At the Crossroads... and the Road Ahead

Perhaps I’m not a liar. The “I’m not going to foster for a while,” was a truth—albeit a little premature, but a truth nonetheless. And, “Tucker will be in his forever home by Christmas” absolutely happened.

It just didn’t happen as I expected it would. But then again, when does life ever transpire as you plan it?

I spent the first couple of weeks with Tucker putting the adopt-me bandana on him

and telling folks on the street how great he was. I went to adoption events and made business cards. A friend took his glamour shots

and Christy posted a courtesy ad for me on her adopt-a-pet webpage. But then something started to change…

The idea that an adoption application would come in for him made my heart race. I stopped putting the bandana on him. When I introduced him to people on the street, rather than touting his brilliance and humor, I merely stated, “This is Tucker.” Period. End of sentence.

They say that true love isn’t possessive. Well it certainly doesn’t make you want to give him away.

As I scrolled through videos and pictures of him at Thanksgiving dinner, showing him to my friends, one of them said, “You have showed me pictures of all your fosters, but I have never seen you this happy. No dog has ever made you this happy.”

It was true. Tucker made me smile and laugh every day. I looked forward to his wagging tail and greeting bow/stretch when I came home from work. My heart warmed every time I sat on the floor and he chose to put his big butt on my lap while he munched on a toy in search of a squeaker.

When I spoke to my friend in San Francisco about him she observed, “Half the time you talk about him like he’s your new boyfriend, and the other half you sound like you’re talking about your kid. So clearly he’s your dog.”

But I always said that I was meant to be dogless; my home and heart were reserved for those who had neither house nor love in their life. I was to help the homeless, and it would not be fair to my own dog for me to share my love with others. And anyway, my life isn’t structured ordinarily. It is a series of goals—each movie—from pre-production to post, created anywhere in the country. It is living in new places once or twice a year, and returning to home base for short stints of relaxation and days in the sun. Any dog I had would live a life of travel, with dog sitters and dog walkers in every city, going to the office with me if possible, and also, eventually, be my partner in rescue once I returned to it. He would help those who entered the home to feel relaxed and loved. He would not be jealous of my care for others, for he too, would care for them. He would be light and love, joy and happiness.

That’s a lot to ask of in a canine. I certainly didn’t think he existed and therefore never desired it. I accepted my role.

But then Tucker came along. I wasn’t leaving that adoption event without him. I truly believed that I was the one who had to find him his forever home (although I had no idea that home was so close.) I had chosen him. But I had to wonder, had he chosen me?

Some folks asked, “Why this one?” I could give the Jessica Rabbit answer: “He makes me laugh.” Or I could go with what all my friends saw at Thanksgiving: which I that I had never been happier.

The following week was merely my mind trying to convince my heart that it was wrong. That I shouldn’t have a dog. Even though many people in my job field have dogs and make it work. It’s not easy, but they make it work.

But what about not working overseas? What about my bucket list? During that week or two of introspection and outward discussion, a friend called to tell me that he was going to South Africa for a gig for six months. I was right then and there confronted with how I would feel if I had to turn down such a job. It was a millisecond of “Oh, man. South Africa!” And then even my mind agreed with my heart: “Really? In a this-or-that decision of working in another country for six months versus a lifetime of unconditional love, you had to think about it for a second?”

When I told someone else in the industry that I was considering adopting, but I still wanted to work out of the country, he said, “Well then adopt a dog later.”

His answer shocked me. It wasn’t about adopting any dog. It was adopting this dog--this wonderful, playful, funny, joyous, imaginative canine soul that I couldn’t bear to spend a day without.

People don’t plan when they’ll meet their human soulmate. Some don’t even plan on having children and alas, one day it happens, and you find yourself at the crossroads with a companion. Just because the timing isn’t quite right, do you leave them there? Or do accept that the road ahead is still there, but now you have someone to share it with?

The panic in my heart that someone else was going to adopt Tucker got to me. I had discussed and talked it out. I had logicked away all practical concerns. I just couldn’t logic away the love.

And so on December 3rd, a little over three weeks after meeting this dog that I thought I was meant to foster, I sent an email to the rescue. I wished to make Tucker’s forever home right here with me.

Lisa at Hanging with Friends Rescue called me. “What?! Did I read that right?” She was conflicted because she knew that Tucker was in a great home, but that it meant losing a foster for a time. Indeed, I will foster again, but I need some time to prepare my new partner in rescue for that task. Right now, it’s about him and me learning about each other, trusting each other, and getting him used to my crazy life.

I had taken him on “dates” as if testing him for the life to come. We went on a hike. He came to the office.

He met my friends.

He ran in the yard. We went for car rides.

He passed every test; his joyful spirit embraced each new challenge and stood ready for every new experience.  It was clear that I had found my travelling companion on this road of life.

