Harry's Home

Harry has a cold.  Stress can make it worse and leave him open for other illnesses, but it's still a cold.  The vet said that Harry would be contagious for at least another 3-4 weeks after he finished coughing, but we certainly were not going to quarantine him anymore.  He had been playing with neighborhood dogs for the past few days, and there was no epidemic that I was aware of.  Stephanie was comfortable having Lucy and him meet.  Harry's coughing wasn't too bad anymore, and Lucy had the same chance of catching a cold from Harry as she would any dog in the dog park.  With that go ahead, I knew in my heart of hearts, this was the last day Harry would be in my home.

I didn't want to be sad that Harry was leaving, but Monday was just a sad introspective day.  Maybe the heat added to it:  it hit 113 degrees in the valley by afternoon.  Harry spent the entire day under the kitchen table. 

That is, unless I was urging him to come out and sit with me since I knew I would miss him by evening.

I had finally gotten through the hundreds of pages of edits in my book and was working on fixing the ending.  It was hot as hell.  My little buddy was leaving me that night.  And there might have been some hormonal influences contributing to my mood.  Whatever the reasons, it was a somber day.

Christy offered to pick Harry and me up so we could go together for the home check and dog-check.  However, I suspected I’d be an emotional wreck saying good-bye to Harry, and I had to run an errand afterward, so I thanked her for her offer but decided to do it alone.  I also wanted that bit of transporting in too.  I really enjoy driving them home.

It was slightly cooler by 6:30 when we left my place, and Harry was happy to be in the car, although bummed that he couldn't see out the windows.  He had been happy to sit on my friend's lap the other night when we ran an errand together because he was finally tall enough to see out.

Once at the house, I wanted to wait for Christy since she had much more experience in dog introductions than I had.  I didn't want to screw it up.  However, Stephanie and her husband Travis saw me pull up and came out with Lucy in their arms.  Harry and Lucy saw one another and immediately wanted out of our arms and to play together.

Christy was going to be a few minutes so we went inside.  Lucy wasn't on a leash (she was in her own home), but Harry was (I needed to be able to easily grab one of them if something went down).

Much to everyone's surprise, it was awkward for the two dogs.  Harry, although much better at not just pouncing on a stranger, still had some more graces to learn.  Lucy was a seasoned socialite, so it struck us as odd that she would be okay one second then snarl and nip the next.

I suggested we go out to the back porch; perhaps Lucy was territorial.  They didn't think so and neither did I, but something was definitely wrong.  Out back on the porch, the same thing happened.  Lucy would be fine, and then wasn't.  Travis mentioned that Lucy hadn't been around dogs on leashes very much since they mostly went to friends' houses and dog parks, all sans leashes.  But it wasn't Harry with the problem.  In fact, I was quite proud of the little guy.  When Lucy did her "crazy bitch" move on him, he lowered himself all the way to the ground and rolled onto his side.  He wasn't a threat, so what was her issue?

It was almost time to give up, but I suggested we wait for Christy since most likely it was human error (mine), not the dog's.  Lucy had even brought Harry a toy (an excellently polite sign!), but then snapped at him. 

Christy showed up moments later and we went back inside.  Travis and Stephanie were fixing up the century-old house so the main living room and dining area was void of furniture--just yards of hardwood floor.  The dogs followed us in to meet Christy and Craig at the front door.  I told Christy the issue and immediately she said, "Well, yeah, take him off the leash.  Dogs feel trapped when they're on a leash."

I explained that Harry wasn't the one with the problem.

"Sometimes the other dog, though, feels the need to be dominate over the one with the leash on.  They can see that they're trapped."

Huh.  I never would have guessed that as an issue at all; but this is why I needed Christy there.  Luckily dogs don't hold grudges, so even though I screwed up the introduction, it was quickly forgiven and forgotten once the mistake was corrected.  I unclipped the leash and bam, madness ensued--the good kind:

Lucy gave Harry the toy again (her favorite game was tug of war), and although Harry hadn't learned how to play yet given his new adult teeth just came in, he gave it a whirl.  The two dogs raced around the empty rooms, sliding across the floor, running through the rest of the house and having a romping good time.  Seeing the smile on Harry's face, there wasn't a single spec of sadness in me.

All of us humans were seated on the floor and I chastised myself for forgetting my camera in the truck.  It was so much fun to watch them run and play.  We didn't need to be there at all.  Craig spotted Harry in the kitchen and pointed out the lazy drinker.

We all looked through the dining room to see Harry lying down next to the water bowl, his face in the bowl drinking.  He was so tuckered out he didn't want to bother sitting to drink.  Lucy walked over to see if he was okay. 

All I had was my phone to take a picture, so my apologies.  No picture could capture the cuteness in that moment, and the joy in the room.

Less than an hour later, the new family had clearly bonded, paperwork was signed, food was handed over, and I said good-bye to little Harry.

I  wasn't sad at all.  It had been a while since I had to say good-bye to friend and bid them farewell into their new beginning.  I had forgotten how much more powerful joy is than loss.  I was smiling on the ride back to my apartment.  Harry had a home, the home I knew he was meant to have.

Harry is a special dog; he needs to share his joy.  He's in a social family, one where he can share the joy he has with strangers and friends.  He'll be out and about on the town, and able to share his gift with others.

When I entered my dogless apartment that night, I suspected I would feel that void that remains when a dog leaves; that loss of their energy.  Oddly, when Harry was there at times I couldn't feel his energy.  But now that he was gone, it was clear he left a little bit of himself here.  I could feel his love and joy still in the room.  That is Harry's gift.

He wasn't the most cuddly dog with me.  He didn't snuggle with me while I watched TV in the evenings; he didn't follow me from room to room all the time.  He didn't grab a toy and sit on my lap while playing.  But maybe Harry didn't need to; maybe he only did that people he felt needed that.  He gave me other joy instead.

Sunday night while I was in the bathroom getting ready for bed, I heard a noise I hadn't ever heard before.  It was a thud of sorts, but not like a stack of papers toppled over from the table or a stereo falling off a shelf.  I was curious.  I opened the bathroom door and looked down to find Harry sitting there.

"What?" he seemed to say.  "I didn't hear anything."

Hmmm.  I closed the door and finished brushing my teeth.  When I got back to my bedroom I found on the floor the large pet blanket I used on the bed along with the towel that was on top of it.  Harry sat at the entrance to the bedroom.

"What's this?" I asked.

He looked at the pile of blanket from where he sat, then up to me, with no expression of response.

"How odd," his aloofness portrayed.  "I was outside the bathroom door the whole time.  How could this have happened?"

I am impressed that he got the whole thing down, although I don't know how he didn't hurt himself.  I imagine he had tried to get up on the bed, and then accidentally dragged all the bedding down on his descent.

He knows shoes are "not a toy."  If I saw him about to put his mouth on one of them, simply saying, "Harry," would divert his actions to other things.  But the time I walked into the living room to find my hiking boot in his mouth, there wasn't much I could do.  He stopped chewing.  His mouth was resting on it, poised in suspended animation, his head not moving, the whites of his eyes showing as looked up at me.

"What do you want me to do?  I can't deny it.  It's in my mouth," was what I imagined he'd say if he could.  He didn't drop it.  He was caught.  But he wasn't remorseful.  

"Not a toy," I said and took it away from him.  He let me have it and then walked away.

That's how one knows a dog is comfortable with you: when they push your buttons.  They know they're wrong, so what are you going to do about it?

Harry really was the easiest dog to foster.  House-trained, short walks due to his little legs and health issues, and generally a good pup.  He brought joy to my apartment and it appears he even left some here for me in his absence.

