Canadian Canine

What I do for dogs is so little, it really doesn't register on the radar at all.  There are people who dedicate their entire lives to helping animals, sacrifice money, time, safety, relationships, all to help animals in need. I have great respect for those people.  I'm only a part-timer in this realm, and today I got to meet a few who dedicate a bit more to the cause.

I was supposed to meet up with Jami and Katya, two other volunteers along with a few little dogs from the shelter at a vet's office in Los Angeles.  There, Skippy and the others would get their health certificates needed to travel, and then Jami would transport them to LAX where they get on a flight for Vancouver.

Jami was already there when I arrived, but Katya was still at the shelter waiting in line to get the dogs.  Skippy hung out with me in the truck on the street, hoping that by the time Katya arrived a parking spot in the vet's lot would open up.  In the half hour wait, it did.  Parked closer to Jami, we got out and headed inside to at least wait to see the vet since we were already past our scheduled appointment.

I ended up taking Skippy in while Jami went back out to the parking lot to help Katya with the three dogs she was bringing in.  When I returned to the exam room with Skippy after getting him weighed, Jami, Katya, and three tiny dogs were in there.  The vet looked a little surprised since the only one on her paper to get a cert was Skippy.  Katya explained them all quickly:

The one in her arms looked to me to be a purebred black and tan miniature pincher.  A neighbor of hers found him; or actually the dog found her.  She opened her door and found him on her stoop.  They put up flyers, sent out emails, tried to find who this boy belonged to, but no one came forward.  So, after the legal week-long wait, he was headed to Vancouver to be re-homed. 

On a leash was a tiny all black...well, dog.  I have no idea what sort of dog he was.  Pointy ears, probably Chihuahua something, named Romeo.  He was from the shelter and just needed a health certificate.

And finally there was a tan pug/Chihuahua mix who was not terribly happy (or maybe his face just looks like that).  The vet asked for his name to create a chart and Katya quickly said,  "Um, let's call him Mr. Darcy.  I like that.  It's fitting."

"Okay, Darcy," the vet tech responded.

"Mister Darcy," Katya corrected.  "Can we make it Mr. Darcy?  I like literary references."

Mr. Darcy was indeed a bit belligerent and mean, but not without cause.  He had been attacked and was brought into the shelter with bite marks on him.  Naturally, he isn't the most trusting animal on the planet.

Meanwhile, Skippy was still getting over the trauma of having a thermometer shoved up his ass, which he did not take to kindly, and was whining to me, pleading to get out of the room.  I asked him to calm down for a bit, and although he never fully relaxed, I think we did pretty well for four (five when another vet tech came in) humans, and four dogs of varying sizes and personality in a hundred square foot room with the door closed.

All dogs checked out, Jami waited for the bills and health certificates to be written up, and Katya and I headed back outside to the cars with the four dogs to build the crates.  Skippy's was the only one already built in the back of Jami's car.  But the other three tiny ones needed to be assembled, the dogs needed to be in them, and Jami still had to get to LAX all in less than two hours.

It was down-pouring outside.  Skippy let me know how much he hated rain earlier in the morning, so I knew he wasn't going to be happy.  Romeo was so tiny that he was completely soaked after only seven raindrops hit him.  Katya carried her black and tan miniature pincher in her arms and let Mr. Darcy lead the way.  He had gotten out of the collar and having tried to bite already, a leash had to be transformed into a slip-lead so he wouldn't get away.

Skippy was all too happy to be back inside my truck, but perplexed when I walked away with Romeo, leaving him to sit alone.  Katya put her stray in Jami's car, and that left Mr. Darcy and Romeo.  We found a little inlet on the side of the building adjacent to the vet's office.  It was an entrance way to a non-named business.  A security guard didn't seem to want us there, and Katya broke out her fluent Spanish and explained that we just needed a place to quickly put together three crates and then we'd be on our way.  He let us stay.

I held Mr. Dracy's slip lead so he wouldn't get away along with Romeo's leash while Katya started to frantically build a crate.  She looked up and around and said, "What is this place?"

"Um..." was all I said since the security guard was within earshot, and simply pointed to the wooden box on the wall labeled "CONDOMS", and an enormous detailed sign about the dangers of unprotected sex with strangers.  And then we heard the music from around the corner and she just sighed with, "Great."

Once the first crate was built, we put Mr. Darcy in it so I was free to also build a crate.  We apologized to every man that walked by that was surprised to see two women crouched down on the floor building dog creates in the entrance to his club.  Katya had already had a not-so-great day at the shelter and appeared to be emotionally spent.  When Jami returned and found us there, Katya said, "And now I'm building dog crates in the entrance to a gay sex club.  Could this day get any worse?"

I shrugged.  I didn't see a problem with it.  I mean, as a single woman in this area of town, I'm guessing the safest place to be is the entrance to a gay sex club.  Certainly no one there wants anything to do with us, least of all to harm us in some way.  "Okay, it is kind of funny," Katya finally admitted.

The rain let up and the sun shone for a brief time, so we exited the alcove.  Jami needed to take Romeo back in because of a typo on one of his papers that could lead to him not making it to Canada.  Katya and I arranged the crates and dogs, and everything was set when Jami returned.

Skippy would travel shotgun with Jami in the car since it was easier to get him in the crate once they arrived, rather than putting him in it and then having to heave it back into and then out of the back of her car. 

The time had come.  I brought Skippy over to Jami's car.  He willingly hopped in, the seat being far lower to the ground than my truck.  I gave him a hug good-bye, and I was going to be perfectly fine until I heard Katya say, "It's always hard to say good-bye."  Damn it!  I sniffed back in the tears I felt about to break through and smiled at Skippy.  I kissed him on the head, told him how much fun I had with him, and then closed the door.

As I watched Jami drive away with Skippy sitting so calmly in the passenger seat, I was at peace with it.  He didn't have adopters lined up anymore, but he did have a foster home.  By midnight he would be in a country I've never been to, hopefully all snuggled up with his new foster mom.

Katya said, "You'll always be one his moms."

Really?!?!  This woman really knew how to get my water-works going.  I was having a hard enough time keeping it together; the sentiments, although true and heart-warming, were not really necessary.

I will always be one of his moms, she is correct.  And I didn't feel like I was betraying him by sending him on his way.  I couldn't do anything more for him.  He was on his way to Canada, to another person who will help him on the next leg of his quest.  My mission was complete, although Skip's journey wasn't over quite yet.  He still was on his way home, but my portion of his journey was over.  And this time, I was okay with that.

Because that's what fosters do.  That's what transporters do.  We're just a piece of the puzzle, contributing our little part to the big picture.  Skippy could have been in boarding all week, but instead I chose to let him stay with me.  It saved the rescue a few bucks, gave me some entertainment and purpose, and hopefully it made this portion of Skippy's journey just a little better.

Thank you, Skip, for a very fun week.  I wish you the best, and hope you didn't freak out too much on the flight.  And to all those in Vancouver, a wacky American dog just arrived that is looking for his life-long partner and family.  He might have a high-pitched play bark, but he's a pretty good pup.  He's charming, he's smart, and he's got a million dollar smile.

I'll post his ad once it gets up (and who knows, maybe he won't even need one; maybe someone at the airport will fall in love with him on the spot).  But in the mean time, contact the rescue if you're interested:

http://www.penniesfordogs.org/

Good luck, Skip. (And don’t let any Canadian canines hump your head.  If they're as nice as all the people in Canada are reported to be, I'm sure they won't even try).