I had ordered a tag with his name on it even before I had sent the email asking to adopt him. I received it in the mail the day after the adoption was official. No dog in my adult life had worn a tag with his or her name on it. The dogs who had shared my truck and my home throughout the years had worn tags that stated, “If I’m alone, I’m lost. Call my foster mom.” As I took that tag off his collar and replaced it with the one bearing his name, my eyes welled up with tears.

“You’re home. Forever.”

I kept thinking of Lady & the Tramp, when Tramp finally decided that having a collar and a license wasn’t so bad after all. Tucker didn’t know the difference on his tag or the paperwork I signed and scanned to the rescue. Nothing changed between us. But one thing clearly changed in me: I was at peace. No more did I feel my heart race that someone else would adopt him. Everything was as it should be.

Becoming a pet parent wasn’t a single moment. It was simply accepting what was from the moment I met Tucker. Tucker is my partner. He is the dog who will see me through my forties; he will travel the country with me; he will help homeless dogs by welcoming them into our home while they search for their forever family; he might even see me get married one day. Tucker is my soul-dog.

When people ask me if I will still do rescue, I reply in the affirmative. But maybe it won’t be in the capacity. I have a companion now. He’s in this game with me. I won’t foster for a time, but I will again in the future. I will immediately be more vocal about Breed Specific Legislation as now it affects my family directly. And it reinvigorates my push to find the right company/people to team up with for my television show. Travelling with Tucker, renovating shelters across America, and making a difference in the lives of animals and people: now that’s the life for us.

Tucker’s tale with me doesn’t end at the crossroads. Instead of bending down and giving him a kiss on the forehead and watching his tail wag as he saunters toward his own path, I give him a kiss on the forward, tell him I love him, stand up, and he wags his tail as he joins me at my side. He looks up at me with his big goofy grin. I smile back, and then side-by-side we continue travelling down the road ahead—together.

Love Isn't Always On Time

In the beginning of any relationship, people’s little quirks are adorable. Their snoring is cute. The way they chew with their mouth open is endearing. The way it takes them forty-five minutes to get out of the house for a five minute walk to the store is totally acceptable. Love creates a tolerance unmatched by anything else.

So I can only suspect that I love this crazy kid. Within a few minutes of being in my house, he lifted his leg on the doorway into the living room. I admonished him and he appeared genuinely apologetic. He just didn’t know. And I wasn’t the least bit angry. The next morning, he walked out of the bathroom (he likes to be by my side during most of my mundane tasks like brushing my teeth) and lifted his leg without thinking. Again, he apologized and I wasn’t upset.

Day three, when he vacated the bathroom while I blow-dried my hair (the one task he’s not up for being around for), he was out of sight for a bit longer than I suspected, and my spidy-senses started tingling. A short inspection of the house revealed that he had tagged a bookcase in my office. Luckily, he chose the bookcase with glass doors, so no literature was destroyed.

For him, where to take a shit is the most monumental decision of his life each and every time. He even changes his mind mid-squat, so I had no fear of him pooping in the house. But then, also on day three, shortly after our afternoon walk while I was outside talking to a fencing contractor for fifteen minutes, he quickly chose my bedroom bookcase in which to take a dump.

After he flooded my kitchen, I invested in a placemat for his water bowl because the ratio of water that ends up in his face versus on the floor every time he drinks is about 3:7. I also have a washcloth handy in which I wipe his face so it doesn’t act as a mobile waterfall on my hardwood floors.

Just this morning while I took a shower, he chose a cardboard box in my room to chew a hole through rather than destroy one of the many toys he’s allowed to eviscerate.

His farts are deadly. Even he leaves the room after laying a good one.

None of these things anger or annoy me. His goofy smile, his joyful spirit, his need to snuggle all make up for the things he doesn’t yet know and the things that are intrinsically him.

I initially thought I’d keep the name Bruno, since that’s what he was used to at the shelter. However, after only one evening with him, I knew it had to change. With the rescue being in Hemet, I was leading this campaign to get him adopted, and a name like Bruno for a pit bull isn’t a great start. It also simply didn’t fit him. He wasn’t a brute; he wasn’t even big (well, maybe he weighed a lot, but like a brick; he’s only up to my knee); he wasn’t mean. He wasn’t any of the things you think of when you hear or read the name Bruno.

Shakespeare posed “What’s in a name? Would a rose by any other name smell so sweet?” Well sure, it would, but if it was called a “muculent sore” I’m pretty sure people wouldn’t be excited to get one for Valentine’s Day. Words describe an entity through and through, and Bruno was an inaccurate description of this gangly, goofy pocket pit bull.

My favorite summation of him is what a friend said after watching him romp around the yard: “He’s like a ballet dancer that’s got all the moves but none of the grace.”

He falls off the couch, he bangs his head into the refrigerator, he slides across the floor into the wall, he leaps up onto the deck, he leaps off the deck and tumbles onto the ground, he chases a toy, only to miss it and get it back on the rebound. He falls into my lap to chew on a toy with his ass in the air and his front legs collapsed backward. He slides off the couch headfirst and upside down until he’s completely under the coffee table. It’s like his limbs aren’t fully attached yet and the soul inside him hasn’t yet figured out how to coordinate the earthly body it’s inhabiting.