Will I miss the little guy?  Of course.  Did I think he was meant to be my dog?  There were moments I did.  But I know I don't have a dog for a reason: so I can take in dogs like Harry--ones that can't be with other dogs because of illness.  I can take in the ones who don't get along with other pets; ones who need quarantine.  I help the tough cases, the ones other people may not be able to assist due to their situation.

Good luck, Harry Winston.  It was a pleasure and an honor to have you in my home for a brief time.  You've upgraded to Stephanie 2.0, with her big house and yard, a husband, and a canine friend who is now your big sister (and a smidgeon smaller than you).  You gave me joy while you were here, and I thank you for leaving a little bit behind.  I needed that.  But you always know what a person needs; that's what makes you special.

The Art of Lawn Diving and Diving Into Life

Harry's potential adopter mentioned that Harry seems to have an old soul; like this isn't his first time around.  When I see him dive head first into a patch of grass, his body pressed against the cool earth, and his nose burrowed between the blades, I believe he very well might be an old soul, one that is grateful to feel the earth under him again.

When he sprawls out on his back to sleep, his neck twisted to the side, and his little feet up in the air, or just stretches out as long as he can, I think how happy he is to be a pup again; thrilled to not be an old dog, but one with flexibility.

As he bounds across the room after a toy and lands on it, allowing himself to fall on it and roll over, he seems overjoyed to stretch his legs and move freely as if he's breaking in his new body.  When he bobs and weaves at the end of the leash after inhaling the sweet smell of great lawn, it's as if he has so much energy he might combust if he doesn't let it out.

On sunny days as we walk along the sidewalk, I watch his terrier shadow on the ground.  It brings a smile to my face to see the shadow's spring in his step, a little Happy Harry Strut.

And when he pauses a moment, he takes such delight in the simplest things.  He'll sit his little rump down to ponder a leaf or seed, or gaze upon a group of snails.   He has such joy, this little one.

What if dogs really are angels?  I mean, they do, after all, choose us.  We need them.  In some cultures it is said a man is not complete without a woman.  Perhaps no human is complete without an animal companion.  Some traditions state that everyone has an animal spirit guide.  We do not choose that animal based on what we "like"; it is the animal spirit who chooses us.

When I see all the animals behind bars in shelters, so many of them whose life will be snuffed out within 24 hours if they cannot find their human, I think how tragic it is--even more so if these are angels sent down to help humans and they never found their person to help.  Perhaps their soul (and sole) purpose is to guide us, help us.  Which explains why there are so many of them.  We humans are a sorry lot; we need all the help we can get.

Harry is one very special soul.  He's here to help someone.  Who, I don't know.  Which is why the idea of choosing his adopters is such a monumental task, that I am petrified.  With how many animals are homeless, priority one is to get each one of them a good home, even if it's not perfect.  But what if his purpose is to be there for one certain person, and I place him where he isn't supposed to be?

We received an inquiry from a great couple who were looking for their first dog.  They both had had dogs growing up but since they lived in a no-dog apartment building, they couldn't have a dog until now.  His job was relocating him to another state, and they could finally buy a house with a yard and wanted to start their canine family.  They wanted to save a dog out of LA and take him with them.

With Harry's health off and on, I worried about the stress of moving.  But I didn't want to be "that rescue"--you know, the ones who won't let someone adopt because they aren't above and beyond every expectation.  So, I said okay to them meeting him.  If there wasn't a connection, then there was no reason to proceed anyhow.

But who doesn't fall in love with Harry?  No one.  They were really good people.  I was hesitant on the moving thing though as it was half way across the country.  Would that be stressful enough to cause Harry to become ill--or continue to be ill?  I am involved in transporting first and foremost.  We move dogs about the country all the time, but we don't move sick dogs (unless it's to get them somewhere for treatment).

So, when they left after meeting Harry, plan was for them to do a trial run with him when they returned in a week from house-hunting out of state, and then if Harry was well enough, they could travel with him.  Their apartment was No Dogs Allowed, but since they had a move out date set anyway, policy be damned.

The next morning, I woke up conflicted.  It didn't feel right.  I felt forced into it.  What if Harry got sick during or because of transit?  They wouldn't have a vet set up in their new town; if it didn't work out, how would they return him to us?  I worried that he would escape the apartment during the packing up and moving.

But how do I get out of this now?  I want the best home for Harry, not just a good home.  I know these two will be spectacular pet parents and should totally have pets.  But I just think it's too much stress on Harry.

So, while Harry recovered this past week, I still spread the word.   If great adopters were found here in town before they returned, then I had to consider them.  It would be less stress on Harry, and less stress of me worrying about his health and well-being.

I created business cards with his adoptapet link on them to hand out to passer-bys who inquired about him, and I sent out a flyer to friends to pass around.  Because he was still coughing, I couldn't take him to high-traffic areas were he could easily find his forever family.

Success: in fact, success from both techniques.  One from the business card, but just twelve hours prior to that, one reply from the emails I sent out.  I had met the woman (whose name is Stephanie) and her husband before at a party, as well as her terrier/chi mix, Lucy.  She was looking for a friend for Lucy, and her cat had just passed away.  Lucy is two years old but has the energy of a puppy, so she thought a puppy would be great and Harry seemed like a good  fit.

Sunday morning she stopped in - without Lucy - to see if she felt a connection to Harry.  She did.  Harry really liked her.  Over the past week he's met a lot of people and I've learned to decipher his expressions of how well he likes someone.  He liked her lots.  He didn't go for her engagement ring, as he had to a few other people, but went for the strings on her shirt.  He crawled up in her lap.  He licked her face.  And when she sat down to fill out the adoption application, Harry sat by her side, making sure she filled it out properly.

This felt better.  Yes, the other couple was fantastic.  But so is this adopter.  It wasn't just a selfish motive to have Harry nearby.  I really do believe a dog knows who he should go to.  At times during his "pondering sessions" sitting on the grass by the sidewalk, Harry would wag his tail at families walking down the street.  Some he wagged more for; some less.  Some people who walked by he would even lower himself in the grass and give the best "Look how cute I am!" pose with butt up in the air and eyes peering up between blades of grass.  It was like he knew who needed to smile; who needed just a loving look from a puppy to make their day.

And so, after checking with Christy, the plan was to check with the vet in the morning and see if Harry was still contagious.  He wasn't coughing a lot, but he was still on pills and the last thing we wanted was for Harry to infect Lucy.  But that is what would make or break this deal: whether or not Lucy and Harry got along.

Lucy lives a social life, going to dog parks and friends' homes with other dogs and other dogs visit her.  I didn't think it would be issue at all.  I think Harry's person had found him.  But first and foremost, the other angel already assigned to this person and her husband had to give her stamp of approval.  After all, they were going to be a team.  And even angels don't always get along.

Harry's Hello

Harry and I haven't had many adventures as of late, due to my paranoia of Harry being responsible for an epidemic if we go outside.  However, Harry is growing up...or maybe just longer.

Perhaps this is why I like dogs more than children: they get to the mile markers a lot faster.  In this week alone, Harry has grow a couple inches, gained at least a pound, lost four teeth, and I can see at least two of the teeth a third of the way in already. 

Emotionally, he's even grown up enough to be slightly needy....like when I get out of the bathroom I find him just on the other side of the door instead of three rooms away where I left him.  Unlike other canine guests who have grown more independent as time goes on, Harry has grown more co-dependent.  For example, I explained to Harry that I had work to do, went into the office and he followed.  He sat beneath my chair and stared at me.  When I told him I couldn't play at the moment he barked at me.  Yet, when I go in to the living room to play with him, he takes the toy and chews on it by himself.  I walk away and he gets offended that I am no longer with him.  If there was ever any doubt, it's gone now.  It's official: he is part dachshund.

Harry is also a botanist.  He enjoys studying the seeds that he comes across on the sidewalk.  This one in particular fascinated him.