Diary of a Wimpy Dog

You know that kid that was always getting shoved into lockers at school?  Well that kid had a mom, and now I know how she feels.

It's not easy to make friends, even if you're a scruffy dog.  I admit the atmosphere in the "under two feet tall" section of the dog park felt more inviting than the big dog area, but I think it was because it had a more social feel.  In the big dog area, individuals showed up with two or three big dogs and played with them off leash.  In the little dog area, individuals met up with other individuals with dogs, and they sat and chatted while their dogs played with each other.

Skippy and I were newcomers, and I didn't know how we'd be accepted.  Skippy took it slow as he had in the other park.  He studied every scent, but never looked intimidated by the other dogs.  No other dog approached him, nor did he approach them.  He was getting the lay of the land, as was I.

Once all the scents had been decoded, Skippy greeted all the humans in the park, and they pet him and commented on his fabulous smile.  He wagged his tail, and made sure every person had formally introduced to him.  When he started his second round on the same people, I finally said to him, "Okay, come on Skip.  You've met all the humans.  Now go make friends of your own kind."

I was surprised that he took up the request immediately.  He walked up to a dog, sniffed him, and the dog barked back at him.  Rejection number one.  He tried another, giving a gentle play bow, putting a paw in the air, and was met again with hostility.  I have to hand it to him.  It isn't easy.  I mean it's like asking me to walk into a room full of strangers and just start making small talk with them.  I have no idea how to go about doing that; and now I was expecting Skippy to do the canine equivalent.

He just kept choosing the wrong dogs.  His manners were fine, his communication clear, but these dogs were just not interested in playing with the tall scruffy mutt.  One dog got vicious at him snarling, and I had to pull Skippy away.  Another he thought he was playing with, but the other dog looked like Skippy did yesterday: running from fear, not fun.  But he kept at it.  My dorky little boy kept up his confidence and tried to make friends despite the rejection.  He definately did better than I would have.  I would have given up and gone home after that many rejections.

We kept returning to a group of three ladies and five little Chihuahua mixes (almost all small dogs in Los Angeles have some Chihuahua in their bloodline).  Skip sniffed one of them and she turned and snarled at him.  Her guardian explained the little dog liked to play, but just didn't want anyone sniffing her butt.  Skippy insisted on playing, bowing down again and again. When the little dog snarled again, the other four barked at Skip.

 "Watch out kid, she's got a posse," I warned him, but Skippy was having fun now.  And honestly, the ladies were wicked nice too.  I got the feeling they were three retired ladies who met at the dog park in the afternoon to let their dogs play.  They were regulars and knew the names of all the dogs in the park.  And they were having fun watching Skippy try to play with their dogs.

Skippy got in on the barking too, and as he barked I saw spit fly from his mouth.  I tried not to hang my head in shame and pity.  Yup, my kid was the awkward one, the unpopular one, the one that spits when he talks.  I'm horrified when I accidentally spit when talking, especially in front of new people.  Now my foster dog does the same.  Poor Skip.  He's a good kid and pretty awesome once you get to know him, but until then he's just the weird kid you don't want your own kids playing with.

But the ladies didn't notice or didn't care.  They were very nice to Skippy, and took joy in watching him try to play with their dogs.  They could read his body language and knew he meant no harm to their little ones.  Course, I did note that although Skippy was eight times their size, he was outnumbered.  If something went down, he'd have to fight off six little dogs.  Yet he didn't feel threatened, and neither did the ladies feel their dogs were in any danger.  Even when I got worried about Skippy sniffing a Chi who tucked her tail under and looked terrified, they said it was no big deal since they could tell Skippy wouldn't hurt her.

I was glad Skippy could finally have some fun.  The awkward kid was making a comeback.  It wasn't easy in the beginning.  I walked by a young woman after one of the dogs got angry and tried to take Skippy down, and she frowned in sympathy to me and said, "Aw, none of the other dogs want to play with him.  They're all being mean.  Poor guy."

But in the end, the ladies who accepted me and let me chat with them had the dogs who allowed Skippy to play with them.  We were newcomers, and had been accepted by regulars.  It was a good afternoon.

It all came to a close when a little black scruffy dog entered the park.  One of the ladies said, "Watch out for that one.  She's just vicious.  Keep Skip away from her and you'll be fine."

Sure enough, not even three minutes into the park, the little black dog threw down a delicate brown Chihuahua, who shrieked with urgency.  Her owner picked her up immediately and she looked unharmed but she kept shrieking, that high-pitched shrill scream.  Skip initially ran from it when he heard the fight break out, but once the shrieking dog was within the safety of her guardian's arms, he, along with just about every single dog in the park, ran over and surrounded him, as if they were all concerned for the dog.  I watched to see if any of the dogs would retaliate and go after the scruffy black mean thing, but they didn't.  From what the ladies told me, it would have been due justice.

The Chi stopped screeching after a time, and when he placed her down, she was fine.  I was worried she broke a bone.  Those dogs are so delicate.  But the fun time was broken, and Skip wanted to call it a day.  He sauntered over to the exit and sniffed the gate.

I hoped he had gotten his dog play time out.  It was so wonderful to see him smile and play and interact with others.   When we got back, I took him for quick walk to make sure he didn't have to pee.  Thirty seconds into our walk, he spied a little dog crossing the street, and immediately let out his play bark and rose on his hind legs.  The little dog was standing with his guardian who was talking to someone in a car.  The little dog saw Skip and barked back, wagging his tail.  I approached and the two noses touched.

"I thought they both might be quiet if they just meet," I said to the human attached to the dog's leash.  He agreed, and my theory was proven.

Skippy said hello and wanted to play.  I think the other dog might have, but with leashes attached, it's a bit difficult.  So we pulled them away, and I realized that no matter how much one plays, there's always room for more.

When I inside I received an email from Alexis saying believe it or not, Skippy's adopters backed out.  However, they backed out after his flight was booked.  So, little Skippy is going to Canada, but not to his forever home.  He'll go to a foster, but it's a little annoying he couldn't have just found a home here.  The ladies at the park adored him and said if he hadn't had adopters they might be interested.  One woman even said, "Oh, good, Canada is nice.  Everyone in Canada is nice; I can't say the same of this country.  I've been there twice, and everyone is great."

I'm sure he'll get a home there (although I can't say "everyone is nice there" is an actual fact), but it's unfortunate that he has to go through being flown there only to still be in search of home.  I also got the news that he will be leaving on a flight tomorrow night, rather than Sunday.  I'm to meet up at the vet's office with his transporters at 2pm.

I'll be sad to see him go, but I'm glad he's one step closer to home.   I start a job on Monday, so Skip will be the last to have a long-term rental here at Casa de Canine for the season.  For the next few months I'll still transport whenever I can, but the B & B portion of my adventures will only be open for the weekends.  With all the dogs at the shelter needing out, I have no doubt those weekends will get booked quickly.

Forgivable Flaws

It's unfortunate that I can't take Skip many places--not that I have a lot of entertaining places in mind, but it would be nice if he could go to the coffee house, or at least go for a walk without being embarrassing.

Mickey had brute force and got very excited when a dog came along, but he never barked, thank goodness.  I guess he felt he could express himself with his body, and that would be enough.  An occasional whine might escape, but nothing like Skippy's high-pitched bark that sounds like nails on a chalkboard as he writhes on the leash, balking and spinning to get to the other dog two blocks away.