I enlisted the social media for nomenclature suggestions, and after much deliberation and trying out words, Bruno was officially renamed Tucker. Now after only a few days of calling him Tucker, I can’t imagine him being a Bruno. He’s a Tucker: with his sweet goofy smile, his loving snuggle, his playful romp.

Now I just need to find his forever person. I’ve said that I’ve only fallen in love with a couple of the dogs I have met on their journeys. Well, Tucker goes in the record books. He’s going to break my heart when he goes. So, the sooner he gets a home, the better.

A friend of mine pointed out his physical resemblance to Tia. It honestly hadn’t entered my conscious mind, but maybe that was the initial attraction. Looking back at old photos though, I don’t see many similarities. Whatever had drawn me to him also drew Jen in and his shelter champion, so I don't think it's a personal thing.  There’s just something special about this kid. He’s got a big life ahead of him, and I need to find it for him.

It’s crossed my mind that maybe he is meant to be mine; maybe he is my partner in crime. He loves other dogs, he’s affectionate, he’s eager to learn and please, and clearly he’s made himself at home both in my house and in my heart.

But.

There’s always a but.

I have a bucket list. It’s like the list of things you want to do before you settle down and have kids. I’m not procreating, so it’s my list of things to do before I get my canine life partner. I’d like to see Europe before I’m fifty. I need to work out of the country at least once, if not many times. I want to travel the world—and you can’t do that with a pit bull. (Or maybe you can, and then write a book about it…)

For now, I’m following my gut. It got me where I am on this path right here, right now, and I have no regrets. The campaign has begun—the quest to find Tucker’s person. I believe he or she is out there… or right here… but no, I’m going with out there. He’s had his photo session, I’ve adorned him with the adopt-me bandana, I’m taking him to adoption events, and I’m making it known that this special, handsome, funny, smart, and loving boy is looking for his forever home.

If you think you're his match, drop me a line. I will warn you that I have high standards for Tucker’s life partner, and I won’t let him go to just anybody. I believe Tucker has a great life ahead of him and that the universe is going to lead us to his co-pilot. Just as my instinct told me to take Tucker in, I know my instinct will tell me when it’s right to let him go.

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet/9921425-glendale-california-pit-bull-terrier-mix

Go With Your Gut (It's Usually Your Heart Talking)

Go with your gut. It won’t lead you wrong. It will, however, on occasion, lead you to do things you don’t have a practical or logical explanation for. Which is how my house came to be dogless for only four days.

Last Sunday, I went down to the NKLA Adoption Event to visit Christy and the rest of the TAPS team at their booth. And of course, to wander about and say hello to anyone else I knew and check out the dogs up for adoption. The Super Adoption is for all the Los Angeles city and county shelters who bring a select collection of dogs and cats on death row to get adopted. There are a few rescues there as well, but mainly this is about clearing out the public shelters.

The idea is that everyone returns to their shelters with their trucks of cages empty—whether it’s through adoption or rescues taking each and every one, hundreds of animals that otherwise would have been killed on Monday morning have a second chance.

I found Patti, transporter extraordinaire at the National Brittany Rescue and she asked if I wanted to foster a senior for her.

“Nope. No fostering for me. Not now. I gotta fix up my yard, and the holidays are coming. No fosters for a while,” I told her with all certainty.

The next morning on Facebook, Patti discovered that I was a downright liar.

The lie was unintentional; I wanted it to be true, and why I couldn’t just let someone else step up the plate, I can’t explain; all I can say is that my gut told me to, and when I thought of not doing it, my eyes welled up with tears.

Dogs were brought up on the stage one by one and introduced by their shelter workers to give them a moment in the spotlight. Up on stage, there was a brindle pit bull mix, short and stocky, with a big goofy grin on his face. He had been at Castaic (a county shelter about 100 miles north) since September. This was his last chance.

I had seen a brindle pit bull puppy earlier at a rescue and a couple was there looking at him. Once this older brindle pit named Bruno came off the stage, that same couple stopped the shelter worker and started talking to her. Clearly they knew what they wanted. Good. Maybe this kid would get a home.

There was something about him, and after the couple walked away and I wandered around a little more, I went to Castaic’s booth to meet Bruno. He had been out and about a lot, so he was in his crate taking a break:

Terri, his handler, was the shelter worker who had taken him under her wing when he first arrived. She worked with him daily, helping to train him. He came in as a stray, and hadn’t had any real interest in almost two months. Each week, she fought for his life when it came time to red-list the dogs. The shelter manager wasn’t the biggest fan of pits, and Terri was always fighting for them. She even had to fight to bring him. The manager agreed and told her that if he came back Sunday night, there were no guarantees of his life lasting past Monday morning.

There was just something about him—this joyful spirit in his eyes that I couldn’t let be snuffed out. I went back to the TAPS booth and said that “I found this dog that I really like...”