He had come across it the day before and I had a hard time breaking his curious gaze.  The next day it was on the sidewalk and he walked over next to it, sat his rump down and stared at it with his head slightly tilted.  Then, much to my suprise, he swished his tail back and forth as if he was completely delighted by the thing and if he could speak, would have giggled and said, "Hehe.  That's so cute."

When the bell tolls 11:00 p.m., Harry is a cat.  The middle of the night seems the best time to be active for felines as well as for Harry.  Having slept all day, and knowing it is time to go to bed for the night, he runs around like a maniac.  He either does the full circle of living room-hallway-kitchen or just around the living room.  One night he pretended to be a glass of beer on a bar as he jumped off the couch, braced his feet, landed on the coffee table, and slid all the way across it and onto the floor.

And yet despite all that activity, the moment I put him up on the bed and I turn the lights off, Harry closes his eyes.  Bed time is bed time.  Perhaps his rant is just one last ditch effort to expend as much energy as possible before lights out.

Or perhaps, he just needs some play time.  His health worries me as he goes from days of complete sleep to days being bright-eyes and bushy-tailed.  He goes from hacking every ten minutes to not a peep for hours.  Finally today, I had had enough of being paranoid, and when we out at peak dog-walking time, I didn't tell anyone he was sick.  And Harry nicely conspired, never letting a single cough out.  As a reward, he got an all out multi-round tumble on a neighbor's lawn with a nine month old puppy.

Previously, I had tried to let Harry say hello to dogs passing by, and it was clear that he had no idea what proper etiquette was.  How could he?  No one had taught him.  He would immediately go into the play stance and jump into the dog's face before any butt-sniffing or introductions.  It was the equivalent of someone saying hello by sticking his tongue down your throat.  A simple "Howdya Do?" and a handshake would be a far more appropriate initial greeting.

Previous dogs have been nice enough to allow Harry his discourtesies, and then came along this beagle, who had no issues at all with Harry's hello.  A sniff on the nose and bam, they were down in play stances.  They were toppling on the median  between sidewalk and street and I edged them closer to the sidewalk.  They immediately determined their ring to be someone's front lawn--the someones being on the front porch of course.  Can't choose a vacant lot--that would be too easy.  I said to the human attached to the beagle's leash, "I think we should probably get them off other people's lawns," to which the kind woman on the porch said, "No!  Don't worry about it.  They're having so much fun!"

So for about ten minutes, the beagle's owner and I danced around, untangling our leashes as the boys went at it on the lawn.  Meanwhile the lawn's owners came out to watch the play.  Two children, and a middle-aged couple couldn't take their eyes off this wrestling match.  The beagle was bigger by a few pounds and inches, but Harry held his own.  In fact, I thought it was quite nice of the beagle to allow Harry to win a few rounds.  When they started to get vocal and lips were turning into snarls, I sensed it was time to call it a day before things turned ugly.  The beagle's owner had to drag him away, literally.  I stayed where I was as not to have Harry follow behind.  It took some doing, but she got Randy, the beagle down the street.  See, I know the dog's name; I never got hers.

A few minutes later around the corner a beautiful white shepherd and two women were walking along and had to stop to say how cute Harry was.  The white shepherd was elegant and gracious as Harry bounced on his face.

"I'm sorry.  Your dog is going to get irritated in a minute," I said.

"Oh, no, he likes little dogs.  I have two dachshunds at home," she replied.

He obviously is a very patient dog; one dachshund is usually enough attitude for any one dog--or person--to handle.

Every day is a rollercoaster with Harry.  One minute I'm worried he can't breathe and am picking up yellow mucus that he's coughed up, the next he's running around like a spunky puppy and I can't think he possibly can be sick.  I started the day listening to him hack at the end of the bed, and I'm ending tonight listening to him topple around on the living room floor with a squeaky toy.  He's not getting progressively better; he just has good days and bad days. 

And through all that, he's growing up--quickly.  I've only had him a week, but it feels like longer.  I have to admit it (well you probably figured it out already): I've gotten attached to this little guy.  It's gonna hurt when he leaves, I know it is.  I was watching an episode of Pit Boss the other night where Shorty says if you're fostering, "Don't get attached!"  But I disagree.  Getting attached is what makes fostering so wonderful for the dog.  He learns to love and trust.  You put your heart out there and he puts his out there for you.  Every time Harry decides he want to sit on my lap and comes up to me without provocation, it feels good.  You can get attached, as long as you know you're going to have to let go.  And I know I will. 

A guy on the street asked me how I could keep them for a week and then let them go.  "Because they're going some place better," I said. 

If you think about it, we almost always eventually say good-bye to the animals we love.  As a foster, I have to say good-bye, but not because their life has ended; I'm saying good-bye because their life is about to begin.  That's why I can do it: because it's not an ending; it's a beginning.  I just hope Harry gets his new beginning soon.  He might not have all the kinks worked out on how to say "Hello" in dogspeak, but he's still ready to greet his future.

If you know anyone in the LA area who could be his future family, please send them his link!  

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet4388712.html 

Harry has a wee cold, but he's willing to meet you (I promise he won't sneeze and snot your shoes!).

Dirty Harry

(You knew that title was coming eventually, didn't you?)

First I shove pills down his throat, then I don't let him chew my boots, thirdly I admonish him for sitting on the coffee table, and now I'm giving him a bath.  I don't think Harry thinks I'm very nice.

Harry did reasonably well for not liking the bath scenario.  Course the fact that he weighs a mere thirteen pounds makes it easier on me.  If he was Miley, things might have gone down differently.

Have I mentioned that Harry likes to take a load off as often as possible?  This includes while taking a bath.  I was glad he wasn't scurrying to get out of the tub, but it's hard to wash his back feet and tail when he won't get his rump up off the ground.

Just when I thought for certain Harry had sealed the deal to not being my friend for all I've put him through, he got to experience the best part of the bath: being toweled off.  He didn't want to leave my lap.  When he did in order to stand up and shake off, he returned immediately to get another rub down/pat dry.  I was surprised just how white he had become.  He was one dirty dog.  In fact, for a minute I thought the tan coloring on his back might not have been fur color but dirt.

Without his collar on and his wire-hair sticking up to dry off, he was just the cutest puppy ever.  I couldn't get him any drier by sitting on me since I was wetter than he was, so I let him loose to run around in the living room and air-dry himself off.  And run around he did.

Cute puppy photos of the day:

And for those you who enjoy some action footage, here's Harry drying himself off (a.k.a. playing):





That's why he doesn't really need me around.  He entertains himself quite well.

Remember those piles of dog toys I mentioned?  Harry must have read my blog because he discovered them yesterday morning.  Despite all the toys, he still felt my Ariats and Nikes made even better playthings.  I had been working in my office for an hour before I came out to discover all the toys--and my shoes--strewn about the living room, Harry in the middle of the mess, wagging his tail every so slightly back and forth.

He had tested them all out and had a few chosen favorites.  I had gotten a rope toy that came with a stuffed chicken attached to it which could be un-velcroed if the dog pulled hard enough.  Harry seemed to enjoy this one as much as Squeakers (I don't know why, but I chose to name the little ducky I got him when I picked up the flea spray).  It was the white stuffed chicken toy though that made me realize now that Harry was clean, it wasn't going to last long.  Through the flashes of it whipping around his head, I caught the color of blood on it.  (Sigh).  Really?

Harry proceeded to spread it around a bit, so now he owns three toys in my apartment, and then perhaps felt a flea and chomped down on his own leg, making a nice red blotch on his snowy white coat.  Five minutes later I found the source of blood: his other bottom canine tooth was under the coffee table.

