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.)

It's Never Too Late to Change Your Life... or Just Your Plans

Candace of START Rescue had responded immediately when I told her I was headed to Seattle and would love for a canine in need to accompany me. START does a monthly run from Riverside Shelter (and other places in Southern California) to rescues in Eugene, Portland, and Seattle. I was surprised by her initial pick for me to take to Eugene. I hesitated. Something didn’t feel right. But I couldn’t explain why, so after sleeping on it, I told her I’d do it, and added a day to my schedule so I could drop off the dog in Eugene and still have a full day in Portland.

Two days before take-off, she asked if I would be willing to take a different dog, this one to Sandy, Oregon, just an hour east of Portland. Perhaps that was what my little gut instinct was alerting me to: a sudden change in plans (which is precisely why I no longer plan things, but merely prepare.)

START sends up vans in a similar fashion to the run I did two years go, except they have trucks specifically designed for crates, easy access to the dogs the entire time, and have the same folks do the run each month. It is still a bit stressful on the dogs though—on average, sixteen hours in a crate, traveling overnight in a truck with many other canines. It’s the human equivalent of flying to Australia with a bunch of loud, smelly, insecure people and not even having a bathroom onboard.

This new slated passenger of mine was Callie, a nine-year old German Shepherd mix from Riverside shelter. Yup, nine, because people in Los Angeles dump their elderly animals when they just don’t feel like caring for them anymore. This sweet girl originally clocked into the shelter at 66 pounds, but my main concern was her height when I saw the video of her. Her head came up to the man’s waist. Granted, I had no idea how tall this man was, but I was pretty sure regardless, she was quite a bit bigger than Lulu. But thanks to Double Bogey on my original roadtrip, I knew how to set up my truck to give the lass a decently comfortable ride—and I could do it better since I wasn’t jerry-rigging it at a reststop in Kansas.

Of course, I had to wait until I sent Lulu off to her vacation home before cleaning the dog linens, washing the bed, and readying the truck for my new guest. I totally felt like I was cheating on Lulu, discarding of any traces of her existence before allowing the new black dog to take her place.

I had just put everything in the washer when Steve of START Rescue called to say that he had just gotten Callie from the transporter who had brought her from Riverside. I had planned on picking her up around 4pm, and then giving her a bath to wash the shelter off her. However, as luck would have it (for me, not for poor, sweet, old Callie), Callie had an accident on the way up, so Steve was taking her straight to the groomers so I wouldn’t have to drive a shit-covered dog 900 miles. I thought that was rather considerate of him, and although probably a terrible moment for Callie, it really did work in her (and my) favor in the long run.

As soon as the linens were dry, and I had set up my passenger seat, I went to Steve’s to pick up Callie. She didn’t like getting into the vehicle (reasonably so; on the last ride, she shit herself.) Steve updates his supporters in a weekly email blast, and he tried to get a video of Callie taking off for such purpose; jumping into the truck and on her way out of Los Angeles, but the girl just wouldn’t do it. Steve had to set down his video camera (a.k.a. phone) to pick her up and place her in the vehicle.

Not as dramatic, but the intent is the same, even though we were just going back to my house for the night and were going to start the long haul the next morning.

Back at the house, I discovered that this really was quite a life-change for Callie. She questioned the stairs to the deck. She easily went through the door, and when I pointed out the two dog beds she could choose from, she gladly chose one and lay down, but she was a bit miffed by the TV, and had no desire to be on the couch or bed.

I took her outside every two hours, not knowing if she was house-trained, and it appeared she was. However, I have heard the theory that “outside dogs” never go to the bathroom inside simply because it’s not a place they’re accustomed to doing so.

