Some Kind of Wonderful

Someone who recently adopted a dog from a rescue said to me, "I didn't go to a shelter because I heard it takes something like six months for a dog to really show his true colors after he gets out."

Indeed it does take some time to get the shelter out of the dog once the dog is out of the shelter, but six months seems a bit excessive.  Or maybe I've just been blessed with more psychologically resilient canines.

The honeymoon period for Tia and my relationship is officially over.  Sure, she's still the sweetie who enjoys a good a cuddle, and in fact will go out of her way to make sure that some part of her is touching me while she's sleeping (i.e., just the tip of her bottom jaw on my arm).  But the night she attempted to pull a Harry, I knew she was over trying to explicitly please me and onto having her own opinions.

I had informed her that she was only allowed on my bed when I invited her.  That is to say, that I would help her up once I was ready for bed.  She has a habit of following me everywhere, and if she got up onto the bed the first time I walked into the bedroom, twenty minutes of up and down maneuvers would ensue.  (Note: if you ever want to know exactly how inefficient your bedtime routine is, have a dog follow you the entire time).

Tia had held to this rule for the most part, but the other night while I was in the bathroom getting ready for bed, I heard a commotion.  Usually Tia is lying right outside the bathroom door, and I couldn't seem to reconcile what the actual ruckus had been.  It sound muffled and then the sound of dog claws skidding across the kitchen floor.

I opened the door, and Tia was just turning around from the kitchen to face me.  But here's where she just couldn't pull off a Harry in completion.  Rather than the straight man head-cock of "What? I didn't hear anything," Tia fumbled, sat down awkwardly, couldn't stop her tail from wagging as if laughing from an incident only known to her, and of course: the shit-eating grin.  It's called that because it usually appears shortly after a dog has eaten shit.  I knew that wasn't the case, saw no harm in the kitchen, and closed the bathroom door again.

Moments later, Tia escorted me back to the bedroom, and there I found the blankets on the bed in some disarray, although not as if she had actually gotten up fully--just as if she had struggled to maintain her footing.  The muffled sound was her forty pound muscular body hitting the bedroom floor, and the kitchen skid was her reaction to falling: running full force back to the bathroom door, and then slowing herself by turning quickly into the kitchen.

She's a smart one, but she hasn't topped Harry yet.

Tia also has moved on from the fluffy toys with torn seams.  She's onto the hard bones (which is much more appreciated than say, a table leg).  She's starting to become more independent, at times staying where she's at to play on her own rather than follow me into my office.  However, now that I know she enjoys the taste of wood, I'm concerned I'm going to walk back into the living room and find my coffee table has only three legs left.

Due to a computer emergency, I had to leave Tia on her own for a short spell.  I turned on the TV, told her to watch the show, and that I'd be back shortly.  When I returned, I opened the door to find her lying on the couch, fully engrossed in the TV show.  She didn't even bark when I opened the door.  So, let's take "guard dog" off her list of possible occupations.  Her only request from a burglar would be to please pop some popcorn for her and leave it on the table so she might finish watching her "stories."

I have left her alone for short times (under an hour) to run errands, and usually (if the TV isn't on), she's right where I left her, sitting or lying in the same spot.  I'm hoping she is pulling a Harry, and running around doing stuff, only returning to the same spot when she hears my key in the lock.  Otherwise, I'd just feel bad.

Tia really is a great dog.  She can easily be calm and lay on the couch when watching a movie, or play and run around when space and time allow.  I thought for sure we'd get multiple hits on her adopt-a-pet page.  We got one, within 24 hours.  The couple and their dog sounded like a great match.  Their dog's name was Titus, and who wouldn't want Tia and Titus to be sister and brother?  They had a big backyard, lots of time to spend with her, and even held dog block-parties in their yard for the neighborhood canines to come and play.

But of course, it was merely a tease.  Not on purpose of course, but the couple had been looking at another dog, and were about to have their second meeting with him.  What kind of dog would be better than Tia, you ask?  A three-legged special needs dog that had been at a shelter for over a year.  Even though the adopter really really loved Tia, she felt that her family could help and rehabilitate this dog in need. A part of me wished they could have been dicks about it, and I would think, "Good!  Tia shouldn't live with them anyway!"  But instead, her excuse was the equivalent of saying, "I'm sorry I can't help with your food drive this weekend. I signed up to help build a school for impoverished children in a third world nation instead."