Speaking of coffee tables, Harry can no longer walk under it without bonking his head.  It's rather amazing just how quickly these little tykes grow up...or just grow.  He's gotten longer and taller in the course of just the few days I've had him.  He stretches a lot when he's sleeping and when he first gets up.  It's no wonder--his bones and muscles are changing every second.  Growing up is traumatic.  He's getting bigger by the minute, he's losing bones in his mouth, new ones are growing in (side note: the replacement canines are coming in fast!), and he's got to try to learn everything he can about the world around him.

I am no trainer.  I don't know how to teach a dog anything.  However, I might have inadvertently taught Harry poor language.  I can say, "Come," enunciating clearly all day long and he just stares at me blankly.  But if I casually say, "Come here" like it's one redneck word "Cumeer," he's in front of me in a flash.  "Lie down" or "Lay down" it doesn't matter which is grammatically correct, he just doesn’t do it. 

Harry's at an impressionable age.  He needs to be out and about with his canine friends learning to socialize, and with a human who pronounces commands clearly and can teach them to him well.

He's definitely feeling better, as I see a normal "puppy schedule" appearing: an hour of play and spastic running about, then three hours of rest then one hour play and so on.  But he still has that hacking cough.  I want to take him out to meet people, and granted he isn't the phlegm-fest he was on Tuesday, I certainly don't want to get other dogs sick.  I get annoyed when sick people are out and about spreading their germs without reasonable cause (i.e., they need to go to the pharmacy to pick up meds), so I certainly don't condone spreading canine germs.  Going for a walk and the pet store are necessary places I need to take Harry; but taking him out to meet friends....not so much.

Now that Harry's gotten into the toys, he has plenty to keep him busy, but I'd really like to show this little guy off in the general public.  Not only does it allow Harry the chance to meet people who might become his forever family, but it feels good to bring a smile to stranger's faces--and that's exactly what Harry does just being himself.

Everybody Loves Harold

Mickey attracted men.  Harry attracts everyone.

Employees of PetSmart and PetCo must see hundreds of dogs in the course of a week.  I can't imagine they all take the time with each one of them as they did with little Harry.  Even though we were picking up flea shampoo and I told people that he had a cold, that didn't stop anyone from coming over and giving Harry a little attention.  And he soaked it up.

The odd part is that Harry is not a cuddler.  He doesn't have to be right on me all the time.  In fact, it's rare for him to sit on my lap.  He might be near me, but not on me.  And I respect his space.  However, he sees a stranger that is smiling and "oooo-ing" at him, and he immediately bounds over to them and then collapses on their shoes, looking up all smiley, tongue out, begging for a pet.

Perhaps he's like many men (and some women I suppose): he enjoys the chase, but if he's already won a girl over, he just doesn't want it anymore.

One woman (an employee) was seriously considering adopting him. Another really really wanted to, but her dog at home didn't like other dogs.  I think she loved him even more when she asked his name and I replied, "Harry Winston."  And the hot groomer guy wasn't interested in adopting Harry but he came over to pet him and say hello; I can't really complain about that.

When I got home I checked online for reviews of the natural flea stuff I had just bought.  It wasn't cedar, but it involved other plants.  I decided not to use it when I read some of the reviews stating that it stained the dog's white fur.  I found a real cedar spray online, and then went to PetCo to pick it up.

Here, a group of three people were walking by my aisle and caught a glimpse of Harry sprawled out at the end of his leash on the floor while I perused the various cedar products.  I heard one of them comment, "Oh my God, how cute!"  I looked up and said that he was up for adoption.  They all came over to say hello to Harry and the two who couldn't have Harry tried convincing the third that could, that Harry was the perfect companion.

On our afternoon walk, a man stopped us to take a picture when he commented to say how cute he was and I told him Harry was looking for a home.  If I take this kid to the coffeehouse, he'll have people lined up to adopt him.

There have been a couple of very miserable looking people who have not smiled upon seeing Harry.  Those people, I've decided, are clearly the spawn of Satan.  I mean come on, how can that face not make you smile--even just for a split second?

Harry is one very cute kid.  It’s not just what he looks like; it's his personality.  And the better he feels, the more it shows.  He's part comedian and part sociologist.  Harry seems to need to sit when he thinks and studies something.  So it leaves me looking like a creepy person since I'm just standing there on the sidewalk with Harry at the end of his leash on someone's front lawn staring at their family unit on the porch.

Harry is cute when you get to know him.  But he's intrinsically cute too.  All puppies are, but there's something about this kid that makes him special.  Since I failed at the crate training and I had an 8 a.m. orthodontist appointment, I asked my friend to meet me there and spend twenty minutes with Harry while I went inside.  It's illegal to leave a dog alone in the car for any length of time in California (and for good reason), but when I was finished eight minutes later, I felt bad having dragged my friend there for such a short Harry experience.  But I got something out of it: I got to see Harry with someone else.

My orthodontist's office is on the 2^nd floor and the windows face the street.  As I was waiting for the doctor, I watched out the window and saw little Harry bouncing about at the end of the leash with my friend.  Harry was biting the leash and wagging his tail, and from my friend's gestures, I could tell he was conversing with him.  The reason Harry draws people to him is that even from as far away as I was, I could see Harry: not just a cute puppy, but the personality within.

When I met up with my friend a few minutes later, I told him how cute Harry looked from up there.  "Yeah, he's definitely a chick magnet.  You have no idea how many women had to smile and 'aww' at him."

Harry is a people magnet.  Chicks, dudes, children, everyone.  You see him and you smile.  He is one very special puppy.  And he deserves one very special forever home.  I realize that petfinder is the equivalent of internet dating, and my feelings on that are pretty blah, but I'm hoping it'll bring the right person to Harry.  Fostering is fantastic for dogs, but it means they only get seen when the foster parent gets out--or on the internet.  I think he's going to find a home grass roots style, love at first sight, he and I walking the streets.  But if I'm wrong, his ad and info are up on adopt-a-pet.

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet4388712.html

He's under his middle name "Winston" in the ad, but his close friends call him "Harry." If you think you deserve this special guy and can complete his title with a kick-ass last name: Harry Winston [insert your last name], and that he might actually choose you, please check out his link, fill out an application, and let's see if we can make a Love Connection.

In the meantime, I'm going to give this kid a bath so he's sparkling clean (and hopefully sans entourage) for his new family.

Additional Guests

Now that Harry was subtly indicating that he thought I was a cool kid (i.e. actually coming to me to be pet or sit near my lap if not on it), I discovered that Harry came with his own entourage--of fleas.

Harry had been scratching, but mostly his neck, which is where the new collar was, so I didn't think anything of it.  However, seeing that one little black dot racing beneath his white blades of fur brought home the reality.  How he didn't get some sort of flea protection prior to this moment was beyond me.  Usually at the shelter they get it.  Of  course, it could be that it didn't work due to the antibiotics (I don't know if that can happen, but if being on penicillin makes birth control not work, why not flea control?).  Or he might have been too young for harsh pesticides.

In contacting Christy and Katya, I learned the dangers of such pesticides (including one that actually ate a hole through Christy's hardwood floor).  Looking online, some pet stores give links about the safety of these products and a buyer-beware of things that kill insects might also kill your dog.  Katya recommended cedar oil.  Some reviews say it work, some say it doesn't, but at least it won't change your dog's DNA or give your basement a skylight.

Christy was hesitant to approve me giving Harry a bath since, let's face it, he's been through an awful lot.  I don't want to compromise his immune system anymore.  I said I'd search out the cedar spray, and moved on to seeing if I could crate train this little puppy.

The problem with my situation is that there is no room for error.  One bark, and the whole system comes crashing down.  My upstairs neighbor opted to hand her dog over to her sister rather than just, say, I don't know, move to a place that allowed pets.  I haven't spoken to her, but I'm thinking she'll be the first to bitch if she hears/sees/knows about a dog at my place, even if she doesn't understand the truth of it.