Jen, who had photographed Lulu at the Strut Your Mutt event, said, “Hey I have a favorite too!”

We both took out our phones, and there on each of our phones was Bruno. “No way! Of all the hundreds of dogs here, we chose the same one! I was going to try to find a foster for him. Do you want to foster?”

“Yeah, I’ll foster, but I need a rescue behind me,” I said.

Shelley saw Jen and me getting all excited and she let me drag her over to Castaic’s booth to meet Bruno.

“You’re going to have to ask Christy,” she said.

It was a total parenting move: if Mom doesn’t want to say No, she diverts to Dad. Damn it.

Jen had walked away, so it was just me when Christy returned to the booth.

Shelley immediately said, “Stephanie has something to ask you.”

So I meekly presented my case. I had never initiated before. I was always asked to foster. I had no idea how to say, “Will you take this dog if I foster?”

Her answer when I got to “pit bull” was, “I’ll support you any way I can, but he’s going to be your responsibility. He’s yours. You have to find another foster when you’re away; you’re going to have to do this.”

The fact was, Christy had been financially destroyed by a pit bull just around the same time I was with Missy. Pits are hard to find homes for. But she could see this one was something special to me.

The other fact is that TAPS isn't primarily a rescue; it's a legal organization that only adopts out rescues when there's collateral damage--like all the dogs in a hoarding case... or like Lulu who was at the shelter while they were tending to some hoarding case canines.

Christy told me the top three rescues she thought might be willing to take him on, and sent me to their booths. One said, “I’m not so sure,” one had already pulled four dogs and was beyond capacity (even if they have a foster, rescues can only have so many animals on the books), and the final one, well, by the end of speaking with them, I didn’t want Bruno going there anyway.

Plan B was this: I would take his ID#, and if he ended up going back on the truck, I would put a hold on him, adopt him myself, and then find him a home. That was risky. A rescue isn’t just there as a possible reimbursement of expenses; it’s my legal foundation. If a dog needs to be rehomed five years from now, I don’t get the call. If there’s any legality down the road, I have an entity to protect me. And, it also makes it easier to get donations to pay for things. As I learned with Missy, a dog without a rescue is like a person without a country.

At 3:15, the “auction” began. First, Best Friends announced that they would be taking in every LA City animal not adopted by 4 o’clock. That left the county kids (including Bruno) on the major sell list. One by one, each of the remaining dogs went up on stage for one last push. People gave incentives. For the dog that needed medical treatment, one of the incentives was medical paid for a year… then, when no takers, medical for LIFE! Still no takers. Then, a rescue would take him if a foster could be found. A kind young woman in tears said she’d foster; and so the deal was done. This dog wasn’t going back on the truck.

Christy had said that I should put in the incentive that I would foster if a rescue took him. Money might have to be put up front as well, but start with fostering.

Bruno went up, and Terri tearfully told his story. The problem is that much like being in the security line at the airport, there are certain buzzwords that you are not allowed to say at a public shelter. “Putting a dog down,” “being put to sleep,” “killing,” and “he’ll be dead,” are all these things shelter workers and volunteers are not allowed to say. I can cause I’m not an official member of anything—there’s a lovely freedom in that. But Terri couldn’t. Only her tears could portray the harsh truth.

No adopters wanted him. The announcer said that there was a foster if a rescue took him. I saw a blonde woman in the crowd raise her hand. Bam! Rescue acquired.

Hanging with Friends is a relatively new rescue on the scene. They became a 501(c )3 just last year. They’re based in Hemet (about 100 miles east of Los Angeles.) No one in my circle of rescue friends had heard of them.

I introduced myself to Lisa, the founder, and Krista, the trainer and Hollywood-based partner. I filled out a form so they had my info, and I said to Lisa, “That’s a lot of trust. You don’t even know me,” thinking geez, how do they know I’m not crazy?

“Nah. I can get a good read on people. And anyway, someone would have whispered in my ear by now if they had a bad feeling about you. No, really, they would have.”

And so, with absolutely no plan, no prior knowledge of this rescue, no preparations done back home, I walked out of the NKLA Adoption with a new charge at the end of my leash.

And so begins my end of the year adventure. Goal: Bruno will be in his forever home before the holidays (Hanukah is a bit early this year, so let’s say Christmas.) I don’t have much of a plan, and I don’t have any guarantees it’ll happen. I’m only listening to my gut and going with it. There’s not a single part of me that believes I made a bad decision; I have no regrets. The only regret I would have had, was not stepping up to the plate. For some unknown reason, I’m supposed to be part of this kid’s journey. I’m supposed to find his forever person. Well, gut instinct, I say, “Challenge Accepted.”

The Look of Love

At the last adoption event, I saw a volunteer with an adoptee who looked strikingly familiar. I couldn’t quite place her. Given the number of people I encounter in my freelance life, locating and identifying people in my memory is a rather arduous process. Luckily, she knew me.

