Getting the Last Word

Murphy spent an enormously boring day with me at work yesterday. 

He slept through most of it, but I noticed him yawning...a lot.  Yawning, although also a physical reaction to not enough air in the lungs, is also a way dogs calm themselves down.  Sometimes a yawn means the dog is stressed out, so I was a little worried for the little man.

Christy called me to say that one of her neighbors had offered to foster and asked if I could bring Murphy by around 5:30pm.  Looking at all the paper on my desk, I knew I'd be working till at least 10, so I said sure, figuring that would be my lunch break.  Since I had a nice long walk with Murphy in the morning, I didn't get in until 11am. 

Murphy recognized Christy right away and greeted her and her husband with wags and love.  We walked over to her neighbor's where we could hear her dogs barking from down the street.  She had a black terrier, a corgi, and a Pomeranian.  We went to the back fence, and right away I knew it wasn't going to work.  The black terrier reacted to Murphy the same way Murphy reacted to his potential new dad the day before.  The terrier looked like he wanted to rip Murphy's throat out.  So of course, Murphy stood his ground and barked his Great Dane bark back at him.  The terrier was escorted inside in the hopes maybe three of them would get along.

I brought him inside the gate on a leash.  Murphy immediately went up to the dogs all happy and performing perfect dog etiquette.  But the corgi's lip curled and he snapped.  Murphy backed away and went to say hello to the Pomeranian who gave him the same uninviting snarl.

Now my heart was really breaking.  Little Murphy just couldn't catch a break.  It wasn't his fault.  These dogs just didn't want him in their space.  So after fifteen minutes, we called it quits, thanked the woman for at least giving it a try and we headed back to Christy's house.

There, she contacted Melissa, asking if we could indeed call her in to take Murphy back for a couple of days.  She could, but only for a few days.  They asked if I could take him over the weekend.  I have another social engagement, one that has been planned for months, so I said I could take him Friday and partly Saturday, but I needed a dog sitter for Saturday evening.  Katya could take him Monday morning.

It was getting ridiculous.  Murphy was bouncing around all over the place, and each time he loved with all his heart.  How long could he keep doing that?  Melissa said she could pick him up at 9:30pm, and I had to get back to work and not be distracted.  I had a long night ahead of me.  Murphy seemed to be having fun at Christy's house.  He would run around for a bit, then head back over to me all excited, and jump on my lap.  I imagined him like a little kid who kept coming back his mom in the park saying, "Mom, I just played over there.  You should have seen me!  This is so much fun!"

Yeah, I got attached.  I admit it.  But it's hard not to, when he attached to me first.

When I went to say goodbye, he didn't get it.  He paid more attention to the fact than the last time when I said goodbye to him and gave him to Melissa.  But I figured I'd see him again on Friday, so I told him to have fun and gave him a hug goodbye.

When I walked to the door, he tried to follow, and looked all confused when Christy held him back.  I felt so bad.  I left him.  He loved me, and I left him.  I kept telling myself I'd see him again on Friday so it's not big deal, but it was a big deal.

I spent all day today feeling awful.  I felt rotten for leaving him.  If I had a house, he could have stayed with me.  But I don't.  I know he would have more fun with Melissa's dogs all day long, but still, that look on his face when he didn't understand why I was leaving without him just killed me.

Christy called me tonight to tell me that things were getting better for Murphy.  He tried to jump on the furniture in her house which is a no-no, and they kept telling him so.  When they brought out a dog bed for him to lay in, he stopped trying to get on the furniture.  Since one of the issues at Melissa's house was Murphy sleeping in the bed and not allowing anyone else but Melissa in there with him, the dog bed went with him to her house.  And it worked wonders.

Murphy just needed guidance.  He's a smart dog.  He figured it out.  He just needed to be told.  So, since consistency is best for Murphy, it looks like he'll be staying at Melissa's until he goes to Canada for adoption or gets a home here.  I won't see him again unless there's a big emergency and they need me to cover for a night.  I told Christy how bad I felt about leaving him, and she said that he did keep returning to the front window to look out as if seeing if I would return.  But the good news was he was really excited to see Melissa.

Now that I won't be seeing him again, I feel worse about leaving him without a proper goodbye.  I'm happy it's working out for him, and I hope it continues to do so.  But I feel like I totally let him down.  He gave me his heart and I gave it back.  I know this is what fostering is about, but I think something about Murphy just got to me.  Maybe it was all my memories of my dogs.  Or maybe it was just him.

Yesterday morning while I ate breakfast he lay on he couch napping.  He heard someone outside and growled.  I turned and said, "Murphy.  No.  Don't." 

He caught my eye and stopped.  I turned my heads to face my cereal and heard a little "Grr" from the couch.  I turned, met his eyes, let out a "No," and he was silent.  I turned back, and heard the "Grr" again.  I turned and stared intently.  "Don't.  Stop it.  Do you think I can't hear you?"

I paused a moment, then turned back to my bowl just as "Grr" came from the living room.  Each time I turned, he was looking at me, challenging me to somehow get the last word in. 

I let him win.

I do wish Murphy the best, and I'm sure he's doing fine.  I just wish there was a way he could understand that I loved him just as much as he loved me; or rather I loved him the most a human can love.  We humans don't have the capacity to love like canines do; that's why we love them so much.  Because deep down, we want to love like they do, and we hope by spending just a little bit of time with them, that ability will rub off on us.

I hope a little rubbed off on me in my time with Murphy.  I'll continue to strive for that level.  And in the meantime, I'll still love every dog who shares my home and my truck with me; I'll love them the best any human possibly can.  And whoever Murphy gets to love for the rest of his life is one very lucky human.

Day of the Dachshunds

You would think I would know by know that planning anything in my life is a futile effort.  But every now and again I give it a whirl, and like a fly bating its head into a pane glass window, I find myself facing the same inevitable failure.