Harry easily went into the crate, no questions asked (it's an airline crate, not a wire home crate), and I locked him in.  He whined for a minute and I told him to shush.  He did.  I then closed my bedroom door, walked out the front door, and sat on the steps to find out if his reaction, if any, could be heard.

Two minutes of silence was all I got before the first sound of alarm.  I didn't recognize it as his at first.  I thought it was down the street.  I had heard him bark a couple of times, but not loudly, and certainly not this far away.  I didn't think anyone was home in the building except me, but just in case, I went inside and released him.

An hour later, I tried the "roam free" tactic.  Just walk out the door like I'm just going to check the mail, and then stay away for five minutes.  Increase in small increments.

Test #1: Two minutes of scratching at the door.  Then silence.  I peeked through the kitchen window and saw him approach the big stuffed dog, nip his nose, and then Harry left my view.  I came in, and found one sneaker in the middle of the floor.  Five minutes with puppy teeth, my Nikes held up quite well.

Test #2:  One scratch at the door then silence.  I heard a cough.  I waited seven minutes.  I opened the door and there, on the coffee table, sat Harry, wagging his tail so hard he almost fell off.  I told him to get down and after a brief pause (he had to take in the view one last time of course), he jumped back to the sofa and onto the floor.

Test #3:  No scratching at all.  I had put my shoes up on chairs and higher items.  I removed my remote controls and anything else he could deem as "chewable".  (There are two piles of toys which are chewable, right on the floor at his level and he hasn't touched any of them).  I waited a full ten minutes this time.  I walked in and I saw nothing out to place--wait, one Nike sneaker was dragged off its perch.  Not bad.

I gave him hugs and pets and told him what a good boy he was.  This was looking like I might accomplish being able to leave him alone even for half an hour.  And then I looked down at my hand and saw blood. 

Harry is a white dog.  Whence the blood came should be easy find.  But it wasn't.  I even checked myself out in the mirror to see if it was my blood.  I returned to Harry, who didn't seem to care that he was losing blood, and I checked him out thoroughly.  Through his biting my fingers, I found the source: the base of one of his bottom canine teeth was bleeding ("canine" as in "long tooth on the corner", not "canine" as in general "dog").  I checked online and sure enough 3-4 months is when puppies start losing their teeth, including their canines.  But it looked like the rest of his teeth were intact.  The one time I leave him alone, and he might have just ripped his tooth out.  Shit.

Christy made me feel better when she told me she's been picking up puppy teeth every week at the adoptions fairs.  It happens.  If he's not in pain, that's probably what it is.  And it would explain why he wasn't eating a lot.

It was 4 p.m., so Harry and I had one of our thrice-daily battles to get pills down his throat.  I always give him a treat afterward, which he gladly accepts.  After he was done, I checked in his mouth and to my horror, that canine tooth which had just been slightly bleeding, wasn't bleeding anymore but was lying on its side in his mouth!  It was the stage where a little human kid would be flicking it with his tongue every two seconds until it finally popped out.  (How were we okay with that?  After a while you get used to having all your parts and can't imagine losing them.  Man, growing up is traumatic). 

Harry couldn't flick it, so instead he used the lightest color chew toy he could find and gnawed on it until it was good and red.

That is now officially Harry's toy.  You bleed on something in my apartment, it's yours.  A few minutes later as Harry was rolling about on the floor, I found the little canine tooth, not at all bloody.  I should put it under his pillow (You know, that's another weird tradition: take a piece of your head that's fallen out, sleep on it, and during the night some ethereal creature takes it and replaces it with money.  The more I hang out with dogs, the less humans make sense to me.)

So, since we've added fleas and losing teeth to Harry's repertoire, I thought I'd get rid of one thing: coughing.  At the 4:00 pill fight, I gave him the cough suppressant.  "Sedation" was indeed an accurate description of a side effect.  He was worse than some people on Benadryl.  He was either knocked out cold, or when he was awake, he couldn't function. 

Sure he wasn't coughing, but he also couldn't string two thoughts together (I deduced that from his actions, not trying to hold a conversation with him).  And by 10 o'clock I had a sneaking suspicion that he might have been hallucinating.  Either that, or my living room is filled with winged and crawling creatures all over the carpet and in the air.

I have had dogs "track" things with their eyes in my living room that I cannot see.  Although bizarre, I accept it.  The most common one is something in the corner at the end of the couch.  More than one dog, and on more than one occasion this has happened: the dogs appear to be locking eyes with someone at human height.  One dog actually tracked this "something" with her eyes to the end of the couch where it appeared to sit down.

That's fine.  I'm open to possibility.  And if the dogs are cool with it, then I don't think it's anything malicious.  But Harry's tracking was like he was sitting in a fairie glen as tiny sprites danced around him and flew over his head and across the room.  To his credit, since he had been studying one spot on the floor for a full minute, I got down to his level, looked, and after a few moments I did indeed spy an almost invisible brown bug crawling across the beige carpet.  I worried perhaps my whole carpet was alive with an insect civilization.  Since finding one flea on Harry and killing it, a few more had shown up--on me.  Or maybe it was just one.  I never saw two together, and with how quickly they move, I'm beginning to believe they hold the key to teleportation.

I couldn't believe my living room was a cityscape of bugs.  I got out the vacuum (which Harry luckily didn't bark at; perhaps he thought it was just a new part of his whole cough-suppressant-trip), and sucked up the invisible foes, real or unreal.

By 11 o'clock, the sedation/hallucinatory effects of Harry's drugs had worn off, but the cough suppressant had not, so that was a plus.  On the walk, he dodged and weaved at the end of the leash as if practicing football plays.  When we got back inside, as I promised, I let him off the leash and allowed him an all out romp around the apartment that left him panting.  I know he's supposed to stay quiet, but the kid needs some activity.

After all that sleeping and grogginess throughout the day, I think Harry had insomnia.  It felt like quite a long night to me.  I didn't hear any coughing, but Harry resituated himself on the bed a number times, and I had to make sure he didn't lodge himself between the mattress and wall.  Now that I'm used to his crazy sleeping positions, I don't worry about it when I find him contorted.  He's like a rag doll, or one of those dog toys without the stuffing.  I wish I had a dog bed for him, but he really does like to lay out straight, and that means one big dog bed.  I measured him today--over two feet long from snout to back toes.

But before dogbeds are gotten, the first order of business today it to get rid of the fleas.  My home is open to animals of all kinds--but I draw the line at creatures with exoskeletons, especially when they've snuck in with another guest.

Need a Tissue?

Dogs are a lot like cars.  Something can be terribly wrong with them, but the moment you take them to someone who can fix the problem, they seem perfectly fine.

Harry was coughing here and there while we waited for the vet.  The vet tech took his temperature, and it was normal.  No fever, and very little coughing.  Crap.  Hard to convince someone there's a problem.  I asked Harry to please exhibit some of the malaise he felt the day before so we could get some meds and be on our way.

The vet came in and Harry perked right up, tail wagging, eyes bright, looking like a perfectly healthy dog.  I was trying to formulate a way to explain how sick he was, when he sneezed in the vet's direction, and "GLOP!" a three inch long trail of snot flung out of his nostrils and landed on her hand.

"Well aside from the coughing, there's that, I guess," I said, motioning that she might want to wipe the giant booger off her fingers.  The sneeze and snot issue was a relatively new development.

Once cleaned off, she examined him, and said that his lungs seemed clear.  No pneumonia, but that was without an x-ray or further tests.  She said she always treats kennel cough like pre-pneumonia to protect the lungs, and she diagnosed that he had kennel cough.  She prescribed an antibiotic and a cough suppressant and we were done. 