The moment I squeaked a toy, this nine-year old dog because two again. Ears erect, tail wagging, eyes sparkling, she was utterly delighted to play. Despite the strength of her jaws, she was gentle with the toy. She had accidentally chomped down on my hand while trying to get a treat, and it was as though she had a “soft mouth” like the labs who carry ducks for hunters. Her eyes were foggy, and I wondered how much she could see through the cataracts. But in spite of the lack of sight, and the onset of age, toys are still gloriously fun.

As for the actual first night, it was rougher on me than her, even though she was lying a on a bed two times smaller than she was.

Twenty minutes after falling asleep, I was awakened by her muzzle in my face and a small whine.

“Do you have to go out?” I asked, even though we had just been out. “It’s okay, hun. Go back to bed.”

I gave her a pet and a hug and she returned to her bed.

An hour later, a muzzle and whine again in my face. “What’s wrong, Callie? Sweetie, you’re safe now. Is it still scary, cause it’s new? Don’t worry. You’re safe now.” I gave her another pet and a hug and she returned to her bed.

Half an hour later, she was at my bedside. I was never going to get up at 6am at this rate. Maybe she did have to go out. I took her out and she dutifully peed, but that clearly wasn’t the problem.

Back to bed, I said goodnight, shut off the light, and got two hours this time, before she woke me up again. I took her back outside, just in case, and she went again, but I knew that wasn’t is. I thought perhaps she was just scared and needed me to pet her.

“Do you want to come up on the bed?” I asked. That way I could just rest my hand on her and we finally both could sleep. But no, she didn’t want to. When I tried to lift her, she let out a yelp like I hurt her but I hadn’t even put any pressure on her body. Steve’s initial hypothesis of her hating the car might still be true, but the main fear seems to be people picking her up.

I left a step stool  by the bed and told her she was welcome to come up. She shyly declined, circled three times, and flopped down on the tiny dogbed. Three hours later, the sun was just coming up, and I although not fully ready, I, too, had to get up.

Callie had a rough time getting into the vehicle for take-off once more. I placed her front paws on the seat and as I attempted to lift her back end, she simultaneously collapsed like a ragdoll, allowing her front feet to fall out of the vehicle and land in the driveway. A few ungraceful attempts made by me and one traumatized dog later, Callie was ready to roll.

We spent our first few hours arguing about the shifter in the center console. Just like Bogey, Callie’s paws were drawn to it, even to the point of wrapping both front feet around it, holding it like a three-year old holds an ice cream cone. I used a couple travel books to try to block her feet, but they weren’t stable.

 
Luckily a few true truckstops still exist, and it was there that I found a clipboard to purchase and use as an effective wall. Callie even used it to rest her head later on.

However, it took a few hours before sleep happened. When she wasn’t jockeying control for the shifter and I wasn’t pushing her feet away, she wanted one of my hands on her head petting her. If I placed my hand back on the steering wheel, an enormous shepherd paw hooked onto my forearm and tried to drag it back. She was panting heavily, and I knew she was scared, but I also knew she could cause an accident, either by grabbing my arm quickly, or by throwing us into reverse. This was clearly her first time being a co-pilot.

At the end of our first rest stop venture, Callie once more wouldn’t get herself up into the vehicle. I attempted to lift her, and she did her whole canine magic trick that involves severely increasing their weight by changing her center of gravity to around five feet below the earth’s surface. When I finally got her into the passenger seat, I told her that if getting her into the vehicle was going to involve this much drama each time, then we just weren’t going to stop as often.

At the next stop, I gave her the option to get up herself, but when she turned away, I made a motion to pick her up. Immediately she backed away.

“Okay, fine. Do it yourself then,” I said with a snotty shrug.

Challenge accepted. Callie turned around to rev herself up, and then in one solid leap, landed in the passenger seat. I guess this girl just needed to be dared.

I was ridiculously excited and praised her loudly and hugged her, and every person at the rest stop turned to us with mutually confused expressions, wondering why I was so excited to get my own dog into the car.