In no way did I want to reward this behavior, but I did think perhaps Skippy could benefit from the time at a dog park.   He finally has started playing a little bit in the apartment, but not much.

Maybe he's just not into toys (note: this is the last picture I have of this hippo before it lost an ear and was then disemboweled).  Maybe he's better at playing with other dogs than by himelf.

One a more selfish reason, since he started eating again (thank you Vita-Gravy and Snausages), he's been waking up before dawn and having enough energy to pull on the leash and be a general nuisance.  Perhaps if I wore him out with other dogs, he'd go back to sleeping for 9 hours a night and still no wanting to get up.

 

On the Way to the Park

The dog park on Whitnall Highway has a big dog and a little dog/timid dog section.  I read the reviews on Yelp, and decided to go with the big dog section.  I know he had fun with Odie, and I assume he likes little dogs, but with all the pent-up energy he had, I didn't want to upset the regulars if he started getting too playful with the little dogs.

I watched a guy bringing in four large dogs.  His dogs sat before entering the first gated area, then after he took off their leashes made them sit and wait for him to open the second gate and then allow them to run into the area.  Now that's well-behaved dogs.  I didn't think Skip would do that, but oddly, it didn't seem like he was all that excited to go in with the other dogs.

Dog parks are like "pet areas" at hotels.  Even though most people clean up after their dogs, there are lingering scents left behind from all the defecation.  And all those scents in a small area, is like for us humans walking into an over-stocked second hand store or souvenir shop; it's just too much stimuli.  So Skip spent most of his time just trying to take in all the scents in the area.

I've never taken any of my charges to a dog park.  I promise to never put them in harm's way and to always protect them, and putting them in a large area with dogs I didn't know didn't make me fully comfortable.  I felt like the Mom trying to have that balance between letting her child go off and play and still watching his every move.  I couldn't be as relaxed as other humans who sat on benches reading a magazine or talking on their phones; nor did I want to follow him around everywhere.   I didn't want the other dogs making fun of him for being a mama's boy.  He didn't stick by my side, so I knew he could do it on his own, but I still trailed behind him trying give him space.

There was one dog who latched onto him immediately.  A beautiful Staffordshire terrier. (aka pit bull) followed him around everywhere.  I wasn't too worried, although I wanted to make sure Skip didn't lock eyes with her and she took it the wrong way.  Her guardian kept breaking her focus, because he said that's when things got dangerous (great, thanks for telling me).

I don't know what it is about Skip's head that makes it so damn mountable to other dogs.  Poor Skip.  I have the kid who keeps getting taunted on the playground.  I let it go on for a moment, hoping Skip would get out of it, but he had a hard time.  The other dog's owner simply said, "Aw, he really likes your dog."

Um, well, actually my dog isn't having a grand time.  Skip started to run away, but having seen him play with Odie (before that turned into Humpfest 2010), I could tell this was not a playful run, but a "Holy crap, get away from me" run.  Skip's tail was down, but not relaxed, his ears were back, and his head was low.  He was not enjoying that kind of attention.

He didn't play at all.  Aside from being chased by the dog who wanted to hump his head, he didn't even run.  The pittie ran with him for a time, but after her guardian's words about her focus and prey drive, her guardian stopped her.  Skip certainly was not as into her and she was into him.

We only lasted half an hour or forty-five minutes and Skip was ready to leave.  Much like with Odie's playdate, Skip sauntered off to the exit indicating we should leave now.

He was panting heavily, but didn't want any water.  I sat there for a moment in the truck, sad that he didn't have a good time.  I snapped a couple of pictures and you wouldn't be able to guess that he didn't have a decent time.  So maybe I was reading it wrong.

 

When we drove off, I passed by the little dog area, and saw a couple of dogs his size.  He was too winded to try at the moment, so I think we'll give it a whirl this afternoon.

Skip did sleep, but not through the night.  He still woke me up at 4am adjusting his position, and then at 6am, sort of hinting he might have to go out.   Between 6:45 and 7:30 he tried many tactics to get me out of bed, stretching over me, standing over my head, licking my arm, jumping off the bed.  I explained to him that had he pooped at midnight when we went out, he might not have to go right this second, but he wasn't listening to reason.

I rose from bed and we went for a walk that was simply awful.  He pulled and tugged, he play barked and lurched about on the leash in the middle of a crosswalk when we passed another dog (who, by the way, was polite and just kept walking normally), and worst of all, he rose up on his hind legs and let out a bark at 4^th grader walking to school.

I was not happy with him this morning.  Maybe he was getting even for taking him to yet another place where he got humped in the face.  I know he's a smart dog, which is what frustrates me more; he's got to know what he's doing wrong. I'm beginning to think he might have ADD or OCD or a combo of the two.  He focuses so intently on something that he startles easily; which leads to the bark.  He's pretty high strung.

But then there are moments like last night.   He lay down next to me on the bed, his head by the wall, his butt close to my face.  I told him I would appreciate it if I could have his head, not his ass in my face.  His farts aren't as bad as they were, but now they're noisy.  I'd rather they make noise than smell bad, but either way, I don't want it near my face.

He refused to move on his own, so I moved him myself, he never even rising to assist me.  I made sure his butt was closer to the end of the bed, and his head was up by mine.  When I snuggled back under the covers, he rolled onto his back and shimmied his way closer to me.  My arm was already acting as a pillow for his head, and he shimmied closer and closer to where he could lean into me, his head resting on my shoulder and his right front paw draped across my waist.  I looked down at the scruffy muzzle on my shoulder and couldn't help smiling.

He let out a little sigh, his jowls flapping, making him sound like a tiny horse, then readjusted his head to burrow it farther onto my shoulder and chest to be as close to me as possible.  Yes, the walks are frustrating; yes he wakes me up way too early; and yes, he lacks some social etiquette are times.  But in a moments like this, how can I not forgive his flaws and love him anyway?

Practical Matters

Unlike a lot of dogs I've had the pleasure of knowing, Skippy is pretty low maintenance when it comes to issues.  My main worry for him is that he refuses to eat.  People keep saying he should put on some weight, but honestly, I don't think he's too thin.  I've seen worse.  I think Mickey was more underweight that Skippy is.

In an effort to persuade Skippy to eat, I put some kibble in the Kong, and he seemed to take to it, but only for one meal.  The novelty wore off quickly.  Then, just for fun Sunday night I pretended each piece was a treat and tried to get him to catch the pieces in his mouth.  He didn't catch them in mid-air, but he did pick them up once they landed and ate them.  The pieces are rather small, and although my days aren't booked up with appointments, I really didn't feel like spending an hour feeding him one piece at a time.  So when I started giving him a few pieces at a time by hand and he took them, I got the feeling he was playing me.

The past few days have consisted of him eating maybe a bite or two, and then leaving the rest in the bowl until about 9pm when he figures out there's no other choice and he sucks it up and eats it.  I even gave him a different kind of dry dog food, and he liked that when I gave it to him one piece at a time, but not out of the bowl.  Little Edie might have been spoiled, but I'm getting a stronger vibe that the Skipper here was even more spoiled.

I had brought some food to the boarding place yesterday and told the woman that he could have some, but I doubt he'd eat it.  She asked if I had tried mixing wet dog food with it.  I told her no, that I had a feeling this pup might have been used to roasted chicken and rice.  Christy actually offered to give me a chicken breast to give him, but while he was in boarding, I picked up a couple of wet food containers, thinking if was probably cheaper.