As I waited for the receptionist to run the credit card, a vet tech came out the door and said hello to Harry.  Harry loves people.  He got excited, bounced up and down, tail wagging, and once more had a deadly sneeze that let loose yet another unimaginably long snot trail that landed on the guy's shoe, making it look like a giant slug was climbing up his shoelaces.

"Oh, man, I am so sorry," I said to him, a little embarrassed by Harry's sneeze power.  "Harry, you got snot all over his shoe."

The tech smiled.  "If that's the worst thing that lands on my shoes today, I'll be a happy man.  Trust me."

Doctor's orders were for fourteen days of antibiotics three times a day, plus cough suppressant as needed, and no romping around.  I asked about how long I could take him for walks, and she said, "In and out to go to the bathroom.  He needs to stay quiet to get better."

I don't know how that's going to go over.  I'll keep the walks short, but he is a puppy.  He needs some exercise.  Just not overdoing it.  And on the walks, he really doesn't overdo it.  In fact, he's very much a stop and contemplate sort of walker.  Sometimes he trucks along quickly, but then he'll stop, pick a spot, and set his rump down to soak in the atmosphere.  He likes to study his surroundings.  Perhaps he's just patient.  Even when we get to my door and I reach for my keys in my pocket, he sits himself down.   Two seconds later he's back up again, but he doesn't want to rush me.

He has a habit of doing this when dogs get barking around him.  As we walk down the sidewalk and the alley of evil dogs comes to their owners' fences and begins their havoc, he just sits himself down and watches them.  He doesn't stare.  He doesn't appear threatening.  He just watches them, as if trying to understand what they're saying.  I've informed him that this might get him killed.

His meds have to be given every eight hours.  Luckily I figured out the calculations on when we wouldn't have to give them at 3am just before 4:00.  8 a.m., 4 p.m., and midnight.  Seems reasonable.  He gets one and a half tablets each time (really? you couldn't have given me half-doses?  I have to chop up pills?). I guess being used to pit bulls, I'm used to dogs being able to consume anything as large as a quarter without chewing.  Granted these pills weren't even penny size, but I guess they were too big for Harry.

I tried putting them in bread.  But because he eats such tiny bites, he inevitably spit out the pill.  After a few futile attempts, I had to take the route the vet warned me about.  "I know it's awful, but you're going to just have to stick them down his throat," she had said.

(Sigh)

Thus ensued Harry v. Stephanie on the kitchen floor for ten minutes.  Round after round, the little guy won.  I thought I got it in, but two seconds later, it magically appeared on his foot.  At one point he needed a breather and shoved his whole head into the crook of my arm, burrowing in and not moving.  Maybe when he came back out, I'd be gone.

Twenty minutes later, it was done.  One and a half grossly-half-dissolved pills (due to the number of times they had entered Harry's mouth but not gone down the hatch), I had successfully completed the task.  I gave Harry a couple of treats, and he appeared to forgive me.  I did the math in my head and was overwhelmed with the fact that I was going to have to do that another 41 times.  (I didn't tell Harry that though).

Harry was improving.  I don't think it was the antibiotics working that quickly, but rather that his body was fighting whatever it was and was winning.  He played a bit, and bounced around the room.  There is nothing in the world like a puppy bounding after a toy.  You can have the worst day in the world, but the moment you see those little paws up in the air and come pouncing onto a toy, you can't help but smile.

He still slept a lot, but wasn't as out of it.  In fact, I was beginning to believe that his lack of interest in me might not be him, but just that he wasn't feeling well, and wanted to be left alone.

He slept in the same place again on the bed, and didn't cough as much through the night.  I didn't give him the cough medicine, as I wanted to test it during the day just to see his reaction. "Sedation" was listed a side effect, and I wanted to see exactly what they meant, without being terrified at 2 a.m. not being able to wake him up.

But I was terrified at 2 a.m. anyway when I woke up and looked down at the end of my bed to see four little paws up in the air, Harry lying in an s-shape, and his head tilted to the side.  My heart skipped a beat at the unthinkable.  I reached down, put my hand on his chest, felt it move, then he groaned, coughed, turned over, coughed some more, and went back to sleep without looking at me.

Once I knew he was fine, I was astonished by the stupidity of my initial reaction.  When animals die, they don't automatically flip upside down and stick all four feet up the air.  They only do that in Looney Tunes cartoons.

Harry's sneezing has subsided.  Thank goodness.  I can't deal with children who have little boogers in their nose, or wipe their nose on their sleeves leaving a trail of snot; I can deal with dogs a little better, since it's not human snot, but it still is a tad gross on carpet, jeans, and the moment I saw Harry sneeze and in one fluid motion he sneezed the snot out his left nostril, licked off the dangling trail into his mouth, then inhaled the rest back through his nose, I think I threw up a little.  I don't care how cute you are, that's down right disgusting.

Not much in the way of plans for the day.  I'm hoping since he's feeling a bit better, I can try the crate training for awhile.  This crate training doesn't involve holding his bladder, just keeping his mouth shut.  If he can manage that, I can actually leave the apartment for more than five minutes (like to go to the grocery store) without him needing a sitter.

He seems a bit more attached to me today.  He hadn't followed me around at all yesterday, but already he's followed me into the bathroom, to get my clothes in the closet, and see what I was up to in the kitchen.  When he woke up this morning he even greeted me with a tail wag and seemed happy to see me.   And you know what?  That is why I do this.  For that little genuine, sleepy good morning wag that says, "I'm so happy you're here!". It makes poop-picking-up, heartache-watching-them-go, and wiping-projectile-sneeze-snot-off-your-pants all worth it.  Well maybe not the sneeze-snot thing.  That's still gross.

Typhoid Harry

Sunday night I got an email from Christy giving me the unfortunate news that little Olive had gotten sick on the first night in her new home.  Olive had been ill the week before she was adopted, but as I mentioned earlier, she was a spazy, happy puppy Saturday so we all figured she was over it.  Perhaps the excitement made her relapse and her condition took a turn for the worse.

However, since Olive was sick, it meant most likely Muffin and Harry were also sick, whether or not they were showing it fully.  All three had been on meds for kennel cough (it seems like every dog from the shelter ends up with it despite the mandatory vaccine they're given when they arrive).  So, to make sure they didn't spread it to other dogs (a kennel of puppies is like a kindergarten class--once one kid wipes his nose, they all have the plague), and to avoid these two going home with adopters and relapsing as well, it was time to get them someplace with no other pets to be monitored and given a little R&R from the kennel atmosphere.  And that "someplace" would be my apartment.

Knowing the difficulties of taking care of two puppies after a few days with Loki and Pixie, I made the decision to take only one.  Do you really need you ask which one?

First Harry was a little confused on what this crazy silver device was in front of my face.  I explained it was a camera and that he was quite cute.

Once he understood, he graciously received the compliment and was quite excited to go on this adventure.

I didn't have any harnesses his size, so we went right from boarding to Petco to get a new harness and look at pet beds.  Harry is a sprawler when he sleeps, and since I have varying-sized dogs in my apartment, I couldn't decide on what pet bed to get (and I certainly wasn't about to spend $80.00), so I didn't buy one.

He was fine with the harness, but hated the collar he had been given before I picked him up.  He let me buckle him in without a problem, and being the independent dog he is, he gladly accepted the whole passenger seat to himself for the car ride home.

As soon as we walked in, he immediately had to introduce himself to the giant stuffed dog next to the couch.  He barked and backed up, tail held high, ready to show this big dog just what he was made of.  He even lunged in for a bite on the nose.  I told Harry that wasn't polite and this dog was not a threat.  He walked away, but every now and again returned to get a taste of his nose.

It was only early afternoon when we got back, so we went out for a walk and indeed it did appear that Harry was sick, but not Emergency Vet Call sick.  Kinda like how people get coughing when they laugh after they've had a cold, he'd only cough when he got bouncing around or just finished running.  Course, that was how Olive was to begin with.

