunday evening at 5pm in Culver City. The sweet boy seemed to be just fine while I waited for Amanda to arrive with food, crate, and other essentials for his stay with me.

I had to hope that he’d be a great office dog and be house-trained, but he had just spent ten months at a trainer’s ranch. He was living a Dogtown-like life. He had his own kennel and spent his days with a pack of eight dogs who roamed in one of the many pens on twenty acres.

He had just ridden on the transport in a crate covered in a blanket in the back of a pickup truck. I assumed he’d be happy to be upgraded to first class. No more coach flying this kid: he was going to ride shotgun.

But alas, poor Starlight wasn’t too excited about getting back into a moving vehicle. I harnessed him into the passenger seat and the moment I opened the driver’s side door, he dove out, dangling by the tether. This wouldn’t be too bad if he was Norman’s size. But seventy pounds of squirming pit bull-mix canine is not easily wrangled.

I got him back in, squished myself into the driver’s seat and tried to calm him as he pressed into me, panting and crying. Okay, maybe car rides aren’t for him. But he might get used to it. I waited patiently for him to calm down and no longer be on top of me. Once on the freeway, he relaxed into the adventure, his legs draped across my lap, and his head center above the console watching the traffic on the 405.

Fear happens. But dogs, like people, can overcome it. Starlight (whose name I had to change as soon as possible) rebounded well with the car. I had no doubts he would be up for other challenges. He had been in a foster home many months ago, so he had had a family-life, but it was half a lifetime ago for him. I hoped he remembered it quickly.

He walked easily on a leash, so either the trainer had done her job, or he hadn’t ever had the issue to begin with. His ad specified that he needed an “experienced” owner. There was no way this dog was getting adopted through his website. His name, his ad, his pictures... nothing was selling this pup.

Bringing him up to the kitchen door, I wasn’t expecting him to take a stand... or rather crouch. He wouldn’t cross the threshold.

I’ve seen a few dogs with this issue. It’s scary to enter a new place. I get that. Fear happens. I gave him a moment to try to work it out on his own, but I couldn’t wait for too long. I had to be work in 15 hours, and he needed to be able to handle it. A little coaxing, two feet through the doorway, and I had to haul him the rest of the way in before he tried to bolt away.

I closed the door and he scrambled into the corner, toppling over my shoes, and shivering with Fear. He trembled, panted, and almost knocked over a broomstick in his frenzy to try to disappear from this frightening situation.

First I tried to comfort him, but he would not accept my comfort. So I gave him some space to try to muster the courage himself. He kept staring at the reflection of him and me in the glass of the door. He was transfixed. He looked around the corner of the cabinet, and cowered at the sight of the galley kitchen and two more thresholds. How was I going to get this dog out of the kitchen?

Starlight needed time. He needed time and incentive to get off the uncomfortable pile of footwear and move forward into the room. He spit out treats I gave him. He wouldn’t come to me—who the hell was I? And so I turned down the lights to get rid of the reflection in the glass and went into the living room, allowing him to fight Fear himself.

Half an hour later, he walked over to the edge of the living room door. There he lay down and trembled, unable to cross the threshold.

There was no way this dog was going to the office. I’d never get him through the front door. And he didn’t respond to his name; his nomenclature more for purposes of networking than for practical application.

I left a message for Amanda telling her we needed to implement Plan B. The trainer might have thought he would like the office, but Starlight couldn’t even come indoors. Time was running out. I had to go to work in the morning and I needed a solution to him not going with me.

Starlight lay at the threshold of the kitchen for a good hour. I walked by him to use the bathroom and upon my return Fear rose its ugly head and he skittered back to the corner of the kitchen, huddled on top of my shoes again.

I couldn’t afford to give him the time he needed to work it out for himself. I took him by the harness, and guided him across the floor. He dragged his feet, not gaining traction on the slate. When his tail crossed the finish line just over the threshold into the living room, I sat down with the shivering mess of a canine. His back legs were unmovable, as if they had turned to stone.