I do worry that Tia will have the same problem that Harry had: everyone assumed he was so adoptable, no one tried to adopt him.  He wasn't needy enough.  Tia is not only a pretty girl, but social and sociable.  But just like the prettiest girls don't get asked out because guys assume other people are already dating her, I'm afraid everyone will assume Tia has enough suitors already.

So here's the announcement: Tia is single!  I'm just her transitional person, and she is seeking a soulmate to spend the rest of her life with.  Everyone who meets her seems to want to be "the one," but no one's putting in an application.  Tia can't stay here forever, nor should she.  She deserves a big backyard, doggie get togethers in which she hosts, a big brother to play with, and a human who builds schools in third world nations.  (Okay, we can live without that last criteria... how about just a really good example of a human being who loves Tia with her whole heart?)  I don't think that's too much ask for a dog who is simply some kind of wonderful.

Tia and Tank... and Randi... and Everyone Else

Usually people describe dogs as "Good with dogs" or "Good with children" or "Not good with cats."  But after Steve, a fellow dog rescuer, spent the afternoon with Tia, he described her as "Good with everything."

I can't agree more.

Tia's age is still up for debate, somewhere between six months and a year, but her intellect and exuberance is never doubted.

She still follows me room to room, and when I get out of the bathroom, she is right there waiting on the other side of the door.  It makes me wonder how many dog owners have abandoned their pets by sneaking out the bathroom window as if on a bad date.

I've had friends over the past few nights, and I was surprised to find that this little girl has a bit of a passive aggressive jealousy in her. First, when my friend and I were sitting at the kitchen table, I suspected Tia was simply lying beneath us snoozing until I felt the table tremble and heard the sound of canine teeth on wood.  She was gnawing on the table leg.  When I told her this was unacceptable, she slunk into the living room to be on the couch.

Fifteen minutes later, I look over to the couch and see that she's pushed all of her toys off the couch and instead, has the couch pillow between her teeth.

The next night, I had two friends over and were busy conversing at the kitchen table when I heard an odd sound from the living room.  There's Tia, quietly munching on the carpet.  This was the only action I could sort of justify.  Earlier in the day, I had gotten a Comfortis pill (flea protection) to give her from the vet.  When I asked how to give it to her, they were nice enough to throw in a pill pocket.  Giving her Drontal (de-wormer) proved to be a struggle, and the staff at the vets said just put the pill in the pocket and she'd gulp it down.

Alas, Miss Tia has a sensitive palate, and when I gave this to her, she proceeded to take twenty minutes to eat the pill pocket AROUND the pill, and leave the pill all crunched up.  The pill pocket became a gooey mess as I continued to mush it back up and put it back in her mouth every time she dumped it on the carpet.  So, the fact that there might be pill pocket morsels in the strands of the carpet was a likely scenario.   However, still unacceptable.

I had a meeting Wednesday afternoon, but all these things combined, there was no way I was leaving her alone.  I was not looking forward to having to put her in boarding for even a few hours.  She still had anxiety during our car rides, and I didn't want to prove to her that every car ride ended in a crappy time.

Maripat had asked a fellow rescuer if he knew of any place, and his wife chimed in that if Tia was good with other dogs, she was welcome to spend the afternoon at their house.  At that exact moment I was standing on the corner of my block, and Tia was staring across the street at a bulldog/pit bull mix appropriately named Tank who was standing inside his fenced in front yard, yipping at her in a not-so-manly manner.

I told Maripat I assumed Tia was dog friendly, but since people were crossing streets when we came along, or the neighborhood dogs just barked at her, I couldn't be certain.  Tank's owner came out the front door, hearing her big burly dog's squeaks and I crossed the street to let Tank and Tia become acquainted.

Tank is not neutered (I wasn't in the mood to educate; I was just happy that Tia appeared to be having fun), so Tia couldn't join him on his side of the fence.  Instead, the two romped up and down the fence, Tank letting out squeals of joy and Tia dodging and weaving and wagging her tail.  It appeared that Tia liked other dogs as much as she liked people.

On our way back from our evening walk, we ran into Randi, the beagle puppy that Harry had enjoyed going twenty rounds with on someone's lawn.  Tia enjoyed the play as well.  She was gentle enough to play with a dog only a third her size.  I was overjoyed.  There should be no issue at all the next day.  Tia didn't just have a place to go on Wednesday; she had a play date.