By the end of the evening, Harry was not just a little sick.  He had slept for hours, and his cough started to come more frequently--not just when he played, but when he rose from sleeping.  And it was clear that he just couldn't get comfortable, no matter where he slept.  I thought he might be running a fever since his preferred place to sleep was on the hard kitchen floor (next to the towel of course, not on it; that would be silly).

A quick call to Christy, and she was on her way to confirm that he should see the vet in the morning.  Olive had pneumonia.  We didn't want Harry's minor cold to take a turn for the worse, so getting him checked at the vet's was the best bet.

The rest of the night I watched his breathing, making sure he was still doing it.  I tried to find my Pet First Aid and CPR paperwork just so I could be prepared (although if a dog is drowning from pneumonia, I don't think it'll do much good), but it's buried somewhere in my office.

Christy had given me a crate so I could try to perhaps lead a slightly more normal life on this fostering gig.  Harry was self-sufficient enough that I thought he might be able to be left home alone for an hour or two if needed.  He certainly didn't seem to care whether or not I was in the room.  He didn't follow me around, and if I followed him, he would politely walk away or give me "the look." 

After our last walk for the evening (he appears to be housetrained!), he checked out the crate, walking in, rolling around on the towel I put inside and then walking back out.  I asked him if where he would like to sleep and gave him the options of the crate or the bed.  He chose the bed.

He slept as far from me as possible at the end of the bed in the corner.  I had laid down my pet-blanket over the bedspread, and then added a towel since, just like my doxies, he enjoyed digging up the blankets and arranging them to suit his slumber needs.  So it's really no surprise that he dug into the towel, the blanket, and then sprawled himself out flat on the bedspread.

I slept lightly, trying to keep myself in some sort of state of awareness since his coughing had gotten a lot worse in the past few hours.  He'd rise up and I tried to help him, patting his chest to help him cough up anything that might be in there.  He had a rough night.  He couldn't get comfortable, and my own moving on the bed was causing him even more annoyance.

He groans and grunts a lot.  Doesn't bark really, but he feels the need to mumble about this or that, narrating whatever he's doing.  It does come in handy though.  One surprised grunt was all I needed to open my eyes and find that he had lodged himself between the bed and wall, his little legs underneath him so he was just stuck perfectly, unable to move.  I think I need to get those bumpers they put in the gutters at bowling alleys for when kids play.  In the meantime, I try to dissuade him from sleeping too close to the edge of the bed.

Our appointment is at 2:10 this afternoon with the vet.  He doesn't seem as bad as last night, but he's still not 100%.  The goal is to get him some meds (I had the list Olive was given) without getting an x-ray.  We'll see how that goes.

In the meantime, a little nap in the morning is a good idea for the both of us.

When Harry Met Stephanie

When people ask me what my favorite breed is, I always say I don't have one.  I don't discriminate.  I love them all.  But the truth is, no matter how old I get, there's still a special place in my heart for those stubby-legged, extra-long bodied pups with big attitudes: dachshunds.

I volunteered at the pet adoption in Kenneth Village this weekend, and this time there were only three dogs up for adoption (not including the little pups in the window I didn't get a chance to meet).  The three were 1. a gangly, underweight black lab mix Christy named Olive because her she reminded her of Olive Oyle from Popeye, 2. a slightly taller than average poodle mix who desperately wanted to be held and cuddled all the time, and 3. a slightly longer than average white/apricot wire-haired doxie/terrier/something mix.  So who is my favorite? 

Of course.  Although Freud would have a field day on why I like wiener dogs, the fact isn't so much what they look like (but seriously, look at that tail and those little back feet!),

but it's the attitude, the independence, the way they can, in just one look, say, "You are such an idiot, I can't even be seen with you," and walk away almost shaking their heads in disappointment, that I adore.  Having a dachshund means you will only love your dog on their terms, not yours.  It's as close to owning a cat as you can get while still having only a dog.

This little guy was nameless when I arrived, but after a short walk with Christy's mom, he returned with a name: Harry.  Christy added a middle name so this little guy who stole my heart is now properly named Harry Winston.

While Harry sat alone in one of the chairs at the booth (I still held his leash, but he wanted his own chair) and the poodle burrowed herself into my chest, the over-exuberant, spazy Olive found a home.

A mother and daughter arrived saying they had been looking for a companion for their five-year old Golden Retriever Layla, who was by their side. Layla was an adult, but the moment she  laid eyes on Olive  she became a puppy again.  She bowed down inviting play and Olive finished up licking the daughter's face to romp with this new giant playmate.  Only moments later, I was walking Olive back to their house so she could meet the rest of the family and allow Layla and Olive some time off leashes to see how they'd get along.

It was a success!  By the time we returned to the booth, the mother had completed the paperwork, I confirmed that all was well at the house, and Olive got a new collar and leash and went home with her family.

And it was only 11 a.m.  One down, two to go.  I was of course heavy on the sell for little Harry, and Christy had to remind me that the poodle (that she decided to call Muffin) also needed a home.

A woman came along who was looking for one of the volunteers that wasn't there this week.  We chatted for a minute and she said that her dog passed away in March and she wasn't sure if she was ready for a new dog quite yet.  I asked what kind of dog and she replied, "A miniature dachshund."

Ah, well, if she was ready, she should really meet little Harry (who was chilling out under a bench by himself watching the world go by).  He wasn't purebeed by any means, but if it wasn't the triangle ears, the long body or the stubby legs, that independence streak would definitely mark his bloodline as at least part doxie.

Harry had been playing earlier in the day with Olive, and since she left, he had been resting.  He is a puppy after all, and puppies generally go eighty miles an hour for forty-five minutes and then sleep for four hours.  He'd been awake since I had arrived at 9:30, so he was a little sleepy.  When we finally got a chance to pull Harry out of his hiding and sat on the ground, he was not terribly interested in the woman, but I thought perhaps he was just tired.  He allowed her to give him a pet and then he slunked away to sleep under a chair.

This lady had taken care of her dachshund with Cushing's Disease.  She had been her caretaker for over a year.  This was a big decision on whether or not to open her home and heart now.  I didn't want to pressure her.  Christy and I opened up the idea of fostering (like a rent-to-own scenario), but we all knew this was a woman who committed.  No need to foster--just adopt. 

But she was wavering.  There was something in her voice that told me she wasn't quite ready.  Christy said that when her dog died, within a month she had another one because for her, it was honoring her dog's legacy to pass that love onto another.  It wasn't that she no longer loved her deceased dog; she was loving the new dog in honor of her old one.  I whole-heartedly agree with the idea, but not everyone is strong enough to do it so quickly.  My dogs taught me to love; and in honor of them, I transport and foster, showing as many dogs as I can that love.  That's their legacy.

Harry's potential adopter started looking over the adoption application (I probably should have read it first before telling others to fill it out--this was the first time any of the dogs I worked with had gotten this far), she got to a question, "Have you have had to euthanize a dog?"  I'm sure it asks the circumstances if the answer is Yes, and I don't think it's looked upon as always bad.  But it was that question that brought this woman to a halt.

"I can't do this right now," she said, on the verge of tears.

It was just her and me (and Harry and Muffin) in the booth, and I didn't want to pressure her.  "I understand," I said.

"Someone will adopt him if I don't," she said, not in an "Oh, no, someone else will get my dog!" but a "He doesn't need me" way.

"I believe a dog chooses you," I told her.  "If it's meant to be, maybe if you come back next week, he'll still be here."

The truth is that I wasn't pushing it not only for her sake but for Harry's.  He obviously wasn't a desperate lover like Muffin, but I couldn't tell if he was choosing her since he was so sleepy.  Olive really liked the family--I had no doubts on that one.  But I didn't know if Harry was into her or not.  It's hard to tell with those independent ones.