He had spent the day in the kennel, not eaten before we left, not eaten during the day, and still refused his dinner by evening.  At 9pm he got up off the couch and sulked over to the food bowl, eating one piece of kibble at a time with a miserable look on his face.  Had he been a four year old toddler, he would have dramatically gagged upon each swallow to demonstrate just how awful the food was.  He gave up after a couple of bites and came back to sulk next to me.

So I caved in and opened up the meat flavored wet dog food and dumped it in his bowl.  It got his attention, that's for sure.  It also got mine.  Man that stuff smells awful.  And looks a lot like it's already been eaten.  Terribly gross.  But after mushing it around the dry food and popping it in the microwave for a few seconds (I heard somewhere that heating food might make it more appetizing to dogs), I set it down and that boy went to town on it.

I hadn't even settled back down on the couch when I heard the sound of the bowl being slid across the kitchen floor.  I got back up and found him holding down the bowl with a paw, trying to get every single molecule of deliciousness off it with his long tongue, while it was jammed up against the cabinets.

"You like?" The words came out of my mouth before I realized what a dumb question it was.

He whipped his head around quickly as if there was simply no time to acknowledge my presence, and went back to the bowl.  I took it away for fear he might eat the plastic.

It was probably only ¾ of a cup of dry dog food and a little wet food, which was the Cesar brand (for little dogs).  It was 9pm, but this was the most he'd eaten in days.  I considered it, weighed my options, and decided to give him some more.

The combo of the wet and dry food worked wonders.  Licked clean in a matter of minutes again, I was pleased, but wondered what sort of consequences his intestines and my olfactory nerves would suffer tonight.  I had to suck it up though--he needed nutrition.

I waited until 11:45 to take him out.  I don't know how quickly dogs digest, but I really didn't want him to need to go out at 3am with diarrhea.  I assume the wet food comes out the back end looking pretty similar to what it appears to be on the way in.  But I could be wrong.  I can tell you that the smell is distinctly similar.

I need to note here that Skippy has a strange pooping habit.  I know this seems odd to talk to about, but on every transport, the topic of eating and defecation come up.  Supposedly it tells us how the dog is feeling, or at least how his body is handling the stress.  Skip didn't have diarrhea, but he is the oddest pooper I've ever taken for a walk.  Every dog has a style; a peeing style and a pooping style.  Some dogs only pee on grass, some only on concrete, some uphill, some in weeds.  They also have pooping standards.  Some dogs need to track scents for a good hour before finally finding that perfect spot.

Maybe it's because Skip was neutered as a pup that he doesn't have any tendency to mark like Mickey did.  He reads the writing on the wall, I assure you, but he doesn't contemplate adding his own thoughts.  He just sniffs and moves on.  And it doesn't appear that it sways him one way or another to take a piss there.

Anyone who has taken dogs for walks for a good amount of time can read when their dog is just about to take a dump.  There's a change in the sniffing and searching.  They get a wider stance when walking, they sniff a little closer, they slow up, start to circle maybe.  There's just some moment that their body language let's you know to get the poop bag ready.

But Skip is some sort of Ninja Pooper.  He's a surprise dumper.  We can be walking along at a good trot, walk-walk-walk-then SQUAT & DUMP-walk-walk-walk.  I practically tripped over him in a driveway the first time he did it.  We had been walking at a good clip when he stopped suddenly, squatted, and took a dump.  He would have kept going had I not had to pick it up.  I thought maybe this was a one time thing; that he just really had to go all of a sudden.  But when he had a repeat performance the next night, I concluded this was just his style.

He didn't have diarrhea until this morning, but I paid the price all night as his farts wafted up to my end of the bed.  In fact I'm still paying the price.  His farting style is much like his pooping style:  like an assassin striking when you least expect it; it make no sound, gives you no warning, and assaults you with a quick and deadly force.

But at least he ate, right?

How to Ruin It For Everyone

I had seen a tiny Chihuahua go up the stairs of the building yesterday, and just figured someone had a visitor dog.  It's no big deal.  In fact people in the building welcome these occasions since we can't have dogs of our own.  But this little dog is not welcome, and I'm just a tad pissed off at my neighbor.

I might be a little biased since I'm already pissed off that it's now noisy in my apartment almost all of the time.  I had the quietest upstairs neighbors for three or four years.  I can't even remember how long they've been up there.  But they've moved into a larger apartment down the way.  In fact when they told me they had moved out, I admitted that I hadn't noticed the place was vacant--that's how quiet they are.  This new person, whom I have not met, makes the most noise I have ever heard.  It sounds like large bowling balls rolling across hardwood floors.  Some times there's loud music, or just stomping around, some times it's high heels.  But the some times is almost all the time.  And my Friday night of stopping Mr. Chatty from comments was mostly in regards to the upstairs ruckus.  But now she's really hit a nerve.

Supposedly, she's dog sitting.  But rather than dog sit at the person's house, she brought two Chihuahuas here (which isn't the problem), but then she left her door open so they could see out the screen, locked the door, and left.  It was non-stop barking for three hours this morning.  This is why people aren't allowed to have dogs in apartments.  And this is why my ability to do this might now be jeopardy.  Certainly I never leave dogs alone here.  But maybe people don't know that.  All I know is I was ready to kill her just on the chance that I might have to send Skippy back to boarding for good--even though he didn't bark, it would best to lay low for a time.

I talked to my apartment manager and he was just angry as I was, and suggested that perhaps if Skippy could eat the two offending Chihuahuas upstairs, all would be forgiven.  I said that would be nice, but Skip seems to like little dogs, so he probably wouldn't kill them for us.  (See, if I had a pit bull we probably couldn't make dog mauling jokes like that, but because Skip looks like he should be wearing a sea captain's hat and have a pipe in his mouth, we can).

I know my apartment manager wasn't mad at me, and I don't know if the girl would have brought the dogs anyway.  But honestly, it wasn't that they were there; it was that she left them.  So here’s my point:  I don't recommend anyone do what I'm doing if your apartment doesn't allow dogs (in fact some shelters and rescues require you give them proof your apartment does allow dogs if you want to foster for them).  But if you do somehow find yourself doing an overnight for a dog in need, or have a dog illegally for a night or two, for goodness sake, DON'T LEAVE THEM ALONE IN YOUR APARTMENT!  Seriously, it just ruins it for the rest of us.

I couldn't get Skippy to eat the Chihuahuas, but on our late night walk back, while I was distracted wondering what the lights were doing on at the top of Griffith Park, Skip violently bolted at the end of the leash (oddly, in complete silence).  I was jerked back to see what had gotten his attention, and I saw a black cat go running off into a nearby parking garage.

"Oh sure, that one you couldn't alert me to vocally?"

At which point he corrected himself upon seeing the second cat--a black and white one--bolt under a car in my building's parking lot.  Hypocritically, I shushed him, probably just out of habit.  I had thought perhaps the presence of a dog would make the cat nonsense in the neighborhood go away.  I don't know if one is in heat, or all, but outside my window it sounds like a bad impression of a Disney cartoon--cats yowling and meowing, howling and screeching all night long.  I don't know who's in heat, but seriously, stop courting and just do the deed.  We're sick of the noise.  But more so, my apartment manager is sick of the marking all over the property, especially on the doorsteps of every tenant who owns a cat.