With all the other guests in Steve's house, it was one big dog party.  I waited in the living room as he brought one dog in at a time.  I realized I'm not crazy for speaking to dogs the way I do: in conversation.  From where I stood, I heard him say, "Randy, come here.  Come inside.  No!  Just Randy."  I guess "Just Randy" was understood by them.

One by one they came in and met Tia, and then treats were given to all.  Once the introductions were made, the entire group was led out to the backyard.  Now this was a backyard to be envious of.  Steve said that's the only reason he and his wife got the place.  They didn't care about the house--just the yard.  Tia romped and played with his dogs and his visiting dog.  He was on his way out the door to pick up another dog, one he was rescuing from a local shelter, so one more would be added to the group soon.

Seeing Tia with those dogs made me realize how much she does need to be with other dogs; whether it's at doggy daycare or in her own household, equal life dog and human is what she would love.

When I picked her up two hours later, she was happy to see me, but clearly had been having a grand time where she was.  Steve emailed me the pictures, and there's no doubt she had fun with the humans as well as the dogs.

Steve even took a video to use for promoting her:



And if all this wasn't proof enough, the evidence of her fun was her deep sleep which she began the moment we got home.  She didn't even follow me room to room, but only made it to the doorways where she could catch a glimpse of me--if she had the energy to open her eyes.  For the first time while I made dinner, she wasn't at the kitchen doorway watching me, but still sound asleep in the middle of the living room floor.

Tia is one special little lady.  And she deserves one very special human guardian who can give her snuggle time and canine romping time.  I’ll miss her when she's gone, but I know she's got a grand life to lead, and I feel blessed to share this time with her now.

If you're interested in Tia, or know someone who is, please check out her Adopt-a-Pet page:

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet5071735.html 

Don't Pity a Pit; Adopt One

Life always gives you what you need, and sometimes it'll give you what you specifically wish for too.

Maripat, who I had done the Millie transport for a few months ago, called me about fostering a pit bull she wanted to pull from the Camarillo Shelter.  However, the morning I was supposed to pick her up, Maripat said to hold off as Lillie, the black pocket pit (a short pit bull mix), had some health issues they were looking into.

When Lillie was assessed a week prior, Maripat's people had seen a few little bald spots on her, and advised the shelter that she might need to be tested to make sure it wasn't mange.  That request was only fulfilled the day before, and there was a chance that if it was mange, it could be the contagious kind--the kind contagious to even people.  It could take over a week to get the results back, and as much as Maripat didn't want to spend money on medical boarding, she didn't want to put her fosters at risk, and she didn't think the shelter would hold Lillie that long before euthanizing her.

While all this was going on, I had seen Maripat's list of the seven pits she wanted save from Camarillo on the Yahoo groups.  I scrolled through and one picture, which looked to be taken at 3:00AM, piqued my interested.  Maripat named the brindle and white pit who sat regally tied to a fence in this night shot, Fiona.  Her poise, something in her eyes (even though she had dog red eye (which appears to be blue-eye)), made me really wish I could foster her.

 

Lo and behold, two days later Maripat called to tell me Lillie would be put into medical boarding, and asked if I could take another of the pits she thought might be put down any minute:  Fiona.

See: wishes do come true.

I made the drive to Camarillo (50 miles) to meet up with Maripat's fellow rescuer, Kathleen.  She was springing Lillie and driving her to the vet's, and signing off on Fiona's paperwork so I could take her home.  The drive there wasn't so bad, given that it was three hours before a major storm was scheduled to hit, and five hours before holiday weekend traffic would really begin.

I arrived before the shelter opened at 3:00, and was surprised to see people already there. What a fantastic shelter!  People actually lining up to adopt dogs!  Oh wait.  No, I'm sorry.  They're all here to adopt one dog in particular: a purebred Golden Retriever.

When the doors opened, I watched the fate of one dog's life be determined by a lottery.  Raffle tickets given to all interested parties, and then an animal control officer pulling out a number.  And as the losers walked away, it saddened me that none of them considered looking at any other animal that day.  A few weeks ago, forty-two (that's 42) pit bulls were put to death for lack of anyone wanting to adopt them; but this Goldie had six people who wanted her, only because of her breed.  When I look at the dog who sits beside me now, still seeking her home, I wish all those people knew the joy they're missing by not giving a mutt a chance.

An hour in line, and another forty minutes waiting for my newest houseguest, I watched the skies, hoping that I could outrun the storm eastward when I finally got to get back into my truck and drive the fifty miles home.