From that moment on, Callie became a calmer, better co-pilot. She still sometimes needed assistance getting into the vehicle (but wanted to do it herself), and she still preferred that I have one hand on her at all times. But sleep finally overtook her, and for the final few hours to our first layover she snoozed contently, even dreaming.

Sometimes plans change; sometimes, life changes. For me, it was a simple change of passenger, as I hadn’t really planned but only prepared. For Callie, her entire life changed: twice. It changed when she arrived at the shelter. And it changed Sunday morning when she was released from the shelter and began her northward adventure with me.

It’s never too late to change your path and it’s never too late to help another change theirs. You just have to believe you can, and take one giant leap. Trust, and you just might find yourself in a cushy front seat, sailing 70mph towards a beautiful new future.

Banking on Hope

I find that having high expectations in life can lead to frequent disappointment, whereas not counting on things can lead to great joy when they actually happen. So, although I am a hopeful sort, I try my best to not count on anything as a sure thing until it's in the past. On a practical note, being freelance means I never have a guarantee of work. When people ask me what I have lined up next, I never tell them because the fact is, I don’t count on a job until my ass is in the chair. And even then… well, things happen.

And so why I didn’t carry this theory over into dog rescue, I don’t know. I guess when it comes to canines, I am ever hopeful. I don’t have expectations, but I certainly never give up hope. I truly believe it will all work out, I do, but I never should bank on things. And I did with Lulu.

 (Could she possibly take up any more space on the bed?)

We had met a potential adopting family about a month ago out on our late night walks. They had rescued and rehabilitated a pit/border collie mix and was looking for a friend for her. However, since starting doggy daycare only a few weeks earlier, she had developed some bad leash habits.

I saw it happen. Lulu went to greet Evee, and she got overly excited, lunged forward, and her person tensed up, yanking her back, making her lunge harder and freak out. She just wanted to play. But her person wanted everyone to be safe, so he tightened her hold on her. He also stood over her, holding her between his legs. Lulu, nor I, could see Evee's tail to gage her emotions. It seemed more of a human needing training than a dog.

They were in the process of finding a trainer and wanted to wait until after they met for Lulu and Evee to really get to know one another. The first step of introducing dogs is to have them on leash, so if this couldn’t be done, we were dead in the water.

There was another option though: meet at daycare. Evee was fine with any dog from daycare that she met in the outside world. It was just new dogs that caused this reaction. So, to trick her, we wanted Lulu to go to daycare.

By the time we met again along the path and the daycare had agreed to do the introduction, I was leaving town. I said it could happen while I was away, but we all sort of dropped the ball. I guess we all banked on it, but didn’t put forth any forward momentum to getting the ball rolling.

When I returned, I had two weeks before leaving town again. I wanted Lulu in that home before then. The trainer that was helping Evee instructed her people to no longer take her out for walks. She was to be sequestered to the yard and house until she was 100% perfect (hmmm.. Sounds like what I was told with Missy.) And, on top of it, the training involved feeding Evee one piece of kibble for every good deed—and that was how she was to be fed ALL of her food in a day. Have I mentioned that she’s a 40 pound pit mix? Um, that’s a lot of good deeds, and a lot of time. It was crazy. Being super smart, Evee started doing bad things, just to correct herself so she could get a morsel of food.

At least the trainer re-affirmed what Evee’s people and I knew: that Evee wasn’t aggressive; she was frustrated by not being able to play on her leash and then confused by her human’s reaction to her frustration. It would take time to correct, but in the meantime, we set up Lulu going to daycare for an afternoon to meet Evee. The staff there even did the introduction. It went perfectly.

 (This is what a dog looks like after 7 hours of doggy daycare.)

And so, Saturday, two days before I was supposed to leave, we were going to have Lulu and Evee meet at daycare again, hang out for a few hours, and then head back to Evee’s house where she would do an overnight. If all went well, a trial adoption would begin on Sunday. If not, Laurie, Lulu’s fabulous vacation foster mom, would be glad to take her while I was away.

