The past few weeks haven’t been much of note. If canines could be described like houses, Norman would be a turn-key dog. He slept in the fireplace as I unpacked and organized my office; he was there to greet me when I returned from my daily ventures of commerce. We had cuddle time each morning after breakfast, and he got used to—and even liked—human contact.
He sat on my lap on the deck; he slept by my side on the couch at night while I watched TV. Norman was a fixture. In fact, I’ve lived longer in this house with Norman, than without.
And so today it was with bittersweet joy that I took him to his forever home.
The previous adopters I spoke of ending up flaking out. And thank goodness—for both Norman, and his new mom and dad. Chris and Melissa, Norman’s fans and adopters came down to meet Norman at the adoption event yesterday.
Inside PetCo is not a terribly conducive place to meet your best friend for life. In a windowless section of the store, stacks of crates contained little yappy dogs. None of them wore adoption bandanas. People couldn’t just reach down and pet them; they had to curl their fingers through the bars of the crate just to have some contact.
I sat with Norman at the end of the crate row, hoping people could figure out that he was up for adoption. I had one bandana that I had somehow retained from another foster, a pink Best Friends Adopt Me one. However, I took it off him the moment I got there. As much as I like to say, “It takes a real man to wear pink,” I didn’t want people thinking Norman was a girl. He’s a dude. And if you don’t believe him (and even if you do), he’ll prove it.
Sans adoption bandana, people thought he was my dog. Despite my awkward position sitting on the floor of a store next to a line of dog crates, no one seemed to understand. Luckily, the potential adopters showed up, and I was relieved of having to sit with Norman next to a crate of puppies: the three were completely asleep, and yet this was more attention-worthy than my super-awesome awake foster dog who would greet you with a tail wag and a kiss on the hand.
Chris and Melissa came into the area and Norman immediately introduced himself. I noted that unlike the previous week, Norman was more outgoing, as if he understood that he was out there to sell himself and find his perfect family.
It was Chris, not Melissa who was the driving force of this adoption vehicle. The bond between a boy and his dog is sacred, and I could see that Chris was yearning for that connection. Melissa, his girlfriend of three years, had never owned a pet, so she wasn’t against it; she was just the clear-headed one. Chris had had a cocker spaniel growing up, and had spoken of getting a dog for some time. However, their living quarters hadn’t been suitable for a dog. Now they had some outdoor space, a lot of indoor space, and felt it was better conditions for raising a dog.
Norman flashed his beautiful smile to Chris, who melted upon first sight. Melissa needed some convincing, being the more realistic one of the pair. She was impressed with Norman’s calm demeanor, and how he didn’t react to other dogs yelling at him (for some canine reason, little white fluffy dogs hated Norman that day—they barked viscously, lashing out from their crates.) Norman just calmly walked away.
Katya couldn’t make it, as she was pulling another beagle, Arnold, from the South LA shelter. She really had wanted to adopt Norman herself, but house rules (when in a relationship and in rescue, it’s important to have and maintain boundaries) dictated a three dog rule: if she adopted Norman, she could not foster again. And so, Katya freed Norman to be with someone else.
I lay on the couch with Norman today for our after-breakfast cuddle. I looked him in the eye and tried not to tear up. “You now you’ve helped me marvelous much, Norman. You came into my life because I needed you.”
He looked back as if surprised by the words. “But now I’m okay. And these two people, Chris and Melissa that you met yesterday: they need you now. Now they are your purpose.”
Norman cocked his head, paying close attention to me. Perhaps he was trying to discern why my emotions were on the brink of spilling out. That’s the problem with dogs: you think you can hide your feelings, but they’re not just looking for tears; they smell your sadness, they feel your pain; you can’t hide it from them.
“I can’t tell you what you need to do; all I know is they’ve chosen you because they need you. I am so grateful for all you’ve done for me, but now you’ve fulfilled your purpose with me. It’s time for you to help someone else.”
I knew my tears were my own self-pity. Norman was going to a great home. He’d be happy there. He’d be Chris’ little buddy, and I had feeling he’d win over Melissa in short order. I had no right to be sad.