I did not get a chance to meet Lillie; Kathleen was still waiting when Fiona busted out through the doors, a compact yet powerful bundle of brindle pit bull excitement.  She was even more gorgeous in person than her picture showed, and that personality that shown through in that midnight picture was here in stark brightness, even under the cloudy skies.

Fiona had come in as a stray, so there was no background on her at all.  But she was beautiful, six or seven months old, and as I've gotten to know here these past few days, the more I'm beginning to think she really was once someone's dog.

She took to the car ride just fine... after she and I battled out who would be in the driver's seat.  She sat in the passenger seat, but the moment I opened the driver's side door, she leapt onto my seat and refused to leave.  Even me practically sitting on top of her, did not deter her from claiming this seat as her own, as if she was playing a life or death game of musical chairs.  She tried licking my face to get me to move, pushing me with her front paws, and eventually our little silly scuffle led to me inadvertently lean on the car horn.  It was not a graceful beginning.

Once I got her over into the passenger seat, (I could not believe she was only forty pounds; she felt like eighty), she leaned over the console and rested her head against my shoulder, staring up at me with her beautiful amber eyes.  How could anyone not love this dog?!?!

Two hours later, in the driving rain, we arrived back at my place.  Not knowing if she was housebroken, and remembering that once Hannah peed on a spot, that was forever her spot, I wanted Fiona to pee outside before going in.  One hour later, and sopping wet from the rain, I had to give up.  She was shivering, and giving me the look of, "If this is how you're going to be, just take me back to the shelter."  So we went in for an evening of me carefully studying her every move, and each time she appeared to squat, bringing her outside yet again.

The skies cleared up some, but it was close to 40 degrees at midnight when I finally sent my wish into the universe to please, oh please, just please pee, Fiona.  I was tired, but there was no way this girl was going to make it through the night without an accident.  She had already gone eight hours without so much a tinkle.

At 12:20, my wish was granted.  Pee and poop, and Fiona wondering why I was so darn excited about it.  The one good thing about the experience was I learned that she can, if needed, hold it for eight hours.

In all my studying of her, I realized "Fiona" just wasn't her name.  It's a beautiful name for a beautiful girl, but when I looked into her eyes, the words, "Your name's Tia, isn't it?" came out of my mouth.  She hadn't been responding to Fiona anyway, and when I shortened it to "Fe," is sounded like I was yelling at her to "pee."  So Fiona became Tia.

Tia is a fun, tough, teenager.  She is still a puppy, and I don't know who had more fun: her playing with the toys, or me watching her play with the toys.  She loves fetch, but can play on her own as well, flipping the toy around and dive-bombing into the dogbed or pillow on the couch.  She's high energy, and I'm looking forward to clear skies so I can take her hiking with me.

She is also a snuggle-bug, as most pits are.  They're nicknamed "kiss-bulls" for a reason.  Samone had very little desire to sit on my lap, and yet Tia here will get as much of her body on my lap as possible.  That first night she scooched herself up the bed until she could rest her head on my shoulder and snore in my face.   And again, I do have to wonder how all dogs know exactly where they shouldn't be.  I'm beginning to believe they think, "Oh, look at this nice blanket with the pawprints on it.  I shouldn't lie on that; I might make it dirty."

 

Pits have no personal space.  There is no "us" and "them."  And even though she has powerful jaws, she is the most gentle player.  She even seems to understand, "Drop it," when she returns with a toy for me to throw.  The 2 for $5 Petco toys are only proving to be cheap, as she's not destroying them but the seams are coming undone.  Not bad, given the aftermath of Pit Bull + Tennis Ball has been in the past.

Tia is a special soul.  At times, I see her as a Therapy Dog, as she has such a great love for people.  However, if she is to be successful at that, she needs to control her excitement when meeting people.  She tries so hard, sitting down when they approach her, but then the joy overtakes her and she springs up like Tigger.  Other times, as she races around the apartment, flipping toys and bouncing off dogbeds, I think she deserves an agility yard.

I don't know which way her life will lead, if either of those paths.  One thing is for certain though: she deserves a special best friend, one who appreciates her intelligence and humor; her high energy and her snuggly, snoring sleep time.  She's supposed to be on the next transport to a rescue in Eugene, Oregon, but I told Maripat that maybe she can find a home here in LA.  She turns heads when we walk down the street (it sure isn't me people are looking at), and I know the more she and I get out there, the more people there will be that fall in love with her.