Here's what my weekend looked like in my head:  Saturday morning, sleep in.  Leave for Bakersfield at 11:30 am to pick up a little doxie who I would transport to his foster in Pasadena, CA.  I'd be home by 4pm, grab some lunch, and head out to work for a couple of hours.  It was the first week of production, so I wanted some extra time to get the paperwork done.  Not only did I almost always require that, but I had plans in the evening that involved me drinking until 3am so I needed to make up my Sunday work-morning BEFORE going out Saturday night.

So now that you know the blueprint in my mind for my weekend, here's what really happened:

My transport went as planned actually.  This was my first involvement in a multi-leg transport in some time that I didn't begin or end.  I was merely a middleman.  Spike, the little brown dachshund had started his morning in Sacramento, and had gotten to Bakersfield through three legs.  I was leg four, his third new person to meet that day.  I had to make it to Pasadena, 100 miles away where his fosters had driven from Palm Springs to pick him up.

I thought of Murphy when the transporter I met in Bakersfield said, "He nipped at me and growled when I first met him, but then he found a comfy spot in the back seat where he could lean his head over and I could scratch his ears.  He slept most of the way."

Yup, it's a doxie.  Little attitude, then a bunch of loving.  Oddly, Spike didn't nip at me.  He in fact raced after me to get into my truck.  No nipping, but as always, everything with a dachshund involves a battle of wits or a battle of wills.  Let's face it, they're tiny dogs,  The only things they really have on their side is intelligence and the element of surprise.

Spike wanted to sit in the backseat, but I had too much stuff back there, and I needed him up front with me.  I pointed out the passenger seat was a nice place to be, or my lap, or even draped over the console as Murphy did.  But none of these options appeased him.  He only pretended they did.  I proved my words though: that I was always one step ahead of him.

As soon as he was all peaceful-looking on the passenger seat, he'd dive for the backseat over the console.  Or just when I thought he was content on my lap, he'd try to burrow through my elbow and get around my driver's seat.  Each time he did this, he tried to use as much gravitational pull as possible, pressing hard and keeping it there, using his head, his body, whatever he could, as if eventually I wouldn't be able to hold him back.  He was wrong.

Two hours and many failed attempts to get into the backseat later, we arrived in Pasadena where we met up with his new foster dads.  I'm so used to seeing where they end up, it felt odd to just hand over the leash in a Best Buy parking lot.  The guys were kind enough to drive up here from Palm Springs, I drive I certainly didn't want to do so I was happy they came here.  Spike was not though.  He growled at them, but not the crazy-bark Murphy is famous for.  One growl, and although Spike seemed hesitant, I thought he'd be okay going with them.  They were nice guys, and I imagined Spike would figure that out soon enough.  So I bid little Spike good-bye and headed off for the next portion of my day.

I did indeed get to work by 4:30 as scheduled, and started in to get as much done as possible before leaving for the evening.  And that's when I got the call.

Christy had taken Murphy from Melissa at 10am that morning to Murphy's forever home.  Well, "forever" lasted until about 5pm.  Murphy pulled his vicious stunts, and made the husband in the family nervous.  (The husband, who trains pit bulls, and has tattoos was a little nervous about Murphy).  Good job, Murphy.  You just proved that pit bulls are less dangerous than little dogs.

Christy then found out that it wasn't all peace at Melissa's during his stay.  He got along with her other dogs just fine and he adored her, but Murphy had issues with Melissa's boyfriend.  He just didn't like him, and wouldn't allow him near Melissa.  Oddly, he was okay with both Christy and Katya's husbands, so we're not sure what the trigger is. 

Whatever it was, Murphy had to leave his forever home tonight.  Melissa said she could take him for a couple of days, as her boyfriend is patient, but she couldn't keep him too long.  Also, Melissa had left for the evening and wouldn't be back till late in the night.  So, could I, single girl with no boyfriend for Murphy to hate, take Murphy for the night?

The only other option for would be to let him sleep in a crate in the garage at Christy's house.  He was fine with dogs, but he pissed off her cats.  Poor Murphy wasn't making friends anywhere.  I felt so bad for the little guy.

So of course I said yes, and tweaked my plans.  It was a gathering of friends, doors opening at 7pm, with a screening of a 1970's sexploitation movie at 11pm (my friend holds screenings of various themes every month or so like Chuck Norris, John Hughes, Italian horror movies, and the like).  I asked Christy to keep Murphy as long as possible so I could at least see my friends who I haven't seen in a few weeks, and then I'd take him home for the night, missing the main event movie.  The universe felt a dog needed my love and attention more than I needed to get drunk and watch porn with my friends, and I accepted that the universe might be right.

Christy met me outside my friend's place a little after 9:30 to hand over Murphy and his belongings.  I brought one of my guy friends with me to meet Murphy, and Murphy was totally accepting of him...so again, we don't know why he didn't like his new home's dad.

Murphy had had a rough day.  He'd had a rough time of it all lately.  Since leaving the shelter, he had stayed with Christy, Katya, Lavinia, me, and Melissa, and now was on his forever home.  That's a lot of moving around in a month.  I thought it was great that he met so many people, but each time he bonded and each time, we went away.

When we got back to my place I tried to play for a little while, but he didn't seem interested.  As soon as I sat on the couch, he dove at me and collapsed with half his body on my lap and the other dangling off onto the couch.  And there he passed out.

As I looked down at him, I was sad for him.  He just wanted to belong.  He just wanted to be loved.  He just didn't know how to do it.  He kept getting rejected.  All of us who had him for a little while loved him, but none of us could keep him.  He loved us all, and how did we reciprocate?  By passing him along.  Now granted that's what we have to do, and it's for the ultimate good to get him into a home for the rest of his life and fostering is a fabulous leg up for any dog.  But how do they know you're just a brief stop on the road of life?