So as I helped Skippy stalk this offensive feline, I hoped karma would work out.  Two Chihuahuas unattended is a very bad thing; but one cat-chasing terrier mix might make things good again.

"Okay, I lied," I whispered to Skippy.  "Be quiet about it, and try not to get your face scratched off; just scare him a little."

I was surprised that this cat did not back off at first glance of Skip (maybe he was picturing him with the captain's hat and pipe).  I gave Skip enough leash to get close enough to scare but out of feline leap-reach so he wouldn't get hurt.  The cat took off behind another car.  I didn't take note until the cat was off the premises that one of my upstairs neighbors was standing on the balcony, watching the whole game.  As we passed under her she said that we had her day.

"Watching him with you was so wonderful.  He was waiting for your command, and you were just giving body signals and he was following.  It was teamwork.  It really made my day to see that: dog and human, that bond."

Yup, kicking a cat's ass makes everyone's day.

[Disclaimer:  I really don't hate cats.  Honest.  Animals of the feline persuasion have shown up at my door too, and I've helped them out.  Lost cats, and even one that fell through that my bathroom ceiling (but that's a story for another time).  I love all animals; I just don't happen to like these particular cats.  And anyway, Skippy had to earn his keep so I didn't have to send him back to boarding for good.]

Dog Day Afternoon

Skippy and I had a rather eventful day.  Actually, we had one event that sort of was a bust, but that led to greater fun anyway.

It has been brought to my attention that when I foster and transport dogs, I disappear from human existence.  I agree that's true, since I don't leave the dogs home alone.  But there isn't an excuse for me not to make plans that they could be involved with as well.  So, my friend and I tried for the ultimate task: a lovely afternoon walk with her baby in a Moby (a  baby carrier) and her dog Charlie by her side, while Skip and I came along.  It would be a wonderful outing.  Clearly this is too high an expectation.

Skip does not know how to walk on a leash.  I think he was a backyard dog.  He can sit and stay, and lay down, and even does Shake.  He loves to be groomed.  But put him on a leash and he zig-zags in front of you as if he's being shot at and he's trying to avoid the bullets.  So, I try to employ the "stop-when-pull" technique.  Essentially, if he pulls on the leash, I stop.  Once there's slack in the leash, we keep walking.  I suck at this, I admit; I'm not consistent enough.  But I do try.

Charlie has the opposite leash trouble.  He seldom pulls.  Instead, he's king of the stand-off.  He just chooses to not walk for no reason any human can grasp.  So while my friend is trying to get Charlie to not stop, and I keep stopping Skippy, oh and the baby is not falling asleep and is about to get way cranky about it....well, let's just say it was a good idea in our heads, but not so good in reality.

After a valiant effort, she left to get the baby to sleep, and Skippy and I left for the pet store.  I had forgotten that the pitties had destroyed all of my squeaky toys, so I needed to replenish.  Skip still hadn't played yet, and I thought perhaps he just didn't like rope toys or to play fetch.  While I stood in line at the cashier, people happened to stop and say hello to Skippy.  It's hard to ignore him really.  He's got this fabulous open mouth grin that just makes you smile.

A couple walked in and the woman said hello to him, and was about to strike up a conversation with Skip when she looked up and I said, "Hello."  We knew each other!  She had no idea I volunteered my time transporting and fostering, and I had no idea she lived three blocks away.

After I checked out and went out to the truck, she and her husband offered to have an impromptu play date for Skip and their dog Odie.  Skip really loves other dogs, to the point of embarrassment really.  If he sees one from two blocks away, he starts this high-pitched play bark and struggles on the leash, thrashing about as if his life depends on getting to the other canine.  So I accepted for him and followed them to their house.

Odie is a Jack Russell/Chihuahua mix, slightly larger than Skip's head.  Odie came out to greet us, not giving Skip enough time to go berserk at the end of the leash.  Just enough to run up, accept play bows, and then we headed to the backyard so I could take Skip's leash off.

Once the leash was off, it was play time.  Watching dogs play is such a fun time.  It’s too bad people who raise fighting dogs can't see that watching them play, not kill each other, is a far more entertaining activity.  The delicacy in which Skip could play with a dog one third his size is astounding.  He still rough-housed, but knew his limits.  At one point he even up-ended the little dog.  And the dog got up to keep running and playing.  The two were having good times until Odie fell back into his own embarrassing habit: humping.

My friends had gotten Odie only a few months before at the South Central shelter.  He's already three years old, and although he knows how to play and is clearly dog friendly, he mounts dogs (and even the air at one point) when he gets excited.  Skip is way too polite.  Humping his side is one thing, but when Odie mounted Skips head, and Skip just tried to politely back away rather than bark, "Get your dick out of my face!", I was a little disappointed.

Odie's guardians are doing their best.  They carry a squirt bottle filled with water, and squirt him when he gets into mounting frenzy, but like me, were surprised that Skip didn't stand up for himself.  I guess he didn't want to pick on the little guy, especially when it was the little guy's house.

It appears that Skip understands doggie doors--or maybe Odie explained it to him on the spot.  Odie jumped through into the kitchen and Skip stuck his head in.  We humans watched to see what would happen.  I couldn't imagine he'd be able to fit through the Odie-sized hole in the door, but sure enough, with a little flexibility, he got his whole body through and was in the house.

He came back out, and every time we told him not to go back in, he listened.  Odie taunted him, sticking his head out from inside, "Come on, dude, come in!" he seemed to say.  And Skip looked back with that big grin, and looked around to us.  "They said no, man."

After a good while romping, and it degenerating into a hump-fest,  Skip sniffed at the front gate and sat by it, calling it a day. "You want to go?  You all done?" I asked.  He looked up at me, and sniffed the gate again.  He came back and sat down, waiting for me to say my thank-you's and good byes.

He had an exhausting day.  We had walked for a bit despite our stops and starts, and he got to romp around off leash in a backyard.  It was a good day for the Skipsters.  And he didn't bark too much tonight.  The again, maybe I just wore him out enough that he was just speechless.

My Dog Skip

I got an email from Alexis on Thursday night asking if one week was too long for me to foster.  Attached to the email was a short video of the dog in need, Skippy.  He was walking along next to none other than my dear love, Mickey.  (sigh).  How could I say no to a friend of Mickey's?

Due to me not having a fancy-schmancy phone in which I can access my email on the fly, I didn't know that Skippy was already put into boarding until Friday afternoon.  So, unfortunately, I had to pull him out of boarding (the same place I left Mickey for one day only).  I swear this woman probably thinks I'm taking business away from her.  It's a fine facility, I assure you.  But there's no need for a rescue to pay money for boarding when a volunteer is available, and no reason for a dog to be in a kennel when he could be on a couch.

Alexis' video link she sent me also listed a few other videos starring Skippy--one at the shelter, one at the dog park, and another of him just wandering around somewhere.  Looking at his big goofy grin, I had to take him in.  But I was worried about one thing: he was a terrier.

See, I don't have problems with pit bulls.  I don't have problems with strays.  But I do have a problem with barkers.  And terriers simply have an innate propensity to tell, not show, exactly how they feel.  As a human that does not always have the willpower to keep her mouth shut, I have a hard time asking my canines with the same flaw to keep their comments to themselves.  But given my living situation, silence is of the utmost concern.

