When Harry Met Stephanie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to Basics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yup, just snoring (and kind of angelic).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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