Setting Free a Broken Heart

A friend of mine was recently going through her old childhood belongings while packing up her life to move to Canada. She came across this little matchbox car with a dog in the backseat and immediately bequeathed it to me:

I took it as my sign to get back to basics; to go back to what started it all for me: the open road and a homeless canine riding shotgun. The entire Missy fiasco made me fearful of ever taking in another foster. I couldn’t help Missy; I couldn’t take her anywhere for fear of her reactions—to dogs, people, bicycles, life. And on top of it, she devastated me financially. I had no back-up. I had to ask my friends for money to help. Missy ended up sleeping a few nights in Belinda’s car with her when the adoption fell through in June. It wasn’t until 4th of July weekend that Missy ended up in what I can only hope is indeed her forever home: the adopter’s brother  in Arizona. The entire experience was more traumatic than the one I had with Stella and Stella died.

Okay, maybe fostering Missy wasn’t as traumatic as that, just traumatic in a whole new way.

And so, I take my cue from the matchbox car made in England a decade before my birth: it’s time for me to hit the road.

But not just yet.

That adventure is planned for October as long as the roads stay clear up the western seaboard. But in the meantime, I’m still gainfully employed, only rather than being two thousand miles and two time zones away from home, I’m a quick one mile bike ride down the street.

All that being said, for those who made wagers, the final count is three weeks: 21 days from the time set foot back on California soil to the time I welcomed a homeless canine to join me at my hearth.

I did say No the first time. Christy sent me an email about a dog needing a foster. CROPS has evolved into a 501(c)3 under the name TAPS (The Animal Protectorates.) The current battle is a hoarding situation out in the desert, and so Christy and Shelley are making frequent trips to the shelter where the dogs are being held as evidence. As Shelley waited for the paperwork on one of the evidence dogs, a 50-something year old man came in with a well-trained, well-behaved medium-sized dog. His reason for getting rid of this beauty who had been his loyal companion for five years was as follows: she peed on the bed.

He had gotten a 2nd dog, and Lulu, this intelligent, sweet dog by his side did exactly what a dog is supposed to do: she didn’t eat the new dog, she didn’t fight her, she simply claimed her property as her own (and maybe, had the ulterior motive of vengeance… maybe.) Rather than find a solution to this problem, he only saw one end to the equation: get rid of her.

Oh, and she was high energy. And he simply didn’t have enough time to deal with her. But, he wanted to make sure that the shelter could give him a 100% guarantee that she would be get a new home.

Um…

This is why education is important. I wish shelters were there for people who have lost their jobs, lost their homes, and can leave their beloved pet in this refuge until a new home can be found or they are back on their feet. But that’s not how the shelter system works in America. And it certainly doesn’t work that way for a dog whose owner simply didn’t want to put forth any effort and now branded his own dog as having a “behavioral problem” (which is actually not a problem, but exactly what she’s supposed to do.)

Luckily the rescue Animal Samaritans SPCA that works closely with Coachella Valley Animal Shelter was on site and immediately flagged Lulu. She was a fully house-trained, well-trained and behaved dog whose only fault was loving an asshole of a human being who couldn’t be bothered to find out what was troubling the young lass and instead tossed her aside.

Looking at her pictures, I figured Christy could easily find a foster for this one. She appeared to be a sweet, well-balanced dog that was  good with other dogs. She should have no problem getting a home. Christy also sent me an email about a German Shepherd who was also being surrendered when Shelley was there. I read the email chain down and saw that he was a terrified big boy who needed extra care, and slid on the floors and needed to have a choke chain so he didn’t back out of a collar. I started having flashbacks of Missy. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take on another dog with large issues.

But maybe Lulu.

Maybe... Look at that face... (sigh)

In one of the email chains, I got the idea that Christy had found a foster for her, so I didn’t offer up the Lulu idea. But Thursday night she emailed me telling me that she totally understood my hesitation to take another foster, but would I like to walk Lulu in Strut Your Mutt—a fundraising walk and event day next weekend. I wouldn’t need to foster, just go and spend the day.

And so as any good main character of a story does, I refused my call to action the first time, but after some thought (and checking with my boss to make sure I could leave for an hour each day to walk her), I emailed Christy back and said I would give Lulu a try. If it didn’t work, Lulu had a place to stay at a boarding facility right down the street from Christy and I have faith that Christy and Shelley would be spending plenty of time with her. And, that’s also where she will go if she doesn’t find a home by the time I need to leave town again.