“I’m Stephanie. I adopted Tully—I mean, Harry—from you!”

This was Stephanie 2.0, who had adopted one my favorites, the adorable and fabulous Harry Winston over four years ago.

Since adopting him and re-christening him Tully, she had adopted another, and also fosters for the rescue Mutt Scouts. The one at the end of her leash was one such foster.

She told me how Tully was doing, and we talked about fostering.

“Some people treat me like I’m evil,” she said.

I get that too. “‘How can you just give them up? Don’t you fall in love with all of them?’”

People ask me those things all the time, with a tone as if I’m emotionally stunted or a commitment-phobe. I try not to judge them for their inability to truly see what I do. It was only a few years ago that I, too, said there was no way I could foster: I couldn’t love a dog and let them go.

But the thing is, it isn’t the same as surrendering a lifelong loyal companion to the shelter. It’s finding a soul in need, giving them the love and attention they need to heal, and then helping them find their destiny; it’s leaving them someplace better than where you found them—a goal I try to have with everything: the planet, people, animals, life.

And, as my friend Kyndall said to me over six years ago on my cross-country adventure; “When you get into rescue, you have to wait to adopt. You have to learn the difference between a ‘good dog’ and ‘your dog.’”

As for Harry, now Tully, I knew his life wasn’t meant to be with me. He had big things to do, and I wasn’t his co-pilot. He’s a member of a loving pack that opens their doors and their hearts to those in need for a few weeks at a time and helps them on their way. He is a social, vibrant soul that makes all who meet him smile.

I still believe that if I had had a house when I met Tia, that she would still be with me. But other than those special two, I have not fallen in love. My charges are my friends that I play matchmaker with; the friends that I tell everyone how awesome they are and help them to find their person. Most dogs understand my position, but some don’t. It’s the ones that don’t that hurt the most, because I fear they think I have abandoned them.

I may seem like a soulless bastard for being able to “give the dog away.” But that’s because those who know what I do, aren’t there for the lonely car ride home as my eyes well up with tears; they aren’t there when I open the door to the house and feel the emptiness left behind. They’re not there as I wash the linens and put away the toys and make my place ready for the next one, or accept the fact that it may be some time before the dogbed gets cuddled on again. But that is all selfish sadness. The goal has been met; the mission accomplished. A beautiful new life begins.

Christy and I blame ourselves for not trying hard to find Lulu’s beautiful new life. My employment meant that I didn’t have the time to go to coffee houses, dogparks, and have other adventures with her. I wasn’t able to give her the attention she needed just for her, as well as the attention to getting her out there and telling the world that this kid was searching for her forever person.

Lulu was easy. She wasn’t traumatized or in need of recuperation. She was ready for her new home probably long before her old guardians decided to ditch her like yesterday’s newspaper. Her first two potential adopters came onto the scene within two weeks. It seemed effortless.

But with my travel plans, Christy’s travel plans, and Lulu being forced to bounce between my place and her “vacation foster,” the search for Lulu’s new life resembled rush hour on the 405: imperceptibly rolling along or a complete standstill. Christy and I had taken her to adoption events, but people passed her by.

When I returned from my two-week roadtrip, I became impassioned in finding this fabulous girl a home. She had been homeless for far too long. The first day I brought her back, I took this picture:

I felt it really captured the soul that is Lulu. I also wrote up an ad for her, since the copy on her adopt-a-pet page was just the story of Shelley finding her. I didn’t want Lulu being promoted as a sad case; I wanted her to be promoted as the fantastic dog she was.

Christy changed Lulu’s ad using my words and the new picture and within half an hour, a potential adopter contacted Christy.

Life truly is in the timing.

They were on a roadtrip, but wanted to meet Lulu on Sunday. Their 14 year old dog had recently passed away from an illness, and they were looking for a companion for themselves as well as their four year old rescued boxer, Cooper. I say “they” but really it was a single woman, whose grown kids were helping her find that perfect match. After all, whoever she adopted would be their new sibling, so they had a stake in the matter.

Sunday morning, Marge (the woman), Megan (her daughter), and Cooper came over to meet Lulu. Christy and Craig came as well to facilitate the meeting. We went for a short walk up the street, and Cooper and Lulu primarily ignored one another. We went into the backyard and still, the two ignored one another. Lulu was polite and greeted the people, but was still doing her own thing.

As for Cooper, she deferred to him. When I placed down a dog bowl, Cooper drank first, then Lulu took a turn. If Lulu was getting attention from Marge and Cooper came up to join in, Lulu backed off, giving him the respect that these were his people.

I don’t know if Lulu knew she was auditioning for her new life. I had been hoping for that instant connection, that spark, that whatever it is that indicated true love. But I didn’t see it. Instead, I felt a calming energy. Everyone was on the same level. It was a kind of peace and serenity.

At the wedding I attended in Seattle the groom stated in his vows, “…I had always imagined love to be what it is in the movies. But it isn’t. It wasn’t with you. There was no grand gestures, no movie-moments; it was an ease of being with you, the way we finished each other sentences, the way we understood each other without speaking a word…”

Maybe that’s what I was witnessing.

