I took it as my sign to get back to basics; to go back to what started it all for me: the open road and a homeless canine riding shotgun. The entire Missy fiasco made me fearful of ever taking in another foster. I couldn’t help Missy; I couldn’t take her anywhere for fear of her reactions—to dogs, people, bicycles, life. And on top of it, she devastated me financially. I had no back-up. I had to ask my friends for money to help. Missy ended up sleeping a few nights in Belinda’s car with her when the adoption fell through in June. It wasn’t until 4th of July weekend that Missy ended up in what I can only hope is indeed her forever home: the adopter’s brother in Arizona. The entire experience was more traumatic than the one I had with Stella and Stella died.
Okay, maybe fostering Missy wasn’t as traumatic as that, just traumatic in a whole new way.
And so, I take my cue from the matchbox car made in England a decade before my birth: it’s time for me to hit the road.
But not just yet.
That adventure is planned for October as long as the roads stay clear up the western seaboard. But in the meantime, I’m still gainfully employed, only rather than being two thousand miles and two time zones away from home, I’m a quick one mile bike ride down the street.
All that being said, for those who made wagers, the final count is three weeks: 21 days from the time set foot back on California soil to the time I welcomed a homeless canine to join me at my hearth.
I did say No the first time. Christy sent me an email about a dog needing a foster. CROPS has evolved into a 501(c)3 under the name TAPS (The Animal Protectorates.) The current battle is a hoarding situation out in the desert, and so Christy and Shelley are making frequent trips to the shelter where the dogs are being held as evidence. As Shelley waited for the paperwork on one of the evidence dogs, a 50-something year old man came in with a well-trained, well-behaved medium-sized dog. His reason for getting rid of this beauty who had been his loyal companion for five years was as follows: she peed on the bed.
He had gotten a 2nd dog, and Lulu, this intelligent, sweet dog by his side did exactly what a dog is supposed to do: she didn’t eat the new dog, she didn’t fight her, she simply claimed her property as her own (and maybe, had the ulterior motive of vengeance… maybe.) Rather than find a solution to this problem, he only saw one end to the equation: get rid of her.
Oh, and she was high energy. And he simply didn’t have enough time to deal with her. But, he wanted to make sure that the shelter could give him a 100% guarantee that she would be get a new home.
Um…
This is why education is important. I wish shelters were there for people who have lost their jobs, lost their homes, and can leave their beloved pet in this refuge until a new home can be found or they are back on their feet. But that’s not how the shelter system works in America. And it certainly doesn’t work that way for a dog whose owner simply didn’t want to put forth any effort and now branded his own dog as having a “behavioral problem” (which is actually not a problem, but exactly what she’s supposed to do.)
Luckily the rescue Animal Samaritans SPCA that works closely with Coachella Valley Animal Shelter was on site and immediately flagged Lulu. She was a fully house-trained, well-trained and behaved dog whose only fault was loving an asshole of a human being who couldn’t be bothered to find out what was troubling the young lass and instead tossed her aside.
Looking at her pictures, I figured Christy could easily find a foster for this one. She appeared to be a sweet, well-balanced dog that was good with other dogs. She should have no problem getting a home. Christy also sent me an email about a German Shepherd who was also being surrendered when Shelley was there. I read the email chain down and saw that he was a terrified big boy who needed extra care, and slid on the floors and needed to have a choke chain so he didn’t back out of a collar. I started having flashbacks of Missy. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take on another dog with large issues.
But maybe Lulu.
Maybe... Look at that face... (sigh)
In one of the email chains, I got the idea that Christy had found a foster for her, so I didn’t offer up the Lulu idea. But Thursday night she emailed me telling me that she totally understood my hesitation to take another foster, but would I like to walk Lulu in Strut Your Mutt—a fundraising walk and event day next weekend. I wouldn’t need to foster, just go and spend the day.
And so as any good main character of a story does, I refused my call to action the first time, but after some thought (and checking with my boss to make sure I could leave for an hour each day to walk her), I emailed Christy back and said I would give Lulu a try. If it didn’t work, Lulu had a place to stay at a boarding facility right down the street from Christy and I have faith that Christy and Shelley would be spending plenty of time with her. And, that’s also where she will go if she doesn’t find a home by the time I need to leave town again.