Admittedly though, the first sunny morning I took her for a walk, and other people were out walking their dogs, the reality of dog racism (or breedism I guess), hit me.  I forgot what it's like to walk down the street and have people cross a block away, just to avoid a pit bull.  That's the thing about this breed: you either love them or hate them.  But the hate, for the most part, comes from ignorance and fear.  For those who get close enough to see Tia's smile and the white tip of her tail whipping back and forth in a frantic wag to greet them get the reward of meeting a fine soul who makes them smile.  And for those who avoid her, well, I pity them. 

American Girl

I believe the things we find most annoying in others are the traits we don't want to admit we have ourselves.  Even if that trait is in a dog.

I thought I had earned Samone's trust.  She was accepting the harness again, and there didn't seem to be an issue.  I even cut out a few of those nasty matted hairballs on her haunches.  But then out of nowhere, when we returned from our walk Friday night, she refused to let me unclip the harness, screeching, lunging, and cowering in fear as if I was stabbing her repeatedly.

I called Bullshit again on her, and she just lay there.  She was reacting to anticipated pain, not actual pain.  And it was annoying me.  Because I do exactly the same thing.

When you have your own dog, you sign up for a lifetime commitment--yours or hers/his.  Most likely you will outlive your pet, and therefore, there's a certainty that you will experience the loss of that pet by he or she dying.  Fostering means never having to deal with that.  You are their transitional person.  You carry them along from the ending of their old life and into their new life.  There's no sadness.  There's no loss.  Seeing that animal in their new home, knowing you contributed to their lives, and believing they will live out their days with their new family, take away any loss of not waking up and seeing them every day.

But Stella showed me fostering isn't a sure-fire way to avoid pain.  Granted I didn’t suffer the loss of a lifelong companion as I had with my own dogs; but I did suffer the trauma of being her advocate and never knowing if I did indeed do what was best for her when it was best for her.

So when Samone started coughing every time she took a drink, my own hackles raised in fear.  Stella couldn't drink without coughing it all up.  It looked like Samone was keeping it down, but every cough made me cringe.

It turns out that Samone wasn't denying my meals due to my lack of domestic skills; she was denying the meals because her tooth infection was so bad, it hurt like hell to eat.  Every time I was preparing her meal she waited expectantly at the entrance of the kitchen, occasionally grumbling in her inability to keep her opinions to herself, but the moment I set down the food she walked over, sniffed, and then walked away, jumping back up on the couch collapsing on the blanket.

She had been eating for a few days.  At the end of her meal she would dive face-first into the carpet, rubbing her muzzle all over, grabbing her mouth with her front paws, as if trying to get some foodstuff dislodged from a back molar.  It didn't look comfortable.  The uncomfortability had finally reached a point where she just wouldn't eat.

I trembled in fear of history repeating itself.  She was scheduled to be on a flight Saturday morning, but I sent up the alarm Friday morning in case someone had any suggestions on how to get her to eat.  She had stopped eating much, and on Thursday, I only got her to eat any food by cooking up a hamburger and letting the juices dribble all over the kibble.  If she didn't eat on Friday, Alexis couldn't let her get on the plane.  The stress would be too much.  So if she didn't get on the plane, that would mean she would stay with me...

Alexis recommended Baby Orajel.  She had already set up an appointment at the vet's for Samone on Monday and Tuesday to get the infected tooth pulled, and give her a full check-up.  Alexis said small quantities of Baby Orajel were fine for dogs, and maybe that would numb it enough for her to eat.  However, I didn't know which tooth was the culprit.  In comparison to Stella's rotting mouth, Samone's looked spectacular.  Alexis said to just get it on the side where her eye had the issue, and that should be enough.  However, I've never used Orajel before, so I wasn't confident I'd administer it correctly.

Christy offered to pick up some baby food (she said sick animals eat this when they eat nothing else) as well as the Orajel.  I said I'd get the Orajel, and give it a try first.  No need to spend money on other food, if the Orajel is enough to make her eat dog food.

After many minutes of struggling with Samone, trying to get it into her mouth without getting it on the floor, her paw, or me, I gave up.  I thought I got it where it needed to be, but I couldn't be sure.  My anxiety and fear bubbled to the surface and I called Christy in a panic.

"Why are you freaking out?" she asked.