I let him snooze for an hour before waking him up and telling him I wanted sleep now, so we should move to the bedroom.  In bed he curled up with me, his head on my shoulder, muzzle nuzzled into my neck, and fell back to sleep.  I know Murphy's not "my dog", but I feel for him so much.  I want to protect him; I want him to have the life and love he deserves; and a huge part of me feels enormous guilt for the fact that he's not staying with me forever.

Dogs choose people.  I know that.  One of the places I volunteered at years ago had a dog in their kennels for over three years.  He had chosen one of the volunteers as his person, but she couldn't keep him.  Every time he went out to a potential home, he sabotaged it in one way or another.  He wanted her.  But she couldn't have him.  It made me wonder if Murphy sabotaged his meeting because he wanted one of us who already had him.  Or if, perhaps, he just didn't understand that barking and growling at your new dad is unacceptable.

When I finally fell asleep Saturday night, looking down at the peaceful puppy on my shoulder, I realized missing a movie with my friends was no big deal.  I need to get out of the house with people every now and again, that's for certain, but knowing that a little canine in need found safety with me for the night after a long trying day, is worth sacrificing a little social time for.

Murphy's Love

Murphy spent yesterday at Katya's again.  When I went to pick him up, this time she met me at her front door with him and his stuff.  He saw me through the screen door and was balking at the leash to get to me.  When she opened the door, Murphy busted out and bounced all over my legs in greeting.

"Aw, he so loves you," she said.

I admit I was a little proud.  He'd finally decided to allow me to love him.  He didn't bark at me.  He instead greeted me with enthusiasm.  Which made it even harder for me that in only an hour or two, I'd be handing him over to his new foster, Melissa.  As he bounced on me, I wondered what it was like from his point of view.  As I enjoy caring for dogs, I wonder if to him, I'm the one he's caring for.  Just as I was excited to see him because I got to take care of him, maybe he was excited to see me because now he got to take care of me.

While Katya and I spoke Murphy still had opinions, whining, growling, making general expressions of impatience.  He was happy to see me, but now we needed to get on with things.  His little groans of impatience reminded me of Dutchess.  If my father yelled at Dutchess and told her to get to bed, Dutchess would walk back to her crate, the whole time grumbling away.  He'd still be talking to her and she'd have her butt facing out of her crate toward him as she continued her grumbling which needed no interpretation.  I'm sure if she had the gift of the English language, a whole host of expletives would have been uttered in annoyance.

I caved into Murphy's impatience as Katya had to get ready for the evening anyway, and when I got back to the car I realized that Murphy might not understand just how big he is.  He is only a year old, and six months ago was probably half the size he is now.  So he didn't understand why he couldn't sit on my lap while I drove.  When I got in the car, he refused to get out of the driver's seat, somehow believing he was small enough to share the seat with me.  Dutchess used to do that in my father's recliner.  Even as she got older (and wider), she still believed she could fit just fine in the seat with someone else.  And if you tried to sit next to her and you didn't fit, then it was obviously your problem not hers. She'd grumble and growl, informing you that clearly you were the one that was too wide, not her.

As I was negotiating the terms of the driver's seat with Murphy, my phone rang.  Melissa was just leaving work and would be ready to meet up in forty-five minutes.  I was surprised that I felt a little pull on my heart.  I wasn't ready to give him up yet.  I told her I'd call her when I made it back to the valley, and we'd see where she was at too, in case she hit traffic.  I admit it: I was stalling.

I got back to my place, and I was having a hard time accepting having to let go of Murphy even though itt was what was best for him.  Melissa even has dogs that he can play with.  But I think aside from him being an awesome dog, his short stature and big personality was making me nostalgic.  And he's not even all doxie; in fact he might be Basset, although attitude makes me believe dachshund.  My boss described him best when he said, "It looks like someone stuck a yellow lab's head on a dachshund's body." 

Everyone says that the pictures I take of my foster dogs make it seem like they all have a giant head and a tiny body.  But it's merely focal length and perspective.  In this case though, Murphy really does have a giant head and a tiny body.

How had he burrowed into my heart so quickly?  I was going to miss this little guy with a giant dog bark.  I could see how Lavinia bonded so quickly.  I didn't think I had, maybe because it had come so naturally.

As I drove to the park where Melissa and I were to meet, I looked at the situation from another perspective (the big head-little body perspective).  The fact was, lots of people wanted to love Murphy.  Unlike Mickey who had no other options but me or boarding, Murphy had a line up of fosters wanting to be with him.  It was just circumstance on why no one single person had held onto him.

The thing is, I wasn't abandoning him.  I was sharing him.  Just as Dutchess shares me with others now; I am allowing the experience of knowing Murphy to be shared with others.  He already had shared himself with his first foster, then Lavinia, then me, and Katya and Christy along the way as well as countless others during his shelter days.  Now he's getting to know someone else.  He's going to let someone else love him.  And someone else is going to know what it is to know Murphy's love.

Of course loving a dachshund does come on their terms, as I've mentioned before.  So it really shouldn't surprise me as to how the transfer went down.

There was a baseball game going on when I got to the park.  I found the very last parking space available and Melissa met me at my truck.  Murphy was so busy taking in all the stimuli that he really didn't register what was going on.  He ignored Melissa and even me.  I explained to Melissa that he does know his name, but he just chooses to ignore you unless you have something really interesting to offer.

With all of his stuff in Melissa's car, it was time to hand him over.  I was holding him and I gave him a squeeze to say good bye.  He didn’t look me in the eye, and again, I thought he really wasn't registering that I was leaving.  Melissa put out her arms and I handed him over without thinking of the consequences.