There’s a backup plan. There’s a support system. I know I can call Christy anytime. I know that if needed, she’ll supply food, treats, toys, and even a bed or a crate. I know that because I’m fostering for Christy, I will never be on my own. And that is why when she asked me to walk Lulu, I said I’d not only walk her, but let her surf my couch for a spell.
Anyway, my house seemed lonely without a dog. It had, however, taken three weeks to salvage my belongings from the physical damage of Missy—the blankets that were unclean, the dogbeds that were filthy, getting more toys to replace all the ones she had ruined, and taking stock in the house again.
On Saturday afternoon, I went to Shelley’s and met this poor girl, Lulu, who had no idea why her life had been turned upside down and inside out. She had been a model dog, a loyal companion, a quick study, and then one day another, smaller, younger, prettier dog enters the picture. Lulu states her position in a reasonable manner, and she loses her home, her person, and almost her life for it.
The life she knew is gone, but she survived the shelter because the right person was there at the right time. She could have been like so many others—condemned to death for the unfortunate circumstance of being under the control of a shitty human.
Lulu had become fond of Shelley in only the three hours she had been at her house. When I arrived, Lulu was less interested in me saying hello and more upset that Shelley stepped out of the room for a minute. Lulu called out to Shelley in a high pitched puppy cry (despite being almost five years old.) Lulu, as I’ve learned first hand in the past forty-eight hours, has much to say. She verbally expresses her excitement, along with jumping and galloping which distinctly resembles a gazelle. She even lets out a bark of warning to many a new object: my bike, a stuffed animal, a statue on the sidewalk.
Strangely, she kept her mouth shut yesterday evening when the resident squirrel had an all out hate-fest from the tree above the deck where Lulu was lying. He chittered and chattered and shook his tail, completely aghast that his yard would have a dog in it. He went on and on for a good fifteen minutes, and threw down a few choice branches along with his angry squirrel words.
Lulu is a good dog. She wants to be a good dog. She know sit, and down, and stay. She comes when she’s called. She even goes into her crate with a simple, “Lulu, can you go to your bed for me?” Granted, once the door is locked, she does have quite a bit to say about it, but from what I can tell, she calms down rather quickly.
Upon return, she will be attempt her antelope bounce inside the crate, overly excited at the prospect of being set free. At least, I assume this is what she is excited about, for when I open the door, she bounds out without a second glance at me and runs around the living room and kitchen yelping and barking and telling the empty air all how incredible it is to be free again.
The crate is only for work time, and it went well today. At night, she sleeps on my bed - and no, she doesn’t pee on it.
She sleeps at the end of the bed, but come morning, when she wants to get up, she is in my face and on top of me.
She is not a cuddlebug. She is not a kiss-bull. But she is a sweet dog with a broken heart who I feel is doing amazingly well given her circumstances.
She was just dumped for no reason at all, and I imagine some of her cries might be for her person—the person that she would never believe would leave her, who actually has. So many dogs are thankful, appreciative of getting out of the shelter and are overjoyed with the prospect of a new life that is far better than the puppy mill/hoarder/dog fighter/general neglectful or abusive home from whence they came. But Lulu is different. All outward appearances point to her being well-cared for. She has white paws—and they are white! Her black coat is shiny and soft. She is the perfect weight for a dog her size. She is sweet and loving; a bit timid at first, but polite.
I don’t believe Lulu had a particularly awful life before I met her. But sometimes people just go through the motions without the e-motions. Maybe he groomed her and fed her, and let her sleep on the bed, and it looked like a good family, but deep down, if he can throw her aside for expressing how she feels, then clearly he didn’t love her.
And so, Lulu is my first foster back in the saddle. I don’t need to teach her manners, or how to exist in a home; instead, I just need to help mend her broken heart. And prove to her that she deserves a person who loves her for who she is—timid and shy, excitable and joyful, loud and bold, polite and dainty; someone who will love her through it all, the good and the bad—Lulu’s human soulmate.
I’ll be her wingwoman on her quest (and who knows, maybe she’ll be mine.) Christy is waiting for the most perfect photos to put up Lulu’s ad, and to give me a chance to get to know her so we have an accurate description. In the meantime, if you’d like to get to know this girl on your own, drop me a line. Prove to this girl that true love does exist.