Skippy was a "Return".  He was adopted from the shelter two years ago as a mere puppy.  And then in January, he was returned back to the shelter, like a dress worn once with the tags still on it.  I don't know his guardians' situation, but when I do the chronology in my head, I come up with the possibility that someone (perhaps a couple or a family) bought a house in 2007 at the height of the housing boom with interest only loans, and got a puppy at the shelter to make the home complete.  Two years later, they can't afford their home, and pet friendly rentals are hard to come by, so the final piece of puzzle that made their family was returned to where he came from.  Except here's what they may not understand:  much like the house they bought, their dog lost value too.  They might have thought that since he was adopted by them long ago, he'd have the same chance now.  But he won't.  He's not a puppy.  And he's not more attractive for being "gently used".  Luckily Alexis found him, and there's a family ready and waiting for him up north.

Alexis sent me his info via text message on her way to the airport: neutered, house-trained, good in car but barfs after an hour...she left him with a dog bed and a giant bag of food at the kennel.  She said he'd be fine for a week in boarding, and I'm sure he would be.  But why should he?

I told the woman at the kennel that he'd be back on Monday at least for the day, if not for good.  I was still worried about his barking, but I had to give him a chance.  Maybe he wouldn't.  Maybe he would be a perfectly quiet young gentleman.

But I was wrong.  I thought perhaps having a dog for a time would distract me from my own anxieties about not having a job.  Well it certainly distracted me, but only by giving me another anxiety--that he would growl or bark.  As he sat up on the couch next to me, every time someone walked by the window, he would come to attention, his ears perked, his eyes glued to the window (even after they've passed), and I'd watch his lips twitch, ready to growl.  I spent most of the evening staring at him, ready with "Skip, Skip, it's okay. Good boy.  Quiet," and other variations as soon as I thought his mouth was about to open for comment.

He managed a few growls and two full barks all night.  Because he's been in a home, I'm not worried about him peeing on the carpet, or eating electrical wires.  I thought it would be relaxing.  But last night was not relaxing.  I'm hoping he'll calm down, get down off the edge, and let me be the boss.  He needs to know he's safe here.  I'll give him another day or two.  And hopefully he'll choose to not have to comment on every noise.  Cause honestly, he's a pretty cool pup.  I'd like the chance to get to know him.

Big Love and Little Advantages

I received an update via email on little no-name dog I called Edie.  Within 24 hours of reaching her foster home, she got herself a forever home.  Not sure if her fosters failed as fosters and adopted her on the spot or if someone along the road to San Clemente called dibs on her before she even got a chance to shake the shelter dirt off her.  But either way, congrats, Edie.  See, being little and cute really is an advantage.

But as for my dear love, Mickey, he still hasn't found a home yet.

I met up with Alexis and Mickey at a Starbucks in West Hollywood yesterday, to meet the rescuer I had only known by email, and to visit with Mickey again.

Alexis told me that he's settled into his foster home, and will be remaining an American citizen.  Although Canada doesn't have as many BSL (breed specific legislation) as the United States, her apartment building does.  Mickey's genetic make-up makes him an unacceptable house guest at her place.  And the fact is, Vancouver has its own pit bull problems--too many in the shelters and not enough good homes willing and able to take them.  So she feels he has the same chances there as here, so he might as well stay here in Los Angeles.

He's still loveable as ever.  I didn't think he recognized me to begin with, but then he got excited enough that I figured he did.  He's such a gregarious soul, I wasn't sure if was just being over friendly towards me.  I could tell he loves Alexis as well.  When she stepped inside Starbucks to get him some water and her some coffee, he stood at the end of the leash for a time, wanting to see where she'd gone off to.

Alexis informs me that he definitely adores Eric (I told you he loves dudes), and is even more fond of Eric's sausage-shaped beagle mix Flloyd (not for eating purposes, but for hanging out purposes).  He follows Flloyd around, licks and snuggles him a lot, and likes to sleep on his bed with him.  I know for certain now that Mickey is having way more fun where he is now than he would with me.

I don't know why he hasn't gotten a home yet.  I know he's not a pocket-pet like little Edie, but he's such a handsome, loving gentleman, I'm surprised he's still available.  He's not overly excitable (except when it comes it comes to some dogs, but neither Alexis nor I can figure out the common variable).  He met a sweet little girl pittie at the coffee house and in the middle of sniffing her, he sort of lost control--of his bladder.  He was facing up hill, and I watched in slight embarrassment (for him and me) as the line of urine picked up speed and cascaded down the sidewalk toward the entrance of the coffee house.  Perhaps this is why he likes guys better: women make him lose control of his faculties.

Alexis and I sat and chatted, mostly about Mickey, while I got some quality time with my old roommate.  I was surprised when I went to pay for parking that the attendant asked me to pay $17.50.

"Does that include the one hour validation?" I asked, putting my ten dollar bill away.

"Yup.  Time just slipped away, huh?"

At $2.50 for every fifteen minutes I suspected I'd be paying $10.  I guess I really did let time slip away.  I just paid $17.50 to see my former foster dog and have coffee with the rescuer that saved his life.  Although I would have preferred to not pay anything to place my vehicle on a slab of concrete, I can't say it was a waste of money.  If I had to spend money, this was a darn good way of doing it.

When Alexis and Mickey starting walking back up the hill and I was a step behind on way to the parking garage, Mickey turned in surprise to see that I was following.  He looked up and behind at me, his tail wagging.  "Hey, you're coming home with us?  Cool!" his body seemed to say.

But alas I had to part ways with him.  I stopped in front of the garage entrance and bent down to give him another hug.  I thanked Alexis for meeting with me, and I wished Mickey luck on his quest for home.  This time I didn't break down in sobs and tears in the parking garage or at the next stop light.  He'd be enjoying his time in West Hollywood, hanging with Flloyd and Eric until an even better home comes along.

I hope that home comes along soon for him.  Not just for his sake, but for whomever is meant to be his new mom or dad.  They might not even realize they have a space in their heart shaped just like Mickey where he belongs.  But once he looks into their eyes, and he gives them a big dog hug, they'll never recall life without him there.

 

If you know someone who might just need a Mickey to fill their heart, please send his link along.  He's a good boy, and he'll love you for the rest of his life, I promise.  And if you have a dog, he'll probably love him or her too (although if it's a her, you might have to watch for any accidental loss of bladder control, but remember he is a guy and all men lose some faculties in the face of extreme beauty).

http://www.petfinder.com/petnote/displaypet.cgi?petid=15721047 

Evolutionary Advantage: The Cuteness Factor

It had been quite some time since I had a dog with no name.  The entire ride down, I tried to glean what this little one's name would be.  I suck at nomenclature.  Even when writing stories, I loathe coming up with character names.  I guess I just can't bring myself to encompass all I want to say about someone in just one word.

By the time I finished cleaning up the puke and took the little one out of the truck for her first walk (which turned out to be more a "stand" as she hesitated in moving once again), I thought perhaps her name began with a "T".  It would be dainty, feminine.  And the weird way the human mind works, perhaps I associated "T" with anything or anyone tiny.  My neighbor saw her and said she thought her name would be something like Delilah; something very feminine and proper.  And then, in a flash of inspiration, I looked into those soft brown eyes, and I called her "Edie."  It seemed to suit her.  I didn't expect her to respond to since I had just conjured it up, but it made it less awkward when I tried to get her attention and had nothing to call her.