There he was, face to face with her.  A moment of peace, then a lip curl, and then Psycho Dog burst out of that once placid little yellow lab face.  Luckily Melissa is pretty relaxed and I watched without freaking out too, as she slowly let him fall away down her body and onto the ground.

"Are you okay?  Is your face okay?" I asked as Murphy gently landed on the ground and his ballistic barking ceased.

"Um, yeah, he didn't bite.  He just bumped me.  He didn't try to bite.  I saw the snarl so I saw it coming," she replied.  "Okay, let's try walking you to the car instead," she said to Murphy.

She walked him to the passenger seat and helped him get in.  This time he had no problem.  I had explained to her that he didn't like car rides.  He wants to sit in your lap, and he's too big for that.  In my truck, I found the best place was for him was to be draped across the center console, with just his muzzle resting on my thigh.  Melissa got into the car, saying, "Let's see if he'll let me in the car."

Not only did he not mind, but he crawled up onto her lap.  I watched from outside the car as she tried to get her seatbelt on, and Murphy just stood on her lap as he had on mine, body pressed into her chest, completely unaware, or uncaring, to the fact that she need to be able to move.

"Try not to get eaten on the way home," I called out to her and thanked her for taking him.

I watched them drive away, and wished them well in my heart.  I was realizing why I liked dachshunds so much: they have that independent streak, that sense of not needing anyone, when in reality they do, but they don't want anyone to know that.  It was almost as if he was trying to sabotage the relationship by snarling at her.  And if she could put up with that, then he'd allow her to love him, and show her what a sweetheart he really is.  He wanted her to know how ferocious he was.

When I was little, my first doxie Noodles attacked my father.  He had been outside shoveling during a blizzard and walked into the house covered from head to toe.  Work boots, snow pants, winter jacket, gloves, hat, and scarf covering his entire face.  My little fourteen inch high dachshund immediately saw this as a threat.  Her hackles went up, the first sign of fear in a dog, and yet, love of her family overtook that fear.  She lunged at my father, trying to tear into his boot, the only thing she could reach.  No one in the family had ever seen her like this.  My father took off his scarf to get her to realize it was him, not a stranger, but it still took time for her to calm down.  She was scared to death, and yet at the same time, was bravely fighting to protect her family.

These little dachshunds were bred to fight badgers.  They were bred to fight hand to hand combat with some of the most vicious creatures on earth.  Today they are family pets.  But that bravery is still there.  They don't want to fight anymore, but if they need to they will.  This little dog doesn't look like much, but his bark pretty fierce.  You may laugh at such a loud sound coming from such a small animal, but that bark is from the heart.  They are intense little dogs.  The thing is, no matter how much fear they have, the amount of love they have will always outweigh it and drive their actions.

That love makes them fierce.  They protect the ones they love.  I like to believe that for any dog regardless of breed, that it's a source of pride to have a human all their own to love and protect.  And if that be true, then Murphy's been quite lucky in that way, as he's had a lot of humans to love and protect in his short life.  And for those of us that have passed his test and appreciate that intensity, we've been lucky too, to share in the experience that is loving Murphy.

City Dog Life

I really don't know how people in cities have dogs.  Growing up in a house, it was easy.  You wake up in the morning, you let the dog out to pee in a little fenced in area, and when they're done you let her back in.  When I foster dogs on my time off, we can take a meandering stroll and be back by 10am.  But to get a good 45 minute walk in the morning with work still ahead, it meant I had to get up at 6am.  Which, with the time change just last Sunday, it was still night out.  Even Murphy didn't want to get up that early.

But I sucked it up as did he and we ventured out into the pre-dawn so he and I could get a good walk in.  And by the time we came back around to head home, the sun was just coming up over the Verdugo Mountains.  It was the first time I've seen the sunrise in years.  And the only reason I would have seen it then was because I was still up from the previous night, not because I woke up before it.

I was nervous bringing Murphy back to work with me.  The higher-up's took it in stride when I apologized to them for having him there, and they knew I wasn't a blatant law-breaker, but had a darn good reason for it.  Of course my boss, who had wanted to bring his dog in every day and wasn't allowed to, was totally supportive as he liked dogs in the office.  But since the main concern was people's allergies, I didn't want to seem disrespectful.  So when I came in, I told people that we were lining up a new foster, probably by this afternoon.

And indeed it was the truth.  The original plan was for me to meet up with Lavinia at her job on today where Murphy would spend the day and then return home with her.  But the producers on her project said today was not a day for the office to have a dog due to executives coming in, and she wasn't sure if her car would be fixed by then anyway.  Her back was getting worse, and she still hadn't seen a doctor.  So, after a good discussion, we decided it was best for Murphy that he go to a foster who could keep him for the remaining two weeks.  Unlike Mickey, Murphy had a line-up of fosters ready to take him.  He would never see the inside of a boarding facility.

Thursday is payroll day.  I do payroll.  Unlike Wednesday, I had to leave my office to deliver paychecks.  Since Murphy had been with me for a whole day, I was hoping his insecurities of me not returning to him might have wained.  But I was wrong.  I stepped out of the office and he started to cry.  My associate walked over to the wall, and I'm not sure what it looked like to her, but from where I was in the hallway, it sounded like one of the Dobermans in Higgin's mansion was finally  closing in on Magnum, P.I.

There was no way I could keep Murphy in the office.  And Lavinia's idea of having Murphy as an office dog seemed like it wouldn't work out.  I called Katya and asked a huge favor.  She had family in town, which is why she wasn't fostering him herself.  And she had agreed to take Murphy today, but now I needed an additional day.  I explained the situation, and she offered to come pick him up, but I insisted I take him to her.  She already was going above and beyond.  It wasn't more than a half hour round trip for me.

And so at 11am, I left work to bring him to Katya.  I figured being gone for an hour was less of a problem then being distracted by a dog for the remaining seven hours of my workday.  He would spend the day playing with her dogs, so I figured he'd have more fun than spending it with me anyway.