I hadn’t been promoting Lulu anywhere as being adoptable. Honestly, I didn’t have the time, but also I was really banking on this working. But at 1pm on Saturday afternoon, Evee’s person called to tell me that she received a call from her trainer, and her trainer convinced her that having Lulu would be too daunting.

Now, of course I want to smack the shit out of a trainer who has never met my foster that has just destroyed an adoption. I get that it would be tough to train two dogs at once. But here’s the thing: she never met Lulu. A responsible trainer, in my opinion, would have said, “That might be a lot to handle. But why don’t we set a time for all of us to get together. Maybe Lulu will teach Evee.”

Instead, she claimed that both dogs had to be trained in the same manner (which wouldn’t work because Lulu isn’t treat-driven while Evee is—not that she knows this.) And therefore, Evee should be the only dog for a long long time.

I’m upset at the trainer. Not at Evee’s person. I know Evee’s person has lost her confidence. She had trained her previous dog herself. But she sought professional help this time, and got conflicting theories. She doesn’t know who to trust now, but she’s also not trusting her own instincts. So, she took the trainer’s advice.

I can’t say, “That wouldn’t be a good home for Lulu anyway.” It would have been an AWESOME HOME. Had the trainer not been involved, Lulu would be in that house right now.

But maybe it all does happen for a reason. As someone said to me just today, “There are no mistakes.” Indeed, every step takes us to where we are on the path now. And for Lulu that means at Laurie’s house, playing with Summer, running around a yard, and having fun. And it leaves me with my bags packed, a sudden change in my passenger list, and an adventure with no expectations or plans, just hope and preparation about to begin.

But before I leave, one last promotion for kooky Lulu. Please pass her link along. I was wrong about who her soulmate was. She is still available, and is looking for that special someone. I can only hope that all this time wasn’t wasted; maybe, just maybe, although she was ready to find her person, her person wasn’t ready for her… until now.

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet/9536915-glendale-california-labrador-retriever-mix 

Love Signs

Never underestimate what you mean to someone—including a dog.

As I might have mentioned, Lulu is not the most outwardly affectionate canine I’ve ever met. She’s quite cat-like, preferring to be at the other end of the couch, or the end of the bed, or lying in the middle of the floor. On occasion, she’ll reach out for some affection as a cat would, pressing her head into my leg for a neck-scratch, and then once satisfied, she’ll return to her aloof state at the opposite side of the room from me.

Although not into engrossing public displays of affection with those she knows, she is quite flirtatious with strangers. If they show even the slightest degree of being interested in her, she runs up to them like a puppy, ears back, tail a-waggin, and shows them her amazing imitation of  a gazelle, bouncing up and down and back and forth, all the while letting out little puppy whines.

She needs to greet every canine we pass. Some she merely sniffs with a brief hello, but others she’s ready to engage in an all out romp—especially little dogs. For the vertically challenged, Lulu gets down on her belly and attempts a playbow from there. Some play back, but the ones that don’t, daunt her for only for a second and then she’s on to meet the next canine.

All of this excitement is for others, not for me. I assume she considers this an arranged marriage of sorts, but in her heart of hearts she knows her true love will arrive one day, play a Peter Gabriel song loudly on my front lawn, and take her away from this boring existence.

On the Sunday after following her first week with me, we attended Strut Your Mutt, a fundraiser for Best Friends where TAPS had a booth. When Lulu saw Shelley, who rescued her from the shelter, it was as if she was her long-lost love. Lulu let out puppy whines, gazelle-dances, and merely collapsed from exhaustion with the energy she expended in her excitement in being in Shelley’s presence again.

I do not state this with jealousy; it’s just a fact—Lulu has never been that excited to see me. But that’s okay. I’m not her lifelong partner. I’m just her matchmaker, her human chaperone to help her find her forever family. When Shelley’s mom asked if she could walk Lulu around, I had no qualms. Shelley, too, was free to take her around the event. Lulu is a socialite; she loves getting out and meeting everyone.