I had envisioned the first foster dog in my home to be a big, bumbling pit bull. I never imagined this awkward cuddler beagle mix. Sometimes what we imagine isn’t what we truly need. I needed Norman—this sweet little boy who needed some R&R, who needed to learn about human affection, and who needed some time to prepare for his big mission of his forever family.
I have grown accustomed to hearing his nails on the patio door as he shifts in his sleep on the bed; the sound of his groans as he stretches, the smile on his face as he greets me each morning at my bed, telling me it’s time to get up and start my day.
Norman is my first real foster: the one I said I would keep until he found a home or I found a job. The universe was kind enough to give us both simultaneously: Norman got a home, and I start a job tomorrow.
Strange, how it all works out. Harry was the same way: I needed him to find a home, and he has a fantastic forever home, one he acquired only hours before I started my new job.
Norman was who I needed during this hot and dry August. He didn't just provide me with companionship; he did his own repairs on this abode. This house is a now home because of him; paint on the walls and doorknobs on the doors does not a home make. It’s a home because a dog found peace here; solace. It’s a home because it has welcomed a canine spirit to recuperate and become whole again.
Watching Norman walk around his new mom and dad's house, the sadness I felt from the morning dissolved. I stood next to Katya and whispered, “How can I be sad? Look how happy he is.”
She smiled and said, “Yeah, it’s heart-breaking. You love them so much and then when they’re in the right home, they’re just like, ‘See ya!’”
We explained to Chris and Melissa that Norman might look sad initially (although he currently wasn't mourning), but he’d recover from the separation faster than I would. He really looked happy. He even surmounted the challenge of a full flight of stairs. (He only had three stairs to get onto the deck.) The four of us cheered him on his way up the stairs to the bedroom.
There he found carpet—something my home lacked. He has two fireplaces just like this place; his new mom and dad just need to clean them out, and the dragon will have his lair again.
I don’t know how people foster for months on end. How do you say good-bye? I gave Norman a hug, but I didn’t want him to feel my sadness, to see my tears. I did it quickly and certainly he was confused when he was told to stay while I left. Chris later said that Norman was sad that first day, but I imagine it was more uneasiness in a new place. At least, I’d like to think so.
We take these animals in and teach them to trust, show them that it’s okay to love and they won’t get hurt. And yet in only a short time, we leave them. We know why we leave them, but do they?
I guess we’ll never know. I believe some of my dogs knew. But not all. I still think of Tia, and wonder if I had had this place when I knew her last year, if she would still be here.
There are dogs you love and dogs you fall in love with. I fell in love with Tia. I didn’t fall in love with Norman, but I love him with all my heart; he’s a special kid with a big purpose--or maybe multiple ones. He’s got this amazing personality and sweet soul that was meant to do big things here on this planet.
Norman, I loved you and still love you. I hope one day you’ll see that it’s my love for you that made me say goodbye, so Chris and Melissa would have the honor of loving you. You are not my dog, but you are a good dog—no, you’re a great dog.
My tears are for myself, not for you. My tears are shed for the emptiness that is in my home now, but my heart is still full of the joy you gave me. You are in a great home, with two people who will always love you and never leave you. You will have canine companions at the park, a dog walker who adores your every footfall, and two fireplaces in which to lie in.
I shall miss you, dear Norman, but I know that your job here is complete. I can fix the house as much as physical repairs can heal physical wounds, but a canine spirit provides strength and vitality, healing the soul of a home. I thank you for infusing this house with the canine spirit. You are the first of many (and I am so grateful for that) who will find peace and rest and play and fun here in a brief stopover on their way to their forever home.
Norman, you are the honored first guest, kicking off a long future tradition here on the Avenue of the Beautiful View. This house, and my heart, will always be open to canines who are welcome to stay as long as they need. Thank you for your smile and for your spirit. I carry your smile in my heart, and my house has become a home because of you. I, and all the future canine guests, thank you for blessing this house--and my life--with your presence.