Sure enough he had.  When I went to pick him up last night, Katya said he had been hiking in the Silver Lake hills, and was thoroughly wiped out.  Indeed he was.  When we got home, he came up and collapsed next to me on the couch, belly up to the world.  I tried to focus on watching Flash Forward, but was completely distracted with trying to get a good picture of him.  From my vantage point he looked like this:

I imagined if someone was to walk in my front door and see us sitting there, it was even more adorable.  Thank goodness for digital cameras.  No need to waste 35mm.  I must have taken over a dozen shots at arm's length trying to get the angle just right to capture the cuteness. 

 He was so wiped out that when I moved slightly, his head fell backward into the back of the couch and he still didn't wake up.  That's the thing with puppies--they're either zero of sixty miles an hour; nothing in between.

When I finally made him get up so I could get ready for bed, it was time for 60 mph again.  He ran around, playing and tugging at his toys.  This time when I got out of the bathroom, he wasn't right there waiting for me.  I looked into the bedroom and there was a moment where I caught him staring off into the air, not paying attention to me.  The instant he saw me, his whole demeanor changed.  His ears went down, his butt went up, and he flew toward me like, "Oh my goodness!!  You're back!!  I'm so happy!!" and jumped all over my legs in greeting.

As we lay down for bed, he had his back to me, and it looked like he was staring up at the wall.  On that particular wall next to my bed there is a memorial of Dutchess that my friend put together.  It has a big photo of her in the center, others around it, and it gives her birth and death date.  It really looked as if he was studying it while he lay by my side.

"You see her, Murphy?  That's Dutchess.  She's the one who taught me to do this.  She's the reason I do this.  You give her respect, got it?  She's the queen."

He gazed for a little longer and then rested his head down and closed his eyes, leaving me to gaze up at Dutchess' photo alone.  Indeed she, along with my first dog Noodles, are the ones who taught to me to love dogs.  When Dutchess died in 2002, I couldn't love another for a long while.  But when I was ready to, I chose not to get a dog for myself.  I chose to love as many as I could; I chose to do this, to volunteer my time, my heart to dogs who needed it.  Some of them never knew love at all, and some of them knew of it at one time and wondered if they'd ever have it again.  And so it is Dutchess that is owed the gratitude for all that I do for homeless canines.  She taught me to love, and allowed me to let go, not to love specifically just one other, but to love all in need.  Thank you, Dutchess, from the bottom of my heart, and from all the dogs who have shared my love already and all those who have yet to do so.

Murphy's Law

I wasn't watching a balloon float into the sky, nor was I getting toilet paper at midnight, but I was conveniently late for work yesterday morning.  And because of that, along with what turned out to be a misguided errand, I was in the right place at the right time.

Tuesday night I got a call from work telling me they had run out of much needed paperwork, paperwork I had to order and pick up from the payroll company.  Since it was after 6pm when I was notified, I told them I'd email the request and stop by on my way to work to see if by chance they had it ready.

At 9:15am yesterday morning, I was standing in the payroll company's lobby, waiting for the receptionist to get a break between calls to talk to me when I received two text messages from Lavinia.  I figured they were just a couple of cute pictures of Murphy so I ignored them in order to focus on getting two seconds of the receptionist's attention.

Just as I got it and explained in brief what I needed, the phone rang and seeing it was Lavinia, I picked it up.

"Did you get my texts?" she asked, sounding as she was on the verge of a breakdown.

"No, what's wrong?" I asked.

"I just got into a car accident.  Really bad.  Can you take Murphy?"

My heart skipped a few beats and I asked where she was.

I replied, "I'll be there in less than 10 minutes," when she told me she was on the 5 freeway near the Burbank Blvd. exit.  I briefed the receptionist and told her I'd be back later.  Lavinia was literally less than a mile away.

I sped up to Burbank Blvd., and took the south ramp onto the freeway, just across the highway from where Lavinia and Murphy sat in her car, already hooked up to the tow truck.  As soon as I got to Lavinia's door, the tow truck driver informed me he had to leave and the police officer yelled for me to get off the highway and back to my own vehicle.

Seconds later, I got back into my truck, tried to follow the tow truck with my eyes as the flow of traffic came back to life on the freeway.  Thankfully the police cars followed with their flashers on, so even though I was a good ten cars behind, I still had a beat on them.

All people and vehicles involved pulled into the Metro station parking lot at the next off ramp.  I got out and went over to Lavinia where Murphy immediately let out his ferocious bark at me, letting me know that although he was little, he was not to be messed with.

Like most doxies, he's all talk, so I took the leash and got him away from Lavinia who was trying to converse with someone on the phone.  Murphy stopped his loud barking as I figured he eventually would do.  And yet, fifteen minutes later, as he sat on my lap on the curb, he turned to me and growled.  He was just making sure I understood that he might seem all cute and docile by letting me hold him, but really this was his choice and he could take care of himself, thank you very much.

We waited for AAA to arrive, and I called into work to let them know where I was and that I know dogs aren't allowed at the office, but I have my own mini-office, and anyone allergic just simply wouldn't be allowed in for the day.  I do what I need to do, and during a crisis, all rules go out the window.

I could have called Christy or Katya, but I had a feeling Lavinia might want Murphy back that night.  She needed to take care of business, but I thought perhaps by 10pm when she was ready for bed, she might feel better with a snuggly puppy by her side.< By the time she had a tow for her car and a ride for herself to work, Murphy had finished displaying his tough-guy status to me, and was willing to accept that he had to go with me. I keep all of my dog supplies in the car, since transporting is my first line of volunteerism.  Leashes, harnesses, poop bags, a water bowl--it's all there.  So I didn't even have a need to go home.  However, I did need to stop back into the payroll company for the paperwork.