I tried to explain while on the verge of tears, but like anyone with post traumatic stress syndrome and a conscience that hasn't gotten rid of all the guilt yet, I simply said, "I can't take care of sick animals.  Can you please come over tonight and try to give the Orajel.  I don't know if I got it in the right place."

The fact is, I will never know if part of the reason Stella didn't get better is because I failed as a caregiver. I didn't always get the injection in properly, or even at all sometimes.  If I didn't give Samone the Orajel properly, and she didn't eat, she wouldn't be on that flight to safety the next day.

I don't know if the Orajel worked, or if Samone just saw how upset I was, or if the Cesar cuisine was simply good enough to overcome her own fear of pain, but shortly after getting off the phone with Christy, Samone walked over to the dog dish and gave it a try.

She ate some, but just like Stella, when it got congealed into the corners, she couldn't pick it up with her mouth.  As much as it was a little too close to the past for me, I reached down, mushed up the food into a tiny pyramid in the center the bowl, and she ate some more.  It took a few of these procedures for her to finish the entire bowl.

Christy and Craig came over as promised around 6:00, with baby food, cottage cheese, and hotdogs.  Samone's previous foster said Samone loved hotdogs, so we were hoping she would eat this if nothing else.

When Christy walked in, Samone lifted her head from the couch and wagged her tail.

"Stephanie, she's fine! What's wrong?" Christy asked again.

I really don't like feeling helpless.  Not being able to help a dog who needs help is devastating to me.  And when it comes to medical conditions, I have a hard time dealing with my own, let alone another creature's.

"If she ate something today, that's good.  It's not like she hasn't eaten in four days," Christy said, petting Samone.

"Well I certainly wouldn't wait four days before telling you she's not eating.  I'd like to solve it before it gets to that point," I explained.

Craig and Christy then tag-teamed, each believing they could get Samone to eat.  Each time, Samone backed away, turned her head, jumped off the couch, and at one point even walked over to the hallway, sat down, and peeked around the corner at the crazy humans who were trying to force feed her.

Finally, after accepting that indeed, she needed the Orajel, Christy held Samone while Craig got some in her mouth.  She obviously didn't like the taste, but it seemed to take effect within only a few minutes.

Christy put down a bowl containing three piles of choice meals: chopped up hotdog, baby food, and cottage cheese.  Samone initially shunned this was well, but after a few minutes of the Orajel in her mouth, she walked over to the dish and in less than a minute, the entire hotdog was gone.  She wasn't a fan of the cottage cheese and liked the baby food least of all, but she ate everything off her plate anyway.

Craig suggested I give her another hotdog.

"Are you crazy?  She just had cottage cheese, baby food, and a hotdog.  She's going to vomit all over the place tonight," Christy warned.

She had sucked down the food though; perhaps she was really hungry.  I said throwing up was fine with me; I just needed her to eat.

So after Craig and Christy left, I gave her yet another hotdog, which she chowed down happily, and then spent the rest of the evening snoozing next to me on the couch while her stomach let loose a chorus of creaks and groans, as its machinery started processing all this foodstuff.

Christy offered for me to come over early Saturday and she'd give more Orajel to Samone so she could eat once more before her long travel day.  The dogs have to arrive three hours before take-off, and then the flight itself is three hours.  So, essentially, they're not getting food, water, or the chance to go to the bathroom for around seven hours by the time they get out of customs.  I wanted Samone to eat and then have time to digest before getting put in the crate in Christy's car.  She was the first pick-up on this airport shuttle run Christy and Katya were doing, so she'd be stressed out the longest.

I didn’t bother with dog food Saturday morning.  It was her last remaining hours as an American citizen, and I wanted to give her some treats before shipping her out.  So I heated up two hotdogs, added a little baby food and cheese for nutritional value, and set it down for her.  I figured I'd try without the Orajel, and this time hotdog was good enough for her to eat without complaint.

I felt it was still too rushed when we left, and I arrived at Christy's five minutes late.  As I took Samone out of the car, I felt her trembling.  She hadn't seen this coming.  Even though I had told her what was going to happen today, it was probably beyond her understanding, since my main focus wasn't on her leaving, but on her eating.

I had a hard time saying good-bye to her as she shivered in my arms.  She wasn't confident and secure.  She was terrified at what lay ahead and anticipated nothing but bad things.  I gave her a hug and told her all would well, and promised her that there were hotdogs in Canada too.

