Dogs, dogs, dogs

There are parts of human nature that dogs can never understand. It isn’t for a lack of trying.

The dogs I know spend countless hours fretting over how such a loyal and trusted companion can fly into such a tizzy over the most normal kinds of behavior, like rolling in another animal’s excrement. Humans are disgusting. They don’t lick themselves nearly enough.

Dogs don’t understand why humans would crawl around dumpsters, sketchy neighborhoods and, my personal favorite, highway medians, to rescue them and, then, try to train them to stop all of the behaviors that have kept them alive. Dogs live by cost / benefit analysis. If they are warm under a bridge, near plenty of food and water, they don’t necessarily have a conscious need for someone to swoop in and say, “Hello, Doggie, I’m one of the good humans, I have come to buy you food, toys and sweaters, if you will just come away with me!”

Dogs aren’t just sitting around thinking, “Oh, if only a human, one of the good humans, would come and take me to their home and adore me.”

All of this is to say, I had not realized that I was running a dog rescue. I say “had not realized” rather than “was not told” because that is a fight that has been waged, lost, and with a heavy toll. I have now been made fully aware that I am running a dog rescue and the early results were not satisfactory.

I do admit, my wife had mentioned something to me about wanting to someday have an animal rescue. I thought that meant, like, well, after we were dead. One of those bucket list things that you just don’t quite get to do.

I thought the ability and generosity to nuture was being fulfilled when we started regularly producing animal-like sons. Lord knows we’ve rescued them any numbers of times.

Apparently, the empathy one feels for their own flesh and blood is nothing compared to a feral dog with mange, heartworm and a constant red thing sticking out. Almost all dogs are rescues. I don’t know many people who still buy full blood dogs, but it is encouraging that people do seem to be looking for a dog with a story.

Our history with dogs is complicated.

I moved to Vermont, adopted a dog, eloped with my life-love, and started law school, all in August of 1988. We met Margaret, a goldie-lab mix a week before we eloped. I always thought that adopting Margaret helped seal the deal. We had already done one impulsive thing, why not do another?

The dog was Duffy’s idea. I am innocent of any manipulation, or, can, at least, feign the belief that she really did love me more than the dog. Duffy saw Margaret’s gentle, hurting spirit and said, “What about this sweet, girl?” She wasn’t barking, had eyelashes and little dreadlocks around her ears. She came out of the kennel, sat up on her hind legs and wrapped her front paws around my leg in a hug.

The Upper Valley Humane Society on the Vermont / New Hampshire border, told us all about her terrible life. Margaret was about three and recently had puppies. It wasn’t her first litter. She had been chained next to a garbage heap, so mostly she had to rummage for scraps. They said she would take a lot of work.

Duffy did almost all of that work, while I “studied” law but it was easy and done with an appreciation that Margaret was giving her something special in return. Margaret went swimming in the River, fetched sticks, took good long walks every evening and hikes on the weekends. Duffy took her on errands and to parties (where Margaret would offer spiritual counseling), so people could tell her what a special dog and how beautiful she was.

In later years we moved four times and had three babies. Margaret was a good sport but none of that was easy on her. In my book, all dogs are measured against Margaret and none have made the grade, particularly, this current crop.

We put down Margaret, then, Sam and Lily, who had come to us as old dogs in search of a peaceful end of life. All three within five years. I, being the designated family witness to these events, was excited to have a little dog free time.

Oh, but, they couldn’t stand it.

Duffy took two of the boys – her covert majority – to “run some errands.” They show up later with a mutt, who they had named Fonzie, bathed, wormed, and vaccinated. The boys called him, “ the Fonzie Dog”, or, as I think of him, a Chihuahua head, grafted on to a Terrier body by Dr. Frankenstein. Fonzie sensed instantly that I hated him, and he, me. He was a demon, ran off all of the time, wouldn’t listen. And he made me miss Margaret. One day, I was off somewhere, and my wife talked to a dog trainer / rescue person. You know the rest.

Soon, she had found a wandering multi-breed in a parking lot. It was incorrigible. If Fonzie was a demon, this dog was the spawn of a cucachabre and the devil himself. He kept trying to run away and I said let it go. No one spoke to me for three days. That dog, I was told, needs a home and Fonzie needs a brother. The thing had a name but I will consider myself lucky, if during the writing of this, his name does not pop back into my head.

Well, they became quite the criminal enterprise, Fonzie and he who shall not be named. They committed vandalism and mayhem. Eventually, they took off together and no one could find them. Everyone knew Fonzie was being led astray by that no-name asterisk of a dog. Seven bleak days around here ended with a 4 a.m. call from a neighbor. Fonzie was 3 blocks away with a broken hip. There was no sign of the other. It was the greatest day of my pet owning life.