With Lavinia and her car on their way to where they needed to go, I went back to the payroll company, this time with dog in hand.  The box was ready, and I opened it to discover it was the wrong paperwork.  I was informed that the paperwork I needed was in fact NOT available here, but I needed to order it from elsewhere.  So you see, I never needed to be at the payroll company to begin with at 9:15am yesterday morning.  I should have been at work.  But I guess timing and opportunity aligned for me to be where I was for good reason.

It was 11am, and I finally arrived to start my workday.  Three weeks ago when I started this job, I was disappointed to have picked the short straw and ended up with an office with no windows or even a view from the doorway.  It was a cave all to myself.  If I painted the walls black, it would have been a black box theatre.  If I had a neon beer sign, I could have made it into a hole-in-the-wall bar.  It was a source of amusement and merriment for many.  And in this moment, it proved to be the best possible space for a person with an outlawed guest at work.

I discreetly came into the office, jockeyed around the main door to the office to the doorway to my own sub-office.  I hadn't even put my stuff down when my dog-loving boss walked in.

"Where's the dog?  I want some puppy love!" he said like an eight year old boy.

Murphy stepped out from behind my desk, wagged his tail, and when my boss leaned into pet him, Murphy went ballistic at him, sounding as if he was channeling a Great Dane.  This of course made my boss laugh (not quite the result Murphy was aiming for).  My boss left for a moment and then came back to sit on the floor.  This time Murphy approached him with no alarm.

"Aww, see, I was just too big before," my boss said, petting Murphy.  "I just needed to be on his level."

My boss was Murphy's biggest advocate and immediately went in search of boxes to make a fort-like wall in my doorway so Murphy could run around and I didn't have to hold his six-foot leash all day.  I looked around my office and realized I didn't have a single stable-enough object in which to wrap the leash around.  But I didn't trust the boxes would hold up to Murphy, who at 25 pounds could elicit the force of a hundred pound dog if necessary.  And the boxes weren't very tall.  The most height-challenged person in the office could still get over the boxes with some ungraceful maneuvering, which to me meant Murphy could probably get over them as well.

I took Murphy home with me for a late lunch and returned with a three foot high piece of cardboard that fit neatly in my office doorway.  There was no way Murphy could get over that, nor could my colleagues step over it.  When someone asked me why I had it up, I replied, "It keeps the short dogs in and the short people out."

But it was Murphy, not the makeshift wall, that kept me in too.  I stepped out for a brief moment, and within seconds the little dog had woken up and began crying.  The tough little dog had a bad case of separation anxiety.  But given his morning, I placated his needs and opted to be held hostage for the sake of his sanity.

Every time my boss came in wanting to play with Murphy, Murphy was fast asleep. 

And yet the moment I tried to step away Murphy was up and about.  When we had gone home during lunch, he even cried when I went into the bathroom.  And when I opened the door, he practically fell into the room as if he had been leaning on it with all his might.

We made it through the afternoon at work, and when the rest of the office people left for the night, I closed the main door and was able to get other tasks done like filing.  Wherever I was, Murphy was right behind me.  He didn't want to lose me.  In fact, his preferred place to be was right in front of me, watching the door for me.  However, it's slightly to difficult to work this way.

I couldn't really see how my flat hard desktop was more comfy than the blankets and towels on the floor, but Murphy managed to make this is favorite spot.

Murphy was bringing up memories of my dachshunds all the time.  When we went home that night he was sitting on the couch with me and hugged him and said, "I love you," to which he replied with a deep resonating growl, the interpretation I took to be, "Get off me, woman.  Geez.  Have a little self-respect."  Dutchess used to do that to me.  You love a dachshund on their terms, not yours.  When he starts out with a ferocious bark, it's almost as if he wants to sabotage it first, then see if you want to stick around to love him.  And if you do, great, but it will always be his choice, not yours.

Murphy played and romped, and I discovered he has precision-cutting skills with his teeth.  Whereas Mickey could unravel rope, Murphy could cut the rope in two, with each end looking like it had been done so with a pair of scissors.  Not even a jagged edge.

I was initially worried he might mark inside like some of the dogs have done on the carpet.  He is house-trained, but he was only been neutered on Tuesday, so his need to mark is prevalent.  He couldn't just pee in one spot; he saved it up to mark various places on the walk.  But inside he didn't mark with his pee.  Instead he dove into and threw his body down onto the carpet like a dog rolling around in other dogs' poo.

Given what's taken place on my carpet in the past few months, I can see his confusion on the matter.  He growled and grumbled, and twisted his body all over the carpet.  He was having an excellent good time, and I appreciated it more than if he had chosen to just pee on it.

On our final walk of the night, I wanted to give him the opportunity to poop if needed, but oddly, he not only didn't need to, but he let me know when he was finished with the walk.  Once again, everything is on his terms, not mine.  We walked around the block, he peed a few times, and I didn't think he was all out, but when we came by the entrance to my apartment building, he just headed toward it and kept on going toward my apartment, ready to call it a night.

Unlike the bigger dogs I've had, Murphy could make it up onto my bed in one giant leap.  Granted as part doxie, he shouldn't have been allowed to try, but he did it so quickly and so well, I didn't have time to stop him.  I put an extra towel down in case he liked to burrow.  During the workday, he had a couple of blankets he fluffed up to get comfy, and both Noodles and Dutchess enjoyed burrowing into blankets for serious sleep time.  But instead he chose to lay next to me, his head resting on the pillow, his nose in my face.  Which really was all fine by me.  It had a been a long day, and morning was only five hours away, but falling asleep with such cuteness next to me, I couldn't really complain.

Lucky Dogs

Luck really isn't some strange superstitious power or some magic potion always eluding us in the clover patch.  Luck is the simple combination of two entities coming together in synchronicity: Timing and Opportunity.  You never can tell when it's about to happen, but you always know when it has.  And it happened for a few pups this Sunday.