As Christy drove away to pick up the second of seven dogs that were on their way to our neighbor to the north that day, I drove home, hoping that Samone would stop anticipating pain and bad things to come.  But we are a product of our past.  Samone's past must have been riddled with pain, fear, helplessness.  Getting over that will take some time.  She's got to feel secure first, trust the person she's with, trust her surroundings.  I know there's a feisty, confident chick in there somewhere, but she doesn't show it to everyone right away.

It might seem like I do this fostering thing because the dogs need me.  Truth is, I need them just as much, if not more.  One day I might be able to take care of a sick dog again.  But not now.  I'm still anticipating pain, helplessness, the inability to do what needs to be done.  I need to feel secure, and trust myself again.  And eventually that feisty, get-it-done, confident chick will come out again.  Until then, though, I need some easy, possibly emotionally damaged dogs to build my confidence, or ones that just need a couch and some peace and quiet.

Good luck, Samone.  Canada, welcome this little pup.  She'll need a little while to get herself settled and feel secure enough to just be herself.  But she'll get there.  And what you'll find is that Samone is one confident, opinionated, hotdog-loving, hamburger-eating, everyday American girl.  And that's the past she can be proud of.

Samone's Fate

I believe one of the reasons we love dogs so much is for their blatant honesty. If a husband gave his wife the look Samone gave me when I set down dinner for her, he'd be sleeping on the couch for the rest of the week. You know, the, "Oh, dear. That's what you call dinner? Hmph," and walk away with nose up in the air to glare disappointingly at you from across the room. You have to truly wonder about your culinary skills when an animal that eats its own shit doesn't like the taste of what you cooked.

Samone may not think so, given her opinion of meal options here at the B&B, but she is to me, a small example of Fate. Sometimes we end up in the same place, regardless of what path we choose to take.

Last week was an exercise in failed attempts, foiled plans, and dashed expectations. Back in January Alexis at the Penny Foundation put word out that she was ready to get four or five little dogs from LA to emigrate to Canada. Christy and Katya were on board with the plan, but it had to be put off until they came back from their scheduled vacations. Once they returned, the machine of Saving Dogs came to life. Katya lined up dogs, Christy lined up fosters, and Alexis lined up plane tickets and transports on her end.

The first email I received was on Wednesday. Samone was one of the first pups pulled to head to Canada and was in a foster home, but it wasn't working out. The foster said Samone wasn't getting along with her other dog. Samone also was recuperating from kennel cough and had a tooth infection.

I admit it: I'm gun shy now when it comes to animals with ailments. One trauma was enough for my entire lifetime, and I just can't deal with going through that again. Emotional issues: not a problem. I'll take scared, terrified, dog-hating, people-fearing, don't-give-a-crap-what-you're-telling-me-to-do kind of dogs any day. But a dog that is ill... I just can't do it without a 100% guarantee of complete recovery. Christy assured me Samone was fine and would recover, and was just about done with her meds. So I said yes, but that I'd be gone all day Sunday so I'd need a dog sitter for the day.

Thursday morning Christy emailed me to say that her co-worker would be taking Samone Friday night, since fostering a dog that has already been in a home is a little easier than right out of the shelter, and she wanted to leave me open for that scenario.

Thursday afternoon, I got that scenario. A Lhasa Apso at East Valley needed to be picked up and fostered. I said yes, again (even though in all honesty, I'm not a big fan of the breed. They always appear pissed off to me, but I'm willing to give the dog a chance). The shelter closed at 4 that day, so plans couldn't be made to pick her up immediately, but since she was headed to a different foster, Christy had that foster also pick her up. Again, no dog for Stephanie.

Friday: I get an email asking if I would be willing to take a slightly larger dog. Of course; I'm not size-ist. As long as they fit in my passenger seat, I'll take whomever. There was a Golden Retriever at East Valley that Alexis thought she could get a home for in a heartbeat.  Alexis called first thing Saturday morning, and found out another rescue already had dibs on her.

So, with no one left and all dogs accounted for, I spent Sunday drinking to my heart's content and watching the game. And of course, holding my friend's little long-haired Chihuahua on my lap, since with all the talk of dogs, I was craving a little canine time.

Monday morning I got yet another email: Samone had been at her new foster home for only two days before they came to the conclusion that the foster's husband was allergic to her. They had had other foster dogs, so no one's sure why this one in particular caused issues. I assume it's what an allergist once told me: Most people aren't allergic to dogs; they're allergic to whatever the dog has rolled in.