Jen Krausse, another member of TAPS, said she’d take some pictures of Lulu for her adoption page. Coming equipped with a real camera (and more importantly some skill and talent), I knew she’d get way better shots than anything I had with my iphone. Jen directed me and I attempted to direct Lulu, but she just wouldn’t listen. I held her leash and said, “Look at Jen,” but instead, she smiled up at me. I asked her to sit, and she did sit, but faced me. I told her to stay and then walked in front of her holding her leash, and she came toward me.

“Okay, that’s it: Shelley, you have to hold Lulu. Stephanie can’t hold Lulu’s leash,” Jen advised.

“What? Why?” we both asked.

“Because Lulu likes looking at Stephanie,” she said with a sigh.

Umm…

“Stephanie, you get behind me. Shelley, take Lulu,” Jen directed.

Sure enough, the moment I was behind Jen, Lulu locked eyes with me with that giant smile on her face.

“Huh. Whaddya know?”

“See, I told you,” Jen stated.

“I wish I could find a guy who likes to look at me that much,” I quipped.

“Well, I’m sure if you took him home, fed him, and let him sleep in your bed with you, he, too, would like looking at you.”

Valid point, Jen. Thanks. I’ll give that a try.

Although Lulu liked looking at me, she still wasn’t affectionate. The only physical interaction I had with her was each morning in her attempts to coerce me out of bed which consisted of shoving her face into mine, draping herself across me, and jumping off and on the bed repeatedly. None of these things work, but dammit, she’s going to keep trying till they do.

Our typical schedule was as follows: 6:30am: get up and go for a walk, home by 7am. I’d leave around 8am to go to work. Return at 2pm to walk around the block with her, play fetch a few times, then back out the door at 2:30. Return home again between and 9 and 9:30pm. Go for an hour walk. Cook a chicken breast for her (her three day hunger strike forced me to go against my morals and deal with the disgusting task of pulling apart dead animal so she would have some nutritional value.) By the time she was finished eating, it was 11 or 11:30 and maybe I’d get a chance to eat too. Then in bed by midnight, and start the whole thing again at 6:30am the next day. That isn’t a life for a dog. That isn’t a life for a human.

It proves what no one has ever believed: I cannot have my own dog with the job I have. There simply isn’t enough hours in the day.

When I had to leave for the weekend for my brother’s wedding taking place clear across the country, I was actually happy for Lulu to go to a new foster home. Summer, the foster family’s yellow lab, is a most gregarious soul. When we entered their backyard, Summer showed Lulu the pool by diving into it and then retrieving a toy and wanting to play and jump around. Summer is the best host ever for a canine foster kid. Once Lulu got her bearings, sniffed around, and felt comfortable, the game was on. The two of them became fast friends.

Laurie, Lulu’s new foster mom, asked what I thought about having Lulu remain there after I return; I said of course. I’d miss her, but she was clearly happy here; how could I say no? Lulu deserved better than staying home 12 hours a day alone listening to my ipod on shuffle. She deserved a home with many family members and a canine companion who could understand her in a way us humans never could.

I tried to kiss Lulu on the head good-bye, but she pulled away from me. (I was used to it by that point.) Laurie took a hold of her collar so I could walk down the hall and out the door. It was only then that Lulu realized what was happening. She stopped short, closed her relax and panting mouth and looked forlorn.“Wait! Where are you going? I thought were all staying.”

“Have fun, Lulu! I’ll be back! Love you!” I didn’t think she’d be sad for long. Summer wouldn’t let her.

Laurie texted me over the weekend to say that Lulu and Summer were BFF’s. They played together and even went on roadtrips together. There was no doubt that Lulu was happy there.