I was on my way over to Christie's where she and Katya were about to hold their very first Greater Avenues For Pets meeting, a gathering of neighborhood folks to talk about rescue and what they can do within the community to help homeless pets, when I got a call from Patti.

Patti had of course over-booked herself for the day, having a home check on one side of town, picking up an owner-relinquished dog on another, and in the middle, trying to find out why one foster she has is so obsessed with ball-chasing that it's ruined his chances of adoption.  She had agreed to pick up an elderly Dalmatian by the name of Jasmine from East Valley, but it looked like she wouldn't make it into the Valley before they closed at 5pm, and so she asked if just perhaps I could pick her up instead.  Patti would be by to pick her up later in the evening to overnight her and then meet up with her transport at 6:30am Monday morning.  (Did I mention this woman does A LOT for dogs?  As a dog, don't ask for Lady Luck, ask for Patti--she'll get you a home quicker).  Lady Luck was by Patti's side as I told her I was on my way to this rescue meet-up, but I should be able to make it to the shelter by 5pm.  I only ask that she text me the dog's ID number so I could be sure I was getting the right dog along with the address (I get confused on which shelters are where).

At the meet-up, I informed Katya and Christie that I had to leave in an hour or two, and Katya recommended I leave in an hour, just to be sure I got there an hour before closing.  They had some hand-outs for the guests, and I was happy to see one of the listed the addresses and phone numbers of all the LA shelters.  Address acquired, I just needed the dog's ID.

There were three dogs in attendance to this meet-up.  One was Christie's dog Holly, a brindle mix, and the other medium-sized sweetheart was a black and tan dog foster dog named Lisa.  The third dog I met when I entered the living room. As I sat down on the couch, a blonde, short-legged, deep-barked dog verbally assaulted me from the end of a leash that Katya struggled to hang onto.  I looked down and I had no doubt at all:  "Part dachshund?" I asked Katya.

"Yeah, how'd you know?" Katya asked.

Aside from the long body, classic triangle ears, and long snout, it was the attitude that I recognized.  I grew up with them and that deep bark that attempts to make up for their short legs and sweet long face is something that has lingered in my ears and heart for decades.  Murphy was this doxie-mix's name, and he had been with a foster for two weeks, but it wasn't working out anymore.  The foster was an older woman, and this spunky foot-tall sausage was a bit of a handful.  So, Katya had picked him up and was looking for a new foster.  While doing that, she was hoping her husband wouldn't be too upset if she failed to find one immediately and she came home with yet another couch-surfing canine.

I thought of my friend Lavinia, also a doxie lover, who wanted to do some fostering.  She has two dachshunds of her own, but when she left the country on a job last fall, she sent them to their grandparents house, also out of country.  They've been living the good life down in Central America, and she doesn't want to uproot them again by bringing them back until she's settled into a new place.  So for now, she's wants to open up her transient home to some likewise transient canines.

After the meeting came to a close and I rushed out to make it to the shelter on time, I called Lavinia and briefed her about Murphy.  She seemed excited to do it, so I called Katya, left her a message with Lavinia's phone number, and then focused on Dog #2 of the day.

I had seen no picture of Jasmine (and in fact did not know her name since I had only asked Patti for her ID number).  I knew she was a Dalmatian and would be getting on a transport in the morning to a rescue in Vancouver.  I perused the paperwork while Veronica went to get her in her kennel, and I was a little surprised by it all.  One sheet of some basic lab work, maybe a line for kennel cough, was the usual rundown, but this dog had a lot of writing about her.  I didn't get to decipher it all before the evidence was in front me.

This sweet dog, listed as 10 years old, was all middle--she had scrawny legs, a tiny head, but her abdomen and rib cage were enormous in comparison.  Her tail wagged and I could see the light in her eyes, despite her appearance.  She let out a hacking cough, and although just about every dog I've met from the shelter has kennel cough diagnosed on the paperwork, this was the first time I heard and saw any evidence of it.

Veronica told me to remind the rescue to fax over the medical records.  Clearly Jasmine needed help.  I didn’t ask, but I knew just by looking at her, she was probably at the top of the euthanasia list.  She was old and she was ill.  But that light in her eyes, that perk of the ears when she heard something, that curiosity and spunk shown through the ragged skin that was riddled with dirt splotches and fatty growths.  She did deserve to live.  She wanted to live.

As Jasmine and I walked out the front door a young couple saw us and asked if I just adopted her, telling me how cute she was.  I was surprised that they thought she was cute.  She is, certainly, but she also needs a bath, and some medical attention.  I suppose my worry for her health clouded my cuteness judgement.

Jasmine rode well in the car, as if she'd done it before.  She was listed as a stray, and she certainly walked on a leash like one.  But she was pretty good at the car ride.  Once out of the car, she took to what I call the Stray Trot.  It's a confident saunter, tail up, nose to the ground sniffing, and occasionally stopping to graffiti here or there.  She's the first female dog I've met that marks like a boy dog.  As we walked along, she would pause for a half second to let out a little and keep walking.  In fact, she never really stopped moving.  She even walked when she pooped.  It was like if she stopped moving, she might die.  And I imagine a life on the street might seem just like that.

It took some time for her to realize she could indeed relax and stop moving once we got inside the apartment.  I sat on the floor with her and she stood for a time, and finally, after  a long while she lay down next to me, letting me pet her.  She couldn't get comfortable, and looking at her boney legs, I wondered if it wasn't soft enough for her.

I quickly grabbed a couple of towels and placed them on the couch, to invite her to come up.  Sure enough, street-living or house-trained, no dog can turn down a comfy couch.

She relaxed even more as I sat beside her reading a book.  Every time she adjusted herself, she let out a deep groan, that old-person groan of creaky bones and stiff muscles.  Her coat was so soft I had a hard time believing she really was a decade old; but that groan expressed a good many years behind her.