“If you’re going to add a dog to a household, this is what you want," Christy explained. "You want them to ignore each other. You don’t want them to be crazy playing. But that’s what people want to see."

I guess we’ve all been brain-washed by the media—even with it comes to doggie love.

Well, not all of us. Not Marge or Megan. Much to Christy and my surprise, we received this email just after nightfall:

"Hello Christy & Stephanie,
After meeting the other dogs today, my mom (Marge) has decided she would love to add Lulu as a member of our family :) We think she will be a great fit as far as energy level, obedience, etc. Thank you for allowing us to meet her today..."

We knew this was a good home. But I still wasn’t convinced it was Lulu’s prefect home. I was still waiting for the movie-moment love connection. We still had to make sure Cooper would be cool with Lulu at his house. We didn’t think there’d be a problem. He was a chill dog, and oddly, this was his third—and forever of course—home. Marge knew there wasn’t anything wrong with shelter dogs; it was the people who had the issues. Third time is the charm—for both of these canine kids.

Marge has a beautiful home, and Lulu showed her appreciation by immediately shitting in the backyard. Cooper wasn’t like Summer who had been altogether over-excited to have a play buddy. He was a gracious host, allowing Lulu her space to get a lay of the land and be comfortable without invading her space.

Lulu’s relaxed open mouth and lolling tongue was the sign of her comfortability there. Paperwork was signed, and this was no trial run: Lulu had a new guardian, a new family, and her beautiful new life was about to begin.

Maybe love isn’t all passion and excitement. Maybe it’s not something you can describe, and maybe it’s not the same every time.  But when it does exist, you can feel it.

How could I be sad? Sure, I had a passenger seat with just a leash and a harness in it, and an empty house back in Burbank, but you know why I keep doing it? Because of this:

Because the next day, I received this email from Megan:

"Lulu is doing great! She has figured out how to use the doggy door and is comfortable enough to do her business in the backyard. Cooper must really like her because he actually tried to play with her a few times this morning and they went racing around the backyard together :) She also likes to play tug of war inside with us and seems like she's a pretty good fetch dog. We are really enjoying having her with us!"

Because you can change the world: one dog at a time. It’s not just a dog’s life you change, it’s the people connected to that dog. Look at Stephanie with Tully, and the numerous fosters who have the pleasure of couch-surfing at her place; and now Lulu has added her joyous spirit to this family who had just lost a loved one.

We’re all connected in this crazy story called Life. We choose to partake or not. Our role in it is defined by us. My role is taking those in need in, and then “letting them go” to pursue their destiny, to change the lives of others, and in the end, I’ll say goodbye to them so they can be in a better place than where I found them.

Lulu, my dear, you are a special soul, and I am blessed to have to spent so much time with you. Our lack of ambition in finding you a home worked out for the very best. It got you just where you needed to be when you needed to be there. May you enjoy snuggles and play with your new brother Cooper and tug time with your new mom. May you always be joyous and open your heart to let your family in. Trust me,  no one is ever going to let you go again.

Change is Just Up the Road

“I hate routine, but I fear change.”

Those are the words of my friend who, after 13 years of living in the same place, has moved. He was saying how his brain has rebelled against the fact that this is his new place, and that eventually (once escrow closes), he will never return to the place he called home for so long.

I wonder if some dogs know on that fateful ride to the shelter, if indeed they, too, will never see their home again. Or, if being the loving, trusting souls they are, their brain and heart rebel against the reality until the very last moment. And then, alone behind bars, there is nothing but fear and the others left behind to give them comfort.

I am always astonished by a canine’s willingness to trust me—to put his or her life in my hands, and just go with the flow. But some dogs are more sensitive than others. Having had Lulu for so long with her above-average coping ability, I forgot that some dogs need a little extra reassurance, and that they sense life-change coming from hundreds of miles away.

Callie slept through the night without awakening as she had every night previous. However, the little sniffle that I had noticed the first day and had faded with the second, had returned like a Nor’easter. Her bed had a giant snot mark on it, and I could hear the congestion with each breath she took. I had to get her to the rescue as quickly as possible, where meds awaited her, and the stress of traveling would finally end.

Callie was not a model passenger on this last leg and certainly could not co-pilot. She didn’t want to sit down from the moment we got into the car. When I stopped at a Dutch Bros. Coffee just across the street, she leaned through my driver side window and refused to sit back down, backing up the drive-thru by ten cars.

On the road, she needed me. She continually grabbed by arm. I had to be petting her or holding her at any given moment. My telling her that she was going to get us in an accident if she kept standing up or pulling on me elicited no response. She was well past the boundary of comprehension and deep into fear or sickness.

My mocha went cold as I pet her non-stop for the first hundred miles. She cried and whimpered. If I didn’t pet her, she needed her head on my arm.