I pet him until his legs became flesh again. He relaxed into the floor. I couldn’t push him any further. I was angry; this dog needed more help than I could give him. If I had been unemployed, he’d have all the time in the world to come to grips with this new situation. But I couldn’t risk my job. I had to go to work with only eight days remaining in my contract. I don’t have a job that I can call in sick.

Amanda called me back and I told her my problem. “He needs someone who has the time to work with him. I’ve never seen a dog this terrified. He can’t move.”

“I have nowhere for him to go tonight,” she said.

And that was it: nowhere for him to go. Packing him up and taking him to boarding in the morning wasn’t going to help this kid. He needed a foster. He needed security. He needed someone to help him discover his own confidence. What had the trainer been doing all these months?

My friend tried to bring out my own confidence. “You’ve had difficult dogs before. You always make it work. Yes, the dog needs therapy, I agree, but you’ll find a way to handle this. You always do.”

That’s what made me angry: I would find a way—because I had to. Now that the dog had entered my life, how could I turn him away? Sending him back to the trainer wouldn’t get him a home. Sending him to boarding wouldn’t get him used to house-living. And there were no other fosters who were willing and able to take him.

I was his only option. And now that I met him, I couldn’t give up on him.

Shit. I hate that about myself. My endless supply of Hope doesn’t allow me to give up or let Fear win—even if the Fear isn’t my own. But how the hell would I have time to do this?

I showed Starlight the dog bed I had across the room. It registered in his eyes, but he made no move toward it. I brought it closer to him. He raised his muzzle to sniff in its general direction, but still no movement. I brought it right up to him, and placed one of his paws on the soft bed. He let me place the other paw, and within half a second he scooched up his rear end and collapsed onto the dogbed.

There, he promptly closed his eyes, exhausted from the battle with Fear which had won the day.

I had never seen Fear win. A small battle, here and there, sure. But this was not good. Where was the Hope, the Love, the arsenal of weapons needed to combat such an enemy?

Starlight’s story was a tragic one. It was no wonder that Fear had overtaken him.

Found roaming the streets of Big Bear, he and his canine companion were chased by Animal Control. He zigged, his friend zagged... right into the path of an oncoming car. Starlight watched his only friend be killed, and without a moment to process that, the animal control officer focused her chase on him.

The officer caught up to the traumatized and shaking Starlight, and wrapped her catchpole loop around his neck. Starlight balked and fought, and she hung him high, choking him, trying to make him cease his thrashing. By the time he reached the shelter, he was on the edge of unconsciousness.

Starlight survived only a brief time in the shelter before his number was called. He was a sweet soul, but sweet, timid souls don’t make it out of the shelter alive. The person who had to euthanize him simply couldn’t do it. She called Amanda and begged her to help. She just couldn’t be the one to take this tragic soul’s life away.

Amanda didn’t have the funds or the ability to take him, but just like me, once a dog is in her life, she can’t turn him away. She found him a foster home and away Starlight went to live with a family.

As she and I spoke and I watched Starlight slumbering across the living room, she remembered that his first foster home also had trouble with his timidness. He didn’t leave the crate for two full days. But that had been ten months ago.

The foster home sadly couldn’t keep him so Amanda made arrangements for him to be boarded at a ranch with a trainer. Starlight couldn’t walk on a leash; he was terrified of anything around his neck, and rightly so. He would cower to the ground and refuse to move. I use a harness with all dogs, so to me Starlight walked just fine—unless he didn’t want to go somewhere, i.e. through a doorway.

Amanda had given me a giant crate to use, and although I am not a fan of crating dogs, I had no other choice. Starlight couldn’t come to work with me. What was the difference of him being put in boarding versus being in a crate all day at my house? I had to come home in the middle of the day to walk him. It was a major inconvenience, but it was only a three-day week. I would have to make it work.

I couldn’t give up on this poor traumatized kid. He needed more than Love and Hope. He needed more than I could give him, but right now I was the only one giving him anything.

Amanda needed to find a new foster for him. But in the meantime, I had said Yes... I was all Starlight had. I didn't have the time and patience he needed right now, and that made me angry. My friend was right though: I’d make it work. Somehow. I just had to make it three days. Three days, and then I could give Starlight all the time he needed to battle Fear and finally win the war forever.