Speaking of getting her attention, there is a very big difference one needs to consider when walking dogs of different sizes: their weight.  When Edie stuck her nose near something to possibly take a taste instead of just sniff, I gave the leash a yank (since just calling her name would be useless).  However, I was used to being up against fifty pounds of canine force, and although I didn't think I jerked it that hard, the poor girl practically took flight across the sidewalk toward me.

I apologized to her, and we continued on our uneventful walk.  I think perhaps the harness was throwing her off.  She walked with a swagger, and very slowly as if the weight of the world dragged her down.  After twenty minutes she still hadn't peed so we went inside anyway.

She truly is an exceptionally cute little girl.  Her papers listed her as a stray, but with her white coat so white and her back end looking recently groomed and cut, I had a feeling she might have gone into heat and taken off from her yard, and her owners just didn't bother posting her bail.

However, she's clearly not house-trained, as was evident when she squatted in the middle of the living room and when I approached her and took her outside she simply looked up at me confused.  Apparently my carpet resembles a toilet in the eyes of canines recently.

Little Edie spent most of the time on my lap.  She does crouch down low and show her belly when I approach her, but then she seems to enjoy the belly scratch.  I tried to feed her, but she wasn't interested--except for the bread.  Since I assumed she had an empty stomach after releasing its content in my truck, I gave her some bread.  However, I didn't know how much food was too much for a dog that small.  I only had large bite dog food, and I took the time to cut them into smaller pieces, but even those seemed too big for her tiny mouth.

She played for a brief moment, and I was delighted by her enthusiasm.  She ran a bit and attacked a toy, and seemed to be having a good time.  Then she ran off into the hallway.  I let three seconds pass before I rose up from the floor to confirm my suspicion:  that she was squatting in the hallway taking a piss.

Maybe she was just a lap dog previous to her incarceration.  She had no boundaries like those who have never been in a home: strutting into the bathroom and investigating the bathtub, putting feet on the kitchen chairs, peeing inside with no regret.  And yet with her timid nature, I couldn't see how she possibly could have survived as a stray.  Although, I was wholly embarrassed when out for a walk she began to growl at a shih tzu down the street.  When it was evident she wasn't going to let it go and the other dog wouldn't move, I picked her up to walk past, apologized to the owner, and found out that little tough girl here just threatened a blind dog.

But aside from that one incident, she was sweet as could be.  She was curious about people too.  When Ruth came to pick her up yesterday morning, Edie went up to her for a sniff, and then collapsed on her side to get some belly rubs.  I was confident she'd do fine wherever she went.  I've heard that life is easier if you're pretty; I imagine it's the same whether you're a pretty human or a pretty dog.

I was surprised though, that when Ruth went to put a teeny tiny collar on her that Edie retreated toward me, climbed into my lap, and stared at Ruth, looking as if she knew where she was safe.

"Oh wow, she's bonded to you.  You're clearly hers," Ruth stated.

I assured her that Edie would bond with whomever loved her and carried her around all day.  I placed the collar around her neck and she seemed fine with it.  It was so odd; I hadn't put a collar on a dog in forever.  It was a lot lighter than the harness, and when Ruth led Edie outside to her car, she certainly did truck along a lot faster than when she had the harness on.

Edie was fine getting into the car and I wished her well.  Ruth was going to hold onto her for a few hours and then she and a few others would head down south to their fosters.

Later in the afternoon I got an email from Ruth telling me it was hard to say good bye to Edie after only a day with her.  Edie's a heartbreaker, that's for sure.  She spent the afternoon on Ruth's lap in various locations: the car, the coffee house, the hairdressers... Little dogs are easy to spoil, and Ruth sensed this dog had been spoiled indeed.  I don't know if she had been in the past, but she certainly did seem to feel entitled to it.  But maybe that just comes with being unbelievably adorable.

I have no doubt she'll find a forever home right quick.  She'll bat her long eyelashes, show her little belly, and snuggle up to her new guardians, and any flaws she may have will seem so insignificant it won't matter at all.  Yup, being cute certainly is an advantage no matter what species you belong to.

It Had to Happen Some Time...

Well it had to happen eventually.  After two years and many many miles, I got my first Puker.  Luckily we only had twenty miles left in the journey, but no matter when it happens and where it happens, the smell of half-digested dog food still stinks.

I replied to a posting on Thursday night about a Chihuahua mix that needed to get from Bakersfield to San Clemente, CA.  I offered to do Bakersfield to Burbank if someone could do the other half from Burbank to San Clemente.  Within moments, thanks to instant email these days, it was settled.  I would pick up this nameless terrified pup from Kern County Friday morning, hold her overnight, and then another transporter would pick her up at my place at 9:30 Saturday morning and drive her to her foster home in San Clemente.

I read somewhere that Canines are the most diverse species of animal on the planet.  Even if it isn't officially true, it sure seems that way, that both Mickey and this little mutt are members of the same species.  I wanted a change of pace.  I hadn't had a wee little dog since Newton and Cheyenne, so I was looking forward to a dog I could pick up and hold.  I don't have a preference really; neither one is better than the other.

I had heard that Kern County is one of the roughest shelters in the area.  Mainly it's just not frequented, so many animals are euthanized.  I wanted to see what conditions were like, take a little tour, before officially picking her up.  But I was so thrown by the location that I didn't.

I parked in the small parking area that was like a dirt strip mall parking lot area.  What I thought was the entrance stated Redemptions and Licenses only, and gave directions to the Adoption Center.  It said one could either drive behind the building to get there, or walk across the lawn.  Against Los Angeles nature, I walked.

I was expecting an Adoption Center (since those were the words used on the sign), and having been to places like San Diego Humane Society, I thought a reception area some nice artwork, something like that would be what I encountered.  But instead I thought I had accidently arrived at the animal control offices:  two animal control officers behind two desks in a small room with a few stacked cages/crates with a couple of tiny dogs in them.  A door beyond the desks led to the kennels.  I was so confused I asked, "Is there where I come to pick up a dog?  She's been pulled by a rescue.  I'm only transporting."

I was indeed in the right place, so I sat down at the desk and failed to go in the back.  The animal control officer was very nice and despite a few hiccups in finding all the necessary info for me to take her, it was done quickly and without too much trouble.  She asked if I wanted to go back and see her before taking her, but I thought it odd and refused before mentally berating myself that this would have been when I could have gone back to see!

Moments later the officer returned with dog in hand--literally.  Chihuahuas shake all the time, but this was quite a tremble the little girl had going on.  I took her from the officer, commenting how cute she was, but I didn't get see much of her face as she buried it into my chest, trying to deny the reality around her.

Putting a harness on a pit bull is an quite an undertaking as not only can they be energetic but also have the shear force of their weight to complicate matters.  This little girl, as much as she was trying to use gravity to suck herself into my chest, didn't fight as I unglued her enough from me to get the harness on.  Once outside I set her down on the lawn to pee and she just stood there, frozen, blinking into the sunlight.  After a few moments of stillness I realized she wasn't going to move let alone pee, so I picked her back up, hoped she had peed recently enough to last the hour and half home, and brought her to my truck.

I attached the tether to her harness, but she really didn't want the vast passenger seat all to herself.  After climbing up over the console, I couldn't resist the sad little face, and allowed her to sit on my lap (which is probably against the law).  She was tiny, and not in the way of my steering range, until she felt it most comfortable to rest her head in the hole in the steering wheel.  I wouldn't be making any tight turns, but it's not terribly safe either.  Each time her neck went out to stick her head through, I gently moved it back to my lap area.

