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.
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