I finally got to sip some caffeine when she fell asleep with her head on my lap.

Callie was going to stay with Cheryl, who runs My Way Home, until Saturday when her foster parents would be ready for her. The foster parents were excited, as they had two large senior dogs of their own, and they always ended up fostering little dogs. They were looking forward to having a shepherd join their pack for a bit while she awaited her forever home.

I never did get to meet Cheryl’s own dogs, as they were in a separate part of the house. I met her rescues, an old pit who had to stay in the crate because he, like Missy, didn’t have the best social skills. He was a sweet guy, but got a little too ramped up when he met a new dog, so she was going to wait till all was calm for the two of them to meet without bars between them. There was a little terrier who I just adored. He clearly had the hots for Cheryl. Maybe it goes back to my Harry days, but I love the spunk that is purely and innately terrier. Then there was the two remaining of the feral pack she had taken in. Cheryl had never touched them—except when they got spayed and were under anesthesia. They were great with other dogs, but they didn’t trust humans.

This one on the bed is ridiculously adorable, but has never been touched by human hands. I thought that was a boa around her neck, but Cheryl informed that it was actually her collar. The other dogs were so repulsed by it, they tried to rip it off her. The end result is this decorative band of pink, and since no human can touch her, she’s stuck with the bling.

I had no doubt that Callie would be fine here—and at her foster home. But she was still panting and unsure.

“She’s a sensitive soul,” Cheryl said. Callie was upset with the other dog energy in the room—the romping and playing that she hadn’t been invited to partake in. It was new to her, and she preferred calmness. Her bad eyesight might have also lent to her preference for stillness—like on Mt. Shasta.

She seemed at ease for a bit as Cheryl and I swapped dog tales. I started telling her about Stella, and Callie rose up and started whimpering. I wasn’t telling it in a dramatic way. I was simply telling the facts.

“She feels the pain in your heart,” Cheryl said simply.

I looked at Callie who was sitting and  nudging my hand with her nose, whimpering at me.

All dogs are empathic; I have no doubt. But some are more so than others. Callie is one of those. She feels everything. “Latisma” is the Spanish word Katya would use—the ability to pity and have compassion for everything. Callie has latisma.

Four hours after I had arrived, Callie was fast asleep, using my shoe as her pillow. I knew it was okay to cut the apron strings. She’d be okay.

Indeed she was more than okay. By the end of the weekend, as I was about to embark on my southern journey (sans dogs, sadly), I received these pictures from Cheryl.

Change is scary. But it can lead to tremendous good things. Callie, I thank you for coming with me on my northward adventure. I hope you had fun. I thought you were living the good life on Mt. Shasta, but then I see you here on 50 acres… and the thing is, you still haven’t made it home yet. From a shelter in Riverside County, California, to the mountains of Northern California, to the farmland of Oregon to… the future is unplanned. But, Callie, my dear, by not planning, I can guarantee that beautiful, magical surprises are just around the corner.

From Shelter to Shasta

Living life without a plan means you can miss out on some things. But it also means that you get to experience some unexpected pleasures along the way. Going to Mt. Shasta was one of my planned things, whether or not I had a dog with me. I found out that if I had a dog, I was limited to only two of the many trails, but that would be enough for one day’s experience anyway. The only thing that could stop me then was the US government.

Luckily, upon arriving to the first trailhead in the National Forest, I found out that despite all its power, the United States government could not close nature, but only the facilities we’ve come to take for granted when in it.

And I also assume it was a bad idea to get lost at this time since there weren’t any rangers to get you out of precarious or life-threatening situations in the outback.

So, with nothing really to hinder us, Callie and I trekked to the very top that my trusty steed could go. Dogs live in the moment, and so I don’t imagine Callie compares this day with say, last week, when she was on death row. But we as humans do. And so, as I took this picture, I thought of all the possible futures that Callie had just a week prior, and I honestly didn’t imagine this one.

There were no trail maps. I assume because facilities were closed, although I couldn’t find an empty spot for them anywhere near the facilities. The US Department of Forestry’s website was also shut down, so that was of no use prior to my expedition. I only found out which trails were dog friendly by reading citizens’ accounts on private webpages.

Callie and I found Panther Meadows trailhead simply by being observant and using my memory of the giant map at the first stop. It appears the sign was made in 1969.

Mt. Shasta is known amongst many as a spiritual, healing mountain. Gurus, mystics, and sages make pilgrimages here. It is one of the seven sacred mountains in the world.

The night before, I spied its beauty and majesty in the dark. Always snowcapped, I seemed to always see it out of the corner of my eye, but never when I looked directly at it—a ghost mountain in the distance. In the morning light, the ghost took solid form, and was still just as majestic.

If indeed a dog shitting somewhere means they’re comfortable, than Callie instantly found peace on the mountain. Not more than fifty feet into our hike, she took a dump. It was nice for it happen so quickly, so I could we could wander the campsite area for disposal.