There’s a backup plan. There’s a support system. I know I can call Christy anytime. I know that if needed, she’ll supply food, treats, toys, and even a bed or a crate. I know that because I’m fostering for Christy, I will never be on my own. And that is why when she asked me to walk Lulu, I said I’d not only walk her, but let her surf my couch for a spell.

Anyway, my house seemed lonely without a dog. It had, however, taken three weeks to salvage my belongings from the physical damage of Missy—the blankets that were unclean, the dogbeds that were filthy, getting more toys to replace all the ones she had ruined, and taking stock in the house again.

On Saturday afternoon, I went to Shelley’s and met this poor girl, Lulu, who had no idea why her life had been turned upside down and inside out. She had been a model dog, a loyal companion, a quick study, and then one day another, smaller, younger, prettier dog enters the picture. Lulu states her position in a reasonable manner, and she loses her home, her person, and almost her life for it.

The life she knew is gone, but she survived the shelter because the right person was there at the right time. She could have been like so many others—condemned to death for the unfortunate circumstance of being under the control of a shitty human.

Lulu had become fond of Shelley in only the three hours she had been at her house. When I arrived, Lulu was less interested in me saying hello and more upset that Shelley stepped out of the room for a minute. Lulu called out to Shelley in a high pitched puppy cry (despite being almost five years old.) Lulu, as I’ve learned first hand in the past forty-eight hours, has much to say. She verbally expresses her excitement, along with jumping and galloping which distinctly resembles a gazelle. She even lets out a bark of warning to many a new object: my bike, a stuffed animal, a statue on the sidewalk.

Strangely, she kept her mouth shut yesterday evening when the resident squirrel had an all out hate-fest from the tree above the deck where Lulu was lying. He chittered and chattered and shook his tail, completely aghast that his yard would have a dog in it. He went on and on for a good fifteen minutes, and threw down a few choice branches along with his angry squirrel words.

Lulu is a good dog. She wants to be a good dog. She know sit, and down, and stay. She comes when she’s called. She even goes into her crate with a simple, “Lulu, can you go to your bed for me?” Granted, once the door is locked, she does have quite a bit to say about it, but from what I can tell, she calms down rather quickly.

Upon return, she will be attempt her antelope bounce inside the crate, overly excited at the prospect of being set free. At least, I assume this is what she is excited about, for when I open the door, she bounds out without a second glance at me and runs around the living room and kitchen yelping and barking and telling the empty air all how incredible it is to be free again.

The crate is only for work time, and it went well today. At night, she sleeps on my bed - and no, she doesn’t pee on it.

She sleeps at the end of the bed, but come morning, when she wants to get up, she is in my face and on top of me. 

She is not a cuddlebug. She is not a kiss-bull. But she is a sweet dog with a broken heart who I feel is doing amazingly well given her circumstances.

She was just dumped for no reason at all, and I imagine some of her cries might be for her person—the person that she would never believe would leave her, who actually has. So many dogs are thankful, appreciative of getting out of the shelter and are overjoyed with the prospect of a new life that is far better than the puppy mill/hoarder/dog fighter/general neglectful or abusive home from whence they came. But Lulu is different. All outward appearances point to her being well-cared for. She has white paws—and they are white! Her black coat is shiny and soft. She is the perfect weight for a dog her size. She is sweet and loving; a bit timid at first, but polite.

I don’t believe Lulu had a particularly awful life before I met her. But sometimes people just go through the motions without the e-motions. Maybe he groomed her and fed her, and let her sleep on the bed, and it looked like a good family, but deep down, if he can throw her aside for expressing how she feels, then clearly he didn’t love her.

And so, Lulu is my first foster back in the saddle. I don’t need to teach her manners, or how to exist in a home; instead, I just need to help mend her broken heart. And prove to her that she deserves a person who loves her for who she is—timid and shy, excitable and joyful, loud and bold, polite and dainty; someone who will love her through it all, the good and the bad—Lulu’s human soulmate.

I’ll be her wingwoman on her quest (and who knows, maybe she’ll be mine.) Christy is waiting for the most perfect photos to put up Lulu’s ad, and to give me a chance to get to know her so we have an accurate description. In the meantime, if you’d like to get to know this girl on your own, drop me a line. Prove to this girl that true love does exist.