And Samone likes to roll in stuff. She's the kind of dog that finds that teeny tiny morsel of something extravagant (ant hill, drop of dog pee, particularly fragrant blade of grass), and dives into it head first, like a cartoon animal diving into an eight ounce glass of water. I did notice she had was particularly fragrant herself, and would have given her a bath except for her trust issues.

I said I didn't mind emotionally messed up dogs, so I guess this is what the Fates decreed for me. Granted when you're only a foot tall and weigh in at twelve pounds, you probably should be a bit cautious around new creatures: human, dog, squirrel, etc. But Samone takes it a bit too far. I noticed her haunches had some mats in the fur, and was going to relieve her of those, but she disagreed with a yip, a lunge, and a pull back. That's proper etiquette, so I couldn't condemn her for that. She didn't bite me; she let me know she would if I pursued any further. So didn’t.

I had used the harness on her (the harness I had used for Harry fit her perfectly--I didn't even need to adjust it) in the car without a problem and put it on her a few times to take walks. But Tuesday evening, she had had enough and warned me of such. I thought maybe I had gotten a tuft of fur caught in the clip when I snapped it, but checked it and hadn't. When we returned from our evening walk, she had an all out freak-out attack when I tried to unbuckle the harness. I asked her where it hurt, and started feeling around, but I couldn't find anything wrong. I gently touched her foot.

"Does that hurt?"

Without looking at me, she yipped again. Really?

I call Bullshit.

Dogs of this size have two ways to go when they don't trust the world around them: get a Napoleon complex, or play the victim and hope their attacker has a conscience. Samone took the latter approach. It took a good fifteen minutes of her lying on her side trying to sneak away while groaning and yipping as if I was slowly killing her in order for me to unclasp the harness.

Yesterday I took back up the harness and sat next to her. I just clipped and unclipped it, allowing it to make the noise, and she ever so subtly slunk away from me. She wouldn't even look at it. When I placed her on my lap, forcing her to watch the clip make the noise, she squirmed away.

Much like my belief that step one in training a dog is to get the dog to care what you actually think of him, step one to a peaceful and easy relationship with a dog is gaining trust. She trusts me to some extent. She'll easily pass out next to me, leaning on my leg. She even trusts that I'll return if I walk out the door and doesn't make a big deal about me leaving, but is happy to see me come back. But she doesn't yet trust that if she does something wrong that I won't hurt her. And that makes me sad. How could anyone beat this frail little dog? What kind of soulless creature could harm this delicate being on purpose?

I had put her on the bed the first night and she slept easily next me. Not at the end of the bed, or even up by the pillow, just next to my leg, using my thigh like the back of a couch. So Wednesday night, when I was preparing for bed time, I wasn't surprised that she knew what I was doing, but I was surprised by her enthusiasm about it.

Before I even had time for the thought to cross my mind as a possibility, Samone leapt up and scaled the side of the bed, landing three feet above the floor. Had a human achieved such a proportional leap, they would be a superhero. Samone is not a superhero, or even that hearty and sturdy of a dog. So I rushed over to her, not so much to admonish her (but kind of) but to tell her to not do that again because I didn't want her to fall and crack her head open. However, before I could even get those words out, she assumed I was going to crack her head open, and cowered on the bed, rolled over, and looked apologetic. Poor kid.

But she's learning to trust; or, perhaps, I'm earning her trust. Yesterday morning when I got out of the shower, I looked over on the couch, assuming that was where she would be, only to find the living room empty. I stuck my head in the bedroom to discover that she had again leapt a large bed in a single bound and was curled up next to my pillow (in the small one foot by one foot area NOT covered by the dog blanket of course). She certainly is making herself quite at home here.

Samone will be taking off to Canada on Saturday morning, probably just in time for me to have fully earned her trust. Six hours after I leave her, she will land in a whole different country, meet many new people, and have to go through this all over again. I feel bad that she has to do that. The more relaxed she gets with me, the more I am enamored of this little stubborn girl. Her picky palette, her groaning every time I blow my nose (I acquired not just Samone, but a cold this week), and her yawns that she feels the need to vocalize in a crescendo are all endearing. She probably has good reason to be fearful of the world around her. She lives in a world of giants. But once you earn her trust, you finally get to know Samone, a giant of a personality, in an extra-long low rider princess body.

 

Whatever home Miss Samone ends up in, I have no doubt it will be exactly where she's supposed to be.  False starts, bad timing, delayed flights won't matter; any path she takes will lead right where the Fates need her to be.