Despite the old girl's grunts, when someone passed by the window she bolted to her feet, sprung off the couch, headed for the door, and with all her might began to bark.  In this case, kennel cough proved to be an advantage to me.  It was still loud mind you, but the raspy vocals took it down a few notches.  She did not heed my "No!" or 'Stop it!", but I suppose at her age, she feels she has the right to say whatever she wants.

I only had a couple of hours with Jasmine.  All told, my mission to get Jasmine and then hand her over to Patti lasted not even four hours.  That's nothing in the grand scheme of things.  But had I not spent those four hours she might never have made it to her transport and on her way to the rescue.

When Patti arrived and saw Jasmine, she frowned in empathy at the sickly pup.  Jasmine was indeed a pup you just wanted to help.  Patti urged Jasmine into the car, but Jasmine couldn't get her back legs up the first time around and didn't want to try again. Patti helped her up the second time so she could get in through the driver's side, and I opened up the passenger door to call her across.  As soon as her butt hit the passenger seat, her nose went to the floor.

"Um, you don't have any pot roasts down here this time, do you?' I asked Patti.

She laughed and said no, she didn't.  I closed the passenger door and Patti and I chatted for a bit while she sat in the driver's seat.

"You sure you don't have anything over there?" I asked as I watched Jasmine mouth some plastic wrap.

"I had to stop at Tommy's Burger because I had to pee, then remembered I hadn't eaten in a while either, so I grabbed some food.  It's just some wrappers.  She'll be fine."

I looked over and saw Jasmine dive hurriedly downward and arise with a bread-like product in her mouth.  She chomped furiously and I pointed it out to Patti.

"Oh, I guess I didn't finish eating the burger.  Okay, then."

Not only does Patti provide a relaxed ride for her canines, but she also gives out in-flight snacks.

I said goodbye to Patti and let her on her way, as she had to return to her numerous fosters and own dogs back home, and get this well-fed Dalmatian situated for the night, all before getting up before the crack of dawn to see her on her way.

I didn't ask, but I'm quite sure timing and opportunity worked out for Jasmine and she made it to her transport Monday morning.  And as for Murphy, timing and opportunity worked out quite well for him too.  Lavinia picked up Murphy from Katya's tonight after work, and at 9pm, I received this picture from her, letting me know that Murphy was already fast asleep.

Timing + Opportunity = Luck.  These dogs hit the jackpot.  And I wish them even more Luck in the future.  Don't underestimate anything you do.  A simple walk in the park, or running out to the store at midnight to buy toilet paper, or taking a moment to watch a balloon drift out into the sky: all these moments add up to timing, and being in the right place at the right time can change lives--and I don’t just mean your own.

Happy St. Patty's Day!  May Lady Luck with her many guises smile down upon you, and may she walk the animal shelters in every town, giving a little bit of time, a little bit of opportunity, and a lot of love to all those homeless souls.

Mickey, Skippy, and Pals Update

My apologies for the delay in information spreading, but I've been busy in the land of humans, doing my duty to acquire the almighty buck.   While I've been busy, the dogs I love have been having their own adventures.

On February 28^th, my dear Mickey got in a car with Christy and took his final ride as a homeless canine.  Mickey is happily in his forever home with his new best friends, a couple in Simi Valley.  Good luck, Mickey.  I hope they take you for long runs, let you unravel rope toys all over the living room, and if they have a piano, allow you to tickle the ivory every now and again.

Skippy arrived safe and sound in the arms of our neighbor to the north.  He is in a foster home and is currently in search of his lifelong partners in crime.  If you live in the Vancouver area, or know someone who does and has room in their home and heart for this wacky expatriate, please check out his ad:

http://www.petfinder.com/petdetail/15898220?recno=4

As for the rest of the tiny clan who joined Skip on his journey in the friendly skies, Valrona (the little min-pin Katya carried around and I forgot his name) and Mr. Darcy (renamed Tom...not sure why he lost his literary namesake altogether and didn't simply revert to his first name Fitzwilliam, or Fitz for short), have been enjoying their time in their new country at Alexis' home.

Alexis was ill when they arrived and remained so for about a week.  She sent a short email letting us involved in the transport know that Skippy got to his foster home and that the little ones had made themselves at home:

Alexis writes:

The dogs have been so great while I've been sick. It's like they know.

This picture is of Valrona and Tom who overtook my favorite pillow. Note: there are many other dog beds, blankets, etc to lay on around the apartment but this is what they chose. :-)

Although I am of course bias and am shamelessly promoting Skippy as the best terrier ever (even if he is the awkward kid that spits when he barks), I need to mention that Romeo (the all black tiniest puppy in the crate that Saturday) is up for adoption as well at:

http://www.petfinder.com/petdetail/15898511?recno=2

And Valrona (Nomenclature by Katya*), can be found at:

http://www.petfinder.com/petdetail/15898749?recno=1

Not sure where Mr. Darcy, is (aside from curled up next to Valrona), but I'm sure his ad will be up shortly.

Good luck to all you pups, and take note Vancouver: you've got some pretty cool canines on your soil. They've left their home country for a better life; show them what you got!

*I think Katya's name-giving ability deserves a trademark.  Mr. Darcy, Valrona...what's next?  And what names have I missed all this time she's been doing rescue work and I didn't know her?  Shelter dogs deserve to be more than just a number while incarcerated, but when Katya gets to name them they get more than just a word, they get a personality-inspired title plucked from literary, historical, or commercial gardens. Thank you, Katya, for all that you do to save homeless canines.  You pull them from shelters, you take them into your home, you drive them to the airport, you pet them, you love them, and you give them the greatest of respect and dignity by allowing them something they may never have ever had: a name.