Second Chances Are Always Worth the Gamble

I don’t gamble for a reason: I never fold. I don’t know how to walk away. I believe in second chances... and third and fourth chances and maybe even a fifth. Which is why Missy was such a frustration to me—not only financially, but emotionally. Why wasn’t I getting what I needed? Why was a successful happy new beginning nowhere on the horizon?

It seemed like she wasn’t where she needed to be, but really she was simply on the path getting to where she needed to be—she just had to take the scenic route to be fully prepared for her purpose.

I wouldn’t ever be prepared to give up on her. And because I don’t give up, due to stubbornness, due to optimism, due to pure stupidity—perhaps all three, my friends know they cannot change my mind, so they might as well be enablers.

Already hemorrhaging money at an alarming rate to pay for Missy’s care, I was disappointed and distraught that my stash of toys had depleted completely. I didn’t have the funds for new toys, but Missy needed some. My bitching and whining to my friend Carolina about the lack of playthings in my house spurred her into immediate action. In less than 24 hours, she packed up a box of her own canine kids’ toys that they didn’t use and shipped them to Missy.

No, it’s not a bomb.

It’s a box of canine goodness.

While Carolina took care of Missy’s fun factor for me, I focused on finding the unexplored avenues that might lead to Missy’s forever home. I say I don’t give up, but I knew all along Troy wasn’t the one for Missy. I wanted it to be, but I know all too well: we don’t get what we want; we get what we need.

Sarah had a solid back-up plan if Missy didn’t have a home by her end date. Her friend met with Missy, totally loved her, but like me, he can’t have a dog of his own. Although some have managed it, we don’t see how our freelance production life can also include that lifelong relationship.  He could step in to foster, but only for four or five weeks before he had to leave for a humanitarian effort this summer. (Yes, a humanitarian effort across the planet—clearly an exceptional person, the type you’d want to have a dog, but you know his life is meant to help thousands, not care for just one being.) So we had Plan B... the run down path off to the side that might not lead to Missy’s forever home, but would be a port of call while Belinda sorted out another plan.

I am no longer scheduled to return for a few months, and even if I was, I am not the foster for Missy. I was terrified to take her anywhere; I didn’t have confidence in her; she needed a yin to her yang. We were just two yangs out of balance. So if Missy went to another foster, then that would be it: I would be walking away from the table, never to return. But I would hope I would be leaving her in a better place than where I found her.

I then remembered the one avenue not yet explored: a woman named Kathy had responded to one of Belinda’s ads just around the time that we were sorting through the Missy and Sawyer meetings. Belinda had sent her an application and said that she’d be next in line should Troy not work out. I asked Belinda if we could do a meet and greet anyway, as I had a gut instinct Troy just wasn’t going to work out. There were delays and difficulties, but I was determined to explore this.

When it finally was decided that it was too much of a risk for Missy to be with Sawyer, Belinda shared Kathy’s number and I had Sarah give her a call. Neither Belinda nor I are salespeople; we’re more passive. But in this case, I had to get aggressive. Belinda had contacted her a couple of times, but hadn’t heard back. She then found out the woman had a family emergency and her husband had to leave town for a bit.

I stated my position to Belinda bluntly: “I just want Sarah to call her and say, ‘Hi, I’m Missy’s foster mom. If you have any questions, feel free to ask me. I’d love for you to meet her. Let me know if you want to get together.’ If she doesn’t respond, I’ll drop it. But I need to try.”

Sarah made the call that night and immediately set up a meet and greet. She convinced her that she should met Missy because then we’d know if it was a definite No. If she was still interested, she could come back when her husband returned.

I needed hope. I needed a lure, something to keep me optimistic so I didn’t refocus my energies on other ideas. 

Two days later, I got the email from Sarah saying that Kathy had to cancel due to bad migraines.

Was it a true obstacle, or was it an excuse? Sarah assured me that her conversation with Kathy really made it seem like she wanted Missy. Kathy and her husband Dax had had pit bulls before—pit bulls with social problems as a matter of fact. One had passed away of old age, the other lived with her in-laws. She respected Missy’s limitations and wanted to help her. They wanted to rescue a dog, not buy one. They wanted to give a second chance to a dog who desperately needed one.

Sarah kept the next scheduled meeting under wraps to not get Belinda and my hopes up. Then on Sunday night, we got a surprise email from Sarah entitled “Missy Loves Kathy and Dax!”