I could tell she wasn't completely terrified and shut down.  She had a healthy curiosity and could express herself with her expansive ear movements.  When I turned on the GPS, her ears went up, her head cocked, to hear what it had to say.  And by the time I hit the 99/5 interchange, she was sitting up on my lap, trying to see through the windshield.

Twenty minutes from my place as she sat on my lap, I saw her start to lurch, that neck lurch that is the predecessor to only one thing: vomiting.  While still driving, I pulled the towel from the passenger seat and tried to get it between her face and my pants.  Just as I thought I had it in the right place, she puked.  A lot.  In fact, I'm not convinced it all came from inside her.  Perhaps another dimension opened up and spewed out liters of Alpo.

I pulled over when I saw a safe stretch and big enough break down lane to assess the damage and see how she was.  Some of it had landed on the towel as I had attempted to make happen, but a good amount was on my pants too.  I grabbed the water bowl and she greedily drank it up while I tried to ignore the stench of half-digested dog food that now permeated the vehicle.

When she finished drinking I pulled back onto the highway.  I guess that's the problem with picking up dogs in the morning: she had just eaten.  Although I thought by 11am, it would have been safe.

She still sat in the same place as we continued on, so I thought she was over it.  I think dogs are better at rebounding from barfing from humans--or at least they're better than me.  But as I took the final turn onto my street, I heard the noise then felt the wetness.  This time it was the water and any remaining dogfood that had missed the first flight out.  I looked down at the sopping dogfood mess on my pants, my jacket, the seat, on her paws, on the floormat, in between the seat and console...  It was astounding.  Water really does make solids expand.

I parked, surveyed the damage from where I sat and came up with the best plan of attack.  I got out holding her, and rinsed her white paws off with water from my water bottle.  I dried them off with the towel.  I set her on the ground, but it was difficult to not scare her every time I splashed water on my pants and jacket to get the puke off.  Finally I picked her up and placed her on the passenger seat.  She watched me for a brief moment as I had the door open and was aiming my water bottle on my pants.  Then she sighed and lay down in the sunlight on the seat.  Sure, now she's content to sleep on the seat.

In fact, she was so content to sleep on the seat, that she had no qualms about me closing the door, picking up the towels and jacket along with soiled paper towels I had been cleaning with and walking away.  I didn't even rush.  I put the laundry in my apartment and threw the paper towels out, and when I returned she was sitting very lady-like and perfectly calm on the passenger seat.

It had to happen eventually, so boom, it happened.  I'm glad it was with a tiny dog such as this.  My goodness, if Mickey had thrown up in the car, I'd still be shoveling it out to this day, and be smelling it for eternity.

A Foster's Farewell

I was on the corner of Glenoaks and Alameda when it happened:  I finally broke down.  I had held it together on my drive back over the hill with the empty harness on the vacant passenger seat beside me.  I was fine while I picked up groceries.  I was even okay when I picked out a movie at Redbox in front of 7-Eleven.  But as I came to a stop in the left-hand turn lane, I burst into tears sobbing hard, believing I had betrayed my boy.

All I could see in my mind's eye was his face in the window as I waved goodbye outside the apartment building.  I was leaving without him.  I was never going back.  Did he know I was never coming back?  And would it be worse if he did know, or better to believe one day I'd walk through that door again?

I had just spent two weeks, every single moment (except for my Thursday evening and Monday afternoon) with him.  He had bonded with me, opened up around me.   He trusted me.  I don't know if dogs know when they're finally "home".  Maybe he thought I was it.  I usually prep dogs on my transports, let them know what's going on, but I didn't with him.  I thought it would be easier.  But then it seems like such a greater betrayal, a lie to just appear so flippant about it.  Deep down I wasn't flippant.  But I couldn't keep him longer.  If I only had a house with a yard, I would have.  I would have fostered him until he got that special home.  Then I wouldn't feel guilty because he would be going to his forever home.

But just to hand him over to another foster because I couldn't keep him?  Yes, it was better than boarding.  But that face.  I kept seeing his face.  We really didn't say Goodbye.  He certainly didn't, not at all aware that I would walk out the door without him; he just thought I was giving him a hug as I was wont to do throughout the day just because.

Back when I started this transport thing, I couldn't understand how fosters did it.  I have such respect and admiration to those who open their hearts and their homes to animals for an undetermined amount of time and then are able to send them on their way to the next portion of their lives.  I didn't think my heart would ever be strong enough to foster.  Mickey was with me for just short of two full weeks.  Lilly had only been 10 days.  But honestly, it's not the amount of time but the depth of the connection.  You allow that connection, you allow yourself to love in order for the dogs begin to love again.  They've been neglected and betrayed by members of our species, and yet when you step up and show them love, eventually they start to trust us again.  They accept love from you, and then love from others.  Fosters are the faith in humanity.  Fosters are the ones that show dogs who might never believe it, that not all of us are so bad.

So I hold that trust as sacred.  And all I could think about as I sat there waiting for the light to turn green, tears streaming down my face, was that I had betrayed that trust.  I hadn't sent him to boarding.  He wasn't alone in a kennel somewhere.  He was hanging out with a dude and his dogs.  He was probably having fun.  But still--I loved him, and then I let him go anyway.  My brain knew it was all for the best.  But my heart still felt the guilt.  It was so strange--I wouldn't have felt it if he had been going on a plane to Canada.  I would know he was going to a foster, one step closer to his home, far away where I couldn't help him.  But the fact that he was simply ten miles away, with another foster--I had failed.

Logically I hadn't failed.  The reason I couldn't send him to boarding all that time was because I had to follow through.  I make a promise to each and every dog that no harm will come to them while under my care.  That I will never leave them some place bad.  He certainly was not in a bad place now.  But I couldn't shake the feeling that he might think I had lied all this time, lied about loving him, lied about enjoying his company.

Dogs are forgiving.  More so than us, especially when it comes to forgiving ourselves.  I guess that's why it's even more of a betrayal.  I have to believe Mickey's having a wonderful time.  I have to believe he knows in his heart that my love for him was true, and still is true.  I've always thought that loving people is a dangerous business.  They can hurt you and betray you; but loving a dog is no risk at all.  Not until this moment did I realize the obvious flaw in my logic:  I may think loving people is too risky, and yet what I try to teach these dogs that come into my life is that people are worth loving, that we're not all going to hurt them and betray them.  And loving a dog?  Surely it's risky, not because they will ever betray you, but because one day they will leave and your heart will have a void bigger than you can ever imagine.  And yet the loving is worth that pain, isn't it?

I hope Mickey forgives me; he might very well have seen no harm or foul at all.  I hope he continues to love and trust--Eric, Alexis, his new guardians, whomever they might be.  I hope I've helped him to see that not all of us humans will betray him; and I hope he knows that all I felt and did for him was true, not a betrayal at all.  My continued love for him is what brings me to write this, to let everyone know he's still looking for a home, and where you can adopt him.  Yes, if you've followed along these past couple of weeks, the pictures are indeed familiar.

Tell all you know: Mickey is still in search of his forever friend, the one who will care for him for the rest of his life and who will love him for the rest of theirs.  Please help Mickey find that friend, and finally go to that most coveted place: his forever home.

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet3441274.html

http://www.petfinder.com/petnote/displaypet.cgi?petid=15721047