I apologized to the woman (whose name I never did learn) for getting her upset.  She said I hadn't; this was just bringing back a lot for her.  Her dog had died in her arms, and I said, "I think that's the best place any animal can die--in the arms of the one they love and who love them."  You're right:  I wasn't helping matters. 

Christy returned to find me alone with the two dogs and looked around, "What happened?  I thought you had her? Where did she go?"

I explained the situation and Christy understood.  She doesn't pressure people either.  Adopting a dog is a lifetime commitment.  It shouldn't be taken lightly.  There is love at first sight--I get that--it happened to Olive.  Maybe it'll happen for Harry too.  Or maybe he slept through the moment he needed to get a home.

I don't have any doubt this cute little guy will get a home soon.  But since he is part doxie, I think he'll get it on his own terms, in his own way.  And if shows you love, you better realize the gravity of the situation.  They don't give their love easily, but once they get in your heart, they're there for eternity.  Trust me.

Back to Basics

I spent the month of August out of town on that pesky thing called "work."  While I was there, I still received emails of pups in need back in Los Angeles, where I could not help them.  So it should have come to no surprise that within forty-eight hours of returning to the southland, that I had a canine in my truck again.

Since I was getting back into the swing of things it makes sense that it just the basic, how-this-all-started thing: a dog needed a lift from one end of the valley to the other--from the shelter to boarding, where she would have her layover before her transport to a rescue in Arizona.

I didn't get a picture, and in fact, only got a name, "Miley" before I emailed back asking what kind of dog she was (since I can't be driving Great Danes unless I install a moonroof in my truck).  She was a medium-sized all white pit bull, who had been relinquished by her owners on August 13^th.  She had been taken off the euthanasia list twice, and the person coordinating her rescue didn't think she would make it off a third time.  So, right before the holiday weekend she needed out, even if all the funds hadn't been raised for her surgery yet.

Miley needed surgery for her ACL.  No, it wasn't an old basketball injury; in fact it might have just been genetics.  With overbreeding and accidental breeding, pit bulls mixes and other breeds are prone to genetic defects such as blindness, deafness, bad hips, and bad knees.

I had never been to the Ventura County Animal Shelter, so I was looking forward to a new experience.  Ventura was a quick sixty miles away, and I assumed I could get there in an hour.  But alas, Google maps and Ms. Garmin (my GPS) disagreed on how I should get there, and by siding with the wrong one, the simple hour drive turned into an hour and forty minutes.

I checked the kennel number the rescue gave me, just so I knew what Miley looked like.  The last thing I wanted to do was pick up the WRONG white pit bull...although at least one of them would be saved.  I said hello to her, she acknowledged me with a head nod, and went back to staring at the wall in her kennel.  I quickly went inside the office and was met with a surprise: a line.

People actually go to shelters?  I mean for reasons other than to renew dog licenses and abandon their animals?  Huh.  I had no idea.

I stood at the back of the line, happy to do so since everyone in front of me was interested in an animal, adopting an animal, or picking up a lost pet.  Half an hour later I made it to the front of the line.

The woman at the desk was very nice, but it was only the second time she had processed this sort of transaction and my first time here.  So, it was slow-going, but after a half hour, all the paperwork was in order, I received pain meds for Miley's knee (another first for me!: LA Animal Services doesn't give out whatever meds the dog is on; you have to go to your own vet for that).   Once it was all settled, someone got on a little intercom speaker to announce Miley's kennel number and I was told to wait outside...sort of like picking up my truck after it gets serviced at the dealership.

Another new procedure: the person who brought Miley to me had to escort us to the car.  Granted it was a small parking lot, but I was quite surprised that we got door to door service.  She wouldn't hand over the leash until I was ready to put Miley in the car.

I thanked our escort, waved goodbye, and then I allowed Miley a moment to pee if needed.  She had only looked me in the eye once.  She wasn't big on looking at me, but was happy to go along.  She had stunning yellow eyes, and everyone said she was wicked sweet.  Indeed she was.

I lifted her up into the truck and she collapsed on the seat, making it rather difficult for me to get my leash--and my hand--out from under her.  I hoped she hadn't been beaten in her life.  She did seem a bit freaked out.  When I finally got her buckled in and the door closed I got in my side, and Miley sat up to greet me.  In that one simple movement, it looked like a Nor'easter had hit the inside of my cab; white hairs covered everything--the dash, the console, my seat, and there she sat, her yellow eyes finally looking at me with her mouth half open in a smile.

Once I was seated, Miley lowered her head and coyly crawled over the center console.  I told her she needed to stay in her seat, but she turned away from me again, and continued to slide onto my lap like a glacier.  She weighed about as much.  I tried to lift her, but she enforced her gravitational pull, and would not be moved.

It is not safe to drive with a dog on your lap--especially a sixty-pound pit bull that is the size of a toddler.

I explained this to her and she ignored me.  If she was an owner surrender, it meant that she had just gone two weeks without human contact.  Perhaps she needed it.  Or perhaps like a child, she was claiming me as her own by sitting on me.

It appeared she wasn't moving, and I told her that she wasn't to move at all, or she might cause an accident.  I made sure her back feet were neatly tucked into the cupholders and silently prayed that she wouldn't kick suddenly, sending my vehicle into reverse or neutral while on the highway.

Miley kept her back feet where they should be and used my arm as a headrest. 

She occasionally looked out the window, but never looked at me.  I was just a faceless lumpy dogbed to her.  I couldn't tell if she wasn't feeling well.  Her giant paws flexed into my thighs as we took curves in the road, but when she did this, I thought for sure she was going to barf:

A little while later I felt a gurgle in her throat but I couldn't tell if that was the first volcanic rumbling of a vomit, or just a snore.  Since I couldn't see her, I picked up my camera, snapped a photo, and looked at it.

Yup, just snoring (and kind of angelic).

When I came to a stop in front of the boarding facility (this time listening to Google, it only took an hour), she still didn't move.  When the kennel worker came out to get her, she still had her head down between the steering wheel and door.  I sat in the driver's seat (not like I could move) and handed Miley's papers and meds through the window.  When the woman went back inside to get a leash, I opened the door and Miley finally arose from my lap.

It's a strange thing to do just the transport.  I don't get time to really connect and get to know them.  When the kennel worker took Miley, I bent down to take a picture, and she still really wouldn't look me in the eye.

It wasn't until after I gave her a hug good-bye, and was walking back to the truck that I turned and saw her looking right at me.  She took a step forward as the worker said, "Your lap is leaving, Miley.  Come on inside."  I smiled at her, but I saw a bit of surprise and hurt in those yellow eyes.

"You're leaving me too?" she seemed to say.

Miley is a sweetheart, and my heart felt a little stab in letting go.  She was going into boarding.  From one kennel to another, but at least this one didn't have a chance of ending in death.  I didn't offer to overnight her, and no one asked me to, so my mission was complete.

It has been some time since I've been on the road, doing what I started out doing: transporting.  Just dipping my toe in the water I suppose.  But I have a feeling I'll be diving in soon--or someone's going to push me into the pool.

And I have no problem with that at all.  Afterall, what better way to spend an hour of your life than driving on the open highway with a lovable canine on your lap, petting her the whole way?  I think I needed it as much as she did.

Good luck, Miley.  Whoever gets the honor of being your person is one lucky human.  And they'll never fathom leaving you, even if you don't drape yourself across them, claiming them as yours (but I have a feeling you will).

Due to her needing surgery, she doesn't have a petfinder link yet.  However, for other dogs at the rescue, and/or if you wish to donate to Miley's surgery, contact Helping Orphaned Hounds of Arizona:

http://www.helpingorphanedhounds.org/index.php