“Hi! Kathy and Dax came by to meet Missy and they all loved each other. She tried to follow them out the front the door when they left.  : ) We've talked about her needs and their expectations, etc. and it sounds like they are a very good fit... Dax was ready to take her home today! Kathy is a little more realistic, ha ha, so I think that's a good balance too...”

I’ve always found that the men are always more compulsive, whereas women are more realistic: they like to nest and prepare—this is a lifelong commitment after all. But there’s just something about a boy and his dog—it’s love at first sight and nothing on this planet can tear the two apart. The fact that Missy tried to follow them out the door tells me she had found her man.

Kathy had another migraine, so the home check didn’t work out on Tuesday. I had doubt once more. It should be easy, shouldn’t it? I’ve never had a migraine and hope to never experience one; from what I’ve heard it really is debilitating. Would Kathy be able to handle Missy if she had a migraine? The sands in the hourglass were running thin, and I didn’t want a repeat of the first parting with Missy when Belinda and I were up past midnight trying to find a new solution that didn’t involve a concrete kennel.

The plan was for Missy to spend the weekend with Kathy and Dax, but we needed to be assured that their home was safe. They were looking for a house, but currently lived in an apartment. They had the landlord’s permission to have a dog. But I was still worried. So I asked Sarah for their last name so I could cyber-stalk. They hadn’t yet turned in their application, and although Missy needed to be somewhere in two weeks’ time; she needed to be safe.

My internet search made me doubtful yet again. The man had a record. Damn it. But what kind of record? A few more searches and although my doubt was there, I began to believe maybe this was Missy’s purpose.

“Sober for 12 years,” he had written on a page. It’s sad to me that murder and narcotic addiction hold the same criminal sentences. They’re hardly the same thing. I didn’t want Missy to go to a murderer/rapist. But if she can help a man on his road to recovery and be that stable force in life... isn’t that the type of grand purpose I had thought Missy was meant for all along?

I alerted Sarah to my findings, and she, being the faithful church-going sweet soul she is, has far more trust in people than I do. She didn’t have doubts; she only saw the second thoughts I had: that he would be good for Missy and Missy good for him.

Wednesday afternoon Sarah got a call that Dax wanted to spend time with Missy in the park. Sarah had to work and wasn’t going to let Missy go unsupervised, so she had to turn him down. But I really appreciated his enthusiasm. For any homeless pet, being wanted is the single most important thing—above food, a warm bed, and a roof over their head. Just to be wanted is enough to sustain them.

Belinda, Sarah, and Missy went on the home check Thursday night. Kathy had seen a doctor for her migraines and gotten some meds, so she was on the mend. The home check went well, and Missy seemed comfortable in the home. She had never been to another abode, so the fact that she was comfortable was a good sign. Sarah really liked the way Missy and Dax related to one another... it was a match.

Friday afternoon, Sarah packed up Missy’s things for a weekend getaway—a trial run. I had never done something like this, so I was quite anxious. Why don’t they just adopt and be done? I needed Sarah to be off my payroll, and I wanted Missy to be securely in her new family as quickly as possible.

Sarah sent this picture of a Missy. (She assured me that I would get my dog bed back... Missy was just taking it to have stuff of her own on her trial run.)

The trial run taught us a few things. The first being that Missy cannot be a therapy dog for wheelchair-bound people. It was Kathy’s first time walking Missy, and Dax was not with her. Missy did excellent. She was gentle with the five year old girl who wanted to pet her, and patient while Kathy chatted with a neighbor. But when a person in a wheelchair came rolling up the sidewalk, not even acknowledging Missy, Missy reacted.

No, she didn’t lunge at the wheels.

No, she didn’t bite the man’s face off.

No, she didn’t stand in front of the wheelchair and stop it from moving.

Instead, she grabbed the man’s blanket off his lap, threw it on the ground, and sat on it.

Evidently she thought it was hers. Or, she’s just a bully and steals disabled people’s accessories. Either way, she should should never volunteer at Hospice.

The next thing it taught us was that a change in environment can change a dog’s attitude. While Sarah spent most of her day in my house trying to get Missy to stop going ballistic when the resident squirrel taunted her from the deck, or not to bark at people walking on the opposite side of the street, in Kathy’s and Dax’s place, Missy sat at the window daily, in silence of her own volition, watching people walk by and squirrels race back and forth across the top of a nearby fence.