A couple of months later, someone put up posters, “Found” with a picture and info. I think it was Jonas who said, “Daddy that picture looks like…” The other two boys faces went white, but I knew they would never tell. At last, I had the majority! Then a couple of weeks later, a woman was wrestling a whirling dervish across the mockingbird bridge. My heart skipped a beat, because you can feel it when you are close to true evil.

“Don’t make eye contact,” shouted Liam.

“Hide!”, warned Caleb. The older boys, the ones who had aligned with me on this issue, stared over the top of the seat at the woman and the dog until we had driven well past them.

“Dad, that was…” said Liam.

I cut him off quickly, “NAHHHH, he was smaller than that”. No one ever said another word.

After the broken hip and 7 days on the road, Fonzie and I made our peace. I admitted that we really missed him and he admitted that he had, at times, been ungrateful toward me. He said he appreciated that I was the person who came and got him and he apologized for following the anonymous vagabound and all of the pain he had caused the family. I accepted his apology and we have been on very good terms since.

Then, along came Buddy, some sort of very hairy Shepard, because, you know, Fonzie needed a brother. I looked at my wife like she had lost her wits. Didn’t we just try that with Phantom Dog? She says, I found a dog but you get to decide. Of course, when I met Buddy, I was absolutely emphatic.

“Oh, he’ll do. Come here, buddy…”, I declared, mustering my bitterest condemnation of the whole proceeding! After that I just sort of gave up.

Fonzie was better and a comfort to me at times, but Buddy was the other extreme from that forgotten, little tramp. I have never seen a dog worry as much as Buddy does. It’s understandable though. He was abused and separated from his brother. Every time he tells me that story, I just tear up. He hasn’t gotten over the time I told him about Margaret’s life and that he better buck up. I should have been more sensitive.

I don’t know how much time passed, maybe just a few months. I remember there was at an epic heat wave. It was between 100 and 107 for about 40 straight days. Somewhere in there, I became vaguely aware that the family was beginning to worry about animals generally, in a drought and heat situation.

That concern became quickly focused on the specific instance of a wild or dumped beast currently circling our neighborhood. Again and again he passed the house. Each time, I could see the call to arms rallying the troops! I on the other hand, observed from the garage. The thing was a mottled mixed breed. It looked like a hybrid of Alien, the ever popular pit bull, and a black lab.

Rescue people will probably scorn me, but I only like to rescue Dogs that come up to me and ask for help. Like Margaret did. I saw this dog, he saw me, 15-20 times over two days. I even called to him but in his core he believed he was better on his own than to take a risk with me. Dogs today are worse than Human Beings about that false pride stuff. If you need help, ask. Otherwise, I have a garage to clean.

The only family member who had the courage and the persistence to see this rescue through was Jonas, our youngest. My wife is so clever. She sends a small child out to tame a pit bull. Day and night he put out food and water. The dog, very cautious at first, then slowly trusting, ever so slowly building trust… finally, let Jonas pet him. Next thing I knew, “Zeus”, was in the house watching TV and acting like a poodle.

So this merry trio – the aging, but still spry, Fonzie; the neurotic, sheep-less, Buddy; and Zeus, who has bitten 5 or 6 of our friends, all of whom claim they deserved it – has been doing fine together now for a number of years.

Last Saturday, Duffy comes home with some sort of terrier looking mish mash. I gave her directions to a place and she said, “Oh you better not send me that way, I might pick up a stray dog.” I had a sinking feeling as she pulled out of the driveway.

Did I mention my wife is psychic? Not an hour later, she was stalking a stray in the rain in Oak Cliff. She says we are fostering him and she will find him a home. By the time she got “Beckley” home, he had a name, his shots, a shower and shave, and an appointment for a nut clipping. She says we are fostering him and she will find him a home. He doesn’t look like he is going anywhere to me.

He is an agreeable fellow though the other three dogs hate him. They are highly insulted that we are not trusting their judgment on this one. Zeus is so upset we have not even let him near the dog without a fence between them.

I prefer someone adopt Zeus, and would pay them to do so, as I am growing quite fond of “Beckley”. He is all black with just occasional white spots and appears to be very smart. He has a tiny strand of longer white hair near his rectum. It looks as though he might have a string hanging out of his butt and people have commented on this.

Beckley (or Zeus!) clearly needs a patient group of humans who have their own flaws and foibles. So, if you know anyone who wants a man killer, or a smart, sweet, little dog that’s sure to start a conversation, just let me know. That or I’m stuck with the very real possibility that for the next 10 years or so, I may find myself repeatedly saying the words, “No, that’s not a string. No it’s not hanging out of his butt.” This is how a rescue dog can open the world for us!