The trail was marked by stones on either side of a foot-wide path. But once the trail came up over a ridge and onto the meadow, it became this:

Callie and I meandered, as I tried to figure out which stones indicted the trail. I saw a woman sitting beneath a tree, head lowered, eyes closed, deep in meditation. I tried to steer Callie clear of her, but once Callie spied her, she wanted to greet her. As we came closer, I saw that she was holding a large crystal, something bigger than the Riverside Shakespeare Collection, and had a tattoo on her face, and on her arms. My clod-like walking and Callie’s breathing alerted her to visitors.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt,” I said politely.

“I’m already interrupted,” she said with a sigh.

Callie came right up to her and licked her face. The woman smiled. “Black dogs are my protectors. It’s interesting that she came to me.”

She pet her, and I asked if she new where the trail went.

“Well, you’re here,” she said rather snyly.

I continued, “I was just trying to find it. I lost it when I came into the meadow.”

“Well, the New Age answer is ‘you have to feel it.’”

Great. A wise-ass healer.

“Thanks,” I replied, trying not to roll my eyes or see that her attitude had gotten to me. We had, afterall, interrupted her healing meditation.

Callie and I wandered off in the wrong direction for a short spell, but then from that perspective, I found where the trail picked up again.

I let Callie choose our speed. I didn’t know what her fitness level was as a nine-year old dog, but I knew my fitness level as a 35 year old woman didn’t include carrying a seventy pound dog a mile and a half to a car, so I erred on the side of the caution.

Mt. Shasta does have a certain energy about it; a calmness, a stillness. And each time the wind arose, I felt the need to stand still and allow it to pass as if it was a king or queen in which to give reverence. Callie and I spent more time just being than walking.

Sometimes we stood, sometimes it was Callie who chose to lay down for a moment; sometimes it was I who chose to sit. At one point I thought Callie had gone as far as she could and wanted to, but when another group of hikers passed us, Callie followed for a short spell.

A few hours into our mountain experience, Callie did a distinct about-face on the trail, and I knew this was as far as we were going. I was fine with that. Had I been alone, I would have gone further. But I was more than pleased with where Callie had led us. We took our time on the way back down, soaking in all that beautiful, calm stillness, and trying to imbue it into our souls.

Once off the mountain and back in civilzation, there wasn’t much for a girl and her dog to do in the tiny mountain town of Mt. Shasta, so we headed north.

If we headed straight up I-5 without stopping, we’d be way ahead schedule. I had told Cheryl, Callie’s rescuer, that we’d arrive on Thursday morning. It was only Tuesday afternoon, and we had only six hours of driving left.

I had thought of spending the night in Grants Pass, Oregon. I am a mountain-girl, not a lowlands woman, and so any time I can be high in the forest, I’ll take it. And it would be a decent drive to get us into Sandy, Oregon, Callie’s destination, Thursday morning.

After passing Ashland, Oregon, another place I had thought of visiting but upon reaching it, just wasn’t feeling it (I guess I was going with the New Age way of finding my path), I saw a sign for “Rogue-Umpqua Scenic Byway.”

Oh, a byway. That’s sounds interesting. I don’t imagine it’ll take us more than an hour or two off course, and dump up back onto I5. So I impulsively took the exit.

Forty-five minutes later, I found a sign that gave the map of this “byway.”

Well, it’s a bit more than an hour. But that’s okay. We had plenty of time. My only rule of the road was that we find a place of lodging at nightfall. Not for safety-sake, but simply because I was taking this drive to see things, which I needed sunlight to do so.

Callie got her first taste of Oregon here—literally. She walked right into the Rogue River without a second thought, and began lapping up the water.

I hoped it was safe to drink. It seemed fast-enough moving to not harbor too much bacteria. She didn’t feel like going for a swim, but it was clear that wet paws didn’t bother her one bit.

On our driving tour that took us close to Crater Lake, we stopped only a few times. Callie still had some issues getting in and out of the vehicle. She had made an attempt in the morning at the motel, lost her footing, and fell. Since then, she had lost a bit of confidence.

Callie came with me to see the rapids of the Rogue River, walked a couple of bridges, and saw the waterfalls.

For her first time being a co-pilot and being dragged along on my adventures, I think Callie did wonderfully well.

At the end of our three-hour tangent, I discovered that we by-passed Grants Pass by about a hundred miles. I thought maybe we could stay in the town at the very end of our byway, but spending only a few minutes in the town, I opted to leave. It just didn’t have a good vibe about it.

Twenty miles north, we stopped at a place that I had a much better feeling about. So much so, that the parking lot I stopped in to call for hotels was the parking lot for the hotel I chose for the night.

I acquired food from the next door diner that I could walk to, and I discovered that Callie already had much of that peace and stillness of Mt.Shasta in her. When I returned from getting food, she was cozy and calm on her bed. She was a fantastic traveling companion. I didn’t worry about her soiling the sheets or barking when I left. She was an old, wise woman, and was content right where she was on the journey (even if the bed was a tad too small.)