The most important thing it proved is that when it’s right, it’s right.  Despite all of Sarah’s warnings that Missy would need help learning dog language and wasn’t ready for socialization, Dax took Missy to a dog park. Sarah and I had tried Missy on leash with other dogs, but were both not trusting enough to see what would happen in an off-leash situation. We knew dogs could be different when off leash, but neither of us felt confident enough should something go awry. And that lack of confidence is detrimental to the experiment.

Then there’s Dax, who Sarah tells me is an enthusiastic, go-getter guy with confidence and warmth and love and is ever-optimistic. He took Missy to a dog park he knew wouldn’t be heavily populated. One man was there with a few other dogs. Dax went in fully confident, keeping her on a leash to begin with, letting the other dogs and her greet one another and then when he felt it was right, let her off leash. The result: Missy PLAYED with other dogs!

This was a dangerous risk. Should he have waited for a trained professional to be there? Yes, probably. But, in all honesty, one of the avenues I was considering was sending Missy to a guy who professionally helps socialize dogs. He would do exactly what Dax did. Here’s the difference: the man I would have paid was a professional; Dax is the man who loves Missy with his whole heart. Dax doesn’t want to put her in harm’s way. Missy trusts him and he trusts her. Sarah didn’t want to take Missy to adoption fairs because she didn’t trust her and thought it would be bad for her. I took her a couple of times, but was always expecting the worst. Dax had no such preconceived notions. He gave her a chance.

By Sunday night though, we still had not heard if it was official. Belinda and I agreed to waive the adoption fee. We would rather see them spend $200 on Missy’s vet care than giving it to us. We would never recoup the entire amount we spent in monetary terms; knowing she’s loved and finally where she’s meant to be is all the compensation we really needed.

Monday night Sarah sent the official text: Missy’s with her new family!

Contract signed, application completed, and Sarah went to say her final goodbye to Missy. I called her as soon as I got the text.

“You okay?” I asked.

She had said she thought it might be difficult to say good-bye. This wasn’t just a pet-sitting gig. This wasn’t just a foster. This was a dog she helped raise; she molded Missy into the dog she is today.

“How was it seeing her again?”

Missy greeted her, but then returned to her folks. Missy wasn’t looking to go back with Sarah. She had found her place. This was her home; these were her people.

“She looked good. Healthy, and so happy. Dax really exercises her too. So I think she might just be too worn out to misbehave.”

“So you’re not sad?”

“How can I be sad? She was so happy. This is where she’s meant to be.”

Dax told Sarah how he sees Missy as a part of building the best life he can live; how much he loved her, and how he knew they would do right by each other. I have to wonder if Missy saw all that too, that very first night they met. Did Missy know instinctually that this was her person—the one who was meant to be her life partner? I have to believe so. We women, we know; we know when it’s meant to be and nothing can will stand in our way to make it happen.

It’s been a long journey. From that very first email plea I saw for a momma dog and her pups needing a ride to San Diego in October of last year...

...to my first encounter with the scrawny, misunderstood, nameless dog in January...

...to days of training...

...and snuggle time...

 ...to leaving Missy in March, and handing her (and my house) over to a complete stranger...

... and finally the ultimate destination: Missy’s forever family.

Never doubt you are ever anywhere but where you are meant to be. If you get off track, the universe shows you signs and gives you opportunity to return to the right path. And sometimes the path may not seem right for it seems too long, but know that every step is going toward the future you were meant to have.

This journey has taught me a good many things: to be grateful for where I am in life; that I am not destitute and that although painful and stressful, gambling on a dog is always a win no matter how momentarily detrimental it is to my bank account; that because I never will walk away, I need to make sound choices on what I walk toward; and despite all my doubts and all my stressing out, that the universe will always provide—perhaps not on my time schedule, but always in the nick of the time; and that most often, it’s always the second chance that brings you the most joy.

Sarah has said to me that the house is different without a dog. Indeed it is. My house is happy with a canine resident. Despite my rash sentiments in an earlier blog, I, and my house, will foster another homeless dog again. Granted, the dog needs to be funded next time, but I will indeed take the gamble. Because being a pit stop on the way to a dog’s forever family is one of the greatest joys in my life.

Missy, I hope the time you spent with me and with Sarah and at Casa de Canine will be a joyful memory to you. It seems you already know that where you are is indeed exactly where you were always meant to be. We were just here to prepare you. You have the tools to be a more polite dog in human society... so please, for goodness sake, stop stealing people’s blankets!

Love ya, Missy. Keep Dax and Kathy safe and loved. You were always meant to be theirs, and they were always meant to be yours.