Laurie offered to keep Lulu for a few more days after I returned, and I accepted. I had to catch up on my job and not having to leave by a certain time each night was mighty helpful. Friday night, after 8 days away, I went to pick Lulu back up so that Laurie’s family could go on their own vacation.

I admit that being back in my empty house those few days after I got back, I missed her. I didn’t miss crack-of-dawn walks or rushing out of work to make sure she was taken care of. But I did miss the joyous soul known as Lulu. I missed her smile, I missed her company, I missed her energy. My house seemed just a bit sad without her. But I certainly didn’t think she’d be sad without me.

Ringing the doorbell at Laurie’s house prompted both Summer and Lulu to announce loudly that a visitor was on the doorstep. When Laurie’s husband opened the door and I entered, both Summer and Lulu tried to greet me simultaneously.

“Hey Lulu, remember me?” I tried to get her attention but a large yellow lab was in my way. There was some growl-argument between the dogs as Summer wanted to greet me, but Lulu wanted to get to me.

“Hi, Lulu, did you have a good time?”

Lulu started in with the puppy whine and gazelle dancing that had only, until now, been reserved for everyone but me. She then headed to the door, and ran back to me, impatiently whining. And then running to the door again.

“Lulu! That’s rude! You had fun. I saw the pictures.” She couldn’t get out of the house fast enough.

I was perplexed. Why would she prefer to go home with me than hang out with this fun, vibrant, interesting family?

But apparently she did. I told her to thank her human host, and she ran up to him and wagged her tail and then when she stilled herself long enough for me to get a harness on her, we went home.

I had told a friend that my Friday night would be hanging out with my foster dog, although I assumed that within minutes of being back, her excitement would end and I would be as interesting as an end table.

Sure enough, only an hour after getting home Lulu’s excitement for me died down to complete and utter unconsciousness.

I am used to having the lazy, the sick, the hermit dogs; the ones who prefer a human to other dogs; ones who like some adventure in their life, but also need a steady dose of stability; the ones who are independent enough to play on their own, or are content to simply lie on the deck and contemplate the purpose of the universe.

Lulu is a bright, joyful, social soul who wants to get out and enjoy life. She wants to meet as many creatures as she can on this planet and engage in fun and joy and play.

I saw her shelter papers for the first time this weekend and was stunned to learn that she was a “repeat offender.” Her first stint at Coachella Valley Animal Incarceration Facility was in 2009, when she was less than a year old. She was adopted and brought back four years later. Could there really be two people that stupid living in the same county?

Lulu is the dog your friend had growing up—the one that was obedient and playful but relaxed and fun; the one who  made you want your own dog. Lulu is the dog who is constantly urging you to get up and enjoy the day because life is too short. Lulu is the dog who is here to enjoy the precious short time she has here on earth and to drag you along to see just how extraordinary life is.

Maybe she is too much for just one person. Maybe her joy and perspective on life needs to be spread around a bit, so she won’t have just one forever family. I feel blessed to know her. And from the way she greets me now, the way she would rather smile at me than be in front of me, the way she steals my spot on the couch, and the fact that no matter what fun adventure she is having, that still, at the end of the day, she would like to come home with me; all this leads me to believe that maybe, just maybe, I do mean more to her than I thought.

She was just holding her cards close to her chest. I totally understand. Truly I do. But know this, Lulu: I don’t have a dog’s heart, but I’ll do my damnest to come as close as I can with my human one, and love you back as hard and as steady as a canine heart can. I apologize that for all the stuff I didn't notice before; I have a human brain, and it's rather inept at picking up signs.

And don’t worry, Lulu. I’m trying to find that perfect family for you. Although your joy and light and life and humor should be shared with as many as possible on your journey through life, you deserve one constant companion—the one you will always go home to.

If you know someone who needs a helping hand discovering the world and would appreciate a smart, beautiful, loyal companion to do so with, please check out Lulu:

 http://www.adoptapet.com/pet/9536915-glendale-california-labrador-retriever-mix