Love Isn't Always On Time

In the beginning of any relationship, people’s little quirks are adorable. Their snoring is cute. The way they chew with their mouth open is endearing. The way it takes them forty-five minutes to get out of the house for a five minute walk to the store is totally acceptable. Love creates a tolerance unmatched by anything else.

So I can only suspect that I love this crazy kid. Within a few minutes of being in my house, he lifted his leg on the doorway into the living room. I admonished him and he appeared genuinely apologetic. He just didn’t know. And I wasn’t the least bit angry. The next morning, he walked out of the bathroom (he likes to be by my side during most of my mundane tasks like brushing my teeth) and lifted his leg without thinking. Again, he apologized and I wasn’t upset.

Day three, when he vacated the bathroom while I blow-dried my hair (the one task he’s not up for being around for), he was out of sight for a bit longer than I suspected, and my spidy-senses started tingling. A short inspection of the house revealed that he had tagged a bookcase in my office. Luckily, he chose the bookcase with glass doors, so no literature was destroyed.

For him, where to take a shit is the most monumental decision of his life each and every time. He even changes his mind mid-squat, so I had no fear of him pooping in the house. But then, also on day three, shortly after our afternoon walk while I was outside talking to a fencing contractor for fifteen minutes, he quickly chose my bedroom bookcase in which to take a dump.

After he flooded my kitchen, I invested in a placemat for his water bowl because the ratio of water that ends up in his face versus on the floor every time he drinks is about 3:7. I also have a washcloth handy in which I wipe his face so it doesn’t act as a mobile waterfall on my hardwood floors.

Just this morning while I took a shower, he chose a cardboard box in my room to chew a hole through rather than destroy one of the many toys he’s allowed to eviscerate.

His farts are deadly. Even he leaves the room after laying a good one.

None of these things anger or annoy me. His goofy smile, his joyful spirit, his need to snuggle all make up for the things he doesn’t yet know and the things that are intrinsically him.

I initially thought I’d keep the name Bruno, since that’s what he was used to at the shelter. However, after only one evening with him, I knew it had to change. With the rescue being in Hemet, I was leading this campaign to get him adopted, and a name like Bruno for a pit bull isn’t a great start. It also simply didn’t fit him. He wasn’t a brute; he wasn’t even big (well, maybe he weighed a lot, but like a brick; he’s only up to my knee); he wasn’t mean. He wasn’t any of the things you think of when you hear or read the name Bruno.

Shakespeare posed “What’s in a name? Would a rose by any other name smell so sweet?” Well sure, it would, but if it was called a “muculent sore” I’m pretty sure people wouldn’t be excited to get one for Valentine’s Day. Words describe an entity through and through, and Bruno was an inaccurate description of this gangly, goofy pocket pit bull.

My favorite summation of him is what a friend said after watching him romp around the yard: “He’s like a ballet dancer that’s got all the moves but none of the grace.”

He falls off the couch, he bangs his head into the refrigerator, he slides across the floor into the wall, he leaps up onto the deck, he leaps off the deck and tumbles onto the ground, he chases a toy, only to miss it and get it back on the rebound. He falls into my lap to chew on a toy with his ass in the air and his front legs collapsed backward. He slides off the couch headfirst and upside down until he’s completely under the coffee table. It’s like his limbs aren’t fully attached yet and the soul inside him hasn’t yet figured out how to coordinate the earthly body it’s inhabiting.

I enlisted the social media for nomenclature suggestions, and after much deliberation and trying out words, Bruno was officially renamed Tucker. Now after only a few days of calling him Tucker, I can’t imagine him being a Bruno. He’s a Tucker: with his sweet goofy smile, his loving snuggle, his playful romp.

Now I just need to find his forever person. I’ve said that I’ve only fallen in love with a couple of the dogs I have met on their journeys. Well, Tucker goes in the record books. He’s going to break my heart when he goes. So, the sooner he gets a home, the better.

A friend of mine pointed out his physical resemblance to Tia. It honestly hadn’t entered my conscious mind, but maybe that was the initial attraction. Looking back at old photos though, I don’t see many similarities. Whatever had drawn me to him also drew Jen in and his shelter champion, so I don't think it's a personal thing.  There’s just something special about this kid. He’s got a big life ahead of him, and I need to find it for him.

It’s crossed my mind that maybe he is meant to be mine; maybe he is my partner in crime. He loves other dogs, he’s affectionate, he’s eager to learn and please, and clearly he’s made himself at home both in my house and in my heart.

But.

There’s always a but.

I have a bucket list. It’s like the list of things you want to do before you settle down and have kids. I’m not procreating, so it’s my list of things to do before I get my canine life partner. I’d like to see Europe before I’m fifty. I need to work out of the country at least once, if not many times. I want to travel the world—and you can’t do that with a pit bull. (Or maybe you can, and then write a book about it…)

For now, I’m following my gut. It got me where I am on this path right here, right now, and I have no regrets. The campaign has begun—the quest to find Tucker’s person. I believe he or she is out there… or right here… but no, I’m going with out there. He’s had his photo session, I’ve adorned him with the adopt-me bandana, I’m taking him to adoption events, and I’m making it known that this special, handsome, funny, smart, and loving boy is looking for his forever home.

If you think you're his match, drop me a line. I will warn you that I have high standards for Tucker’s life partner, and I won’t let him go to just anybody. I believe Tucker has a great life ahead of him and that the universe is going to lead us to his co-pilot. Just as my instinct told me to take Tucker in, I know my instinct will tell me when it’s right to let him go.

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet/9921425-glendale-california-pit-bull-terrier-mix

Go With Your Gut (It's Usually Your Heart Talking)

Go with your gut. It won’t lead you wrong. It will, however, on occasion, lead you to do things you don’t have a practical or logical explanation for. Which is how my house came to be dogless for only four days.

Last Sunday, I went down to the NKLA Adoption Event to visit Christy and the rest of the TAPS team at their booth. And of course, to wander about and say hello to anyone else I knew and check out the dogs up for adoption. The Super Adoption is for all the Los Angeles city and county shelters who bring a select collection of dogs and cats on death row to get adopted. There are a few rescues there as well, but mainly this is about clearing out the public shelters.

The idea is that everyone returns to their shelters with their trucks of cages empty—whether it’s through adoption or rescues taking each and every one, hundreds of animals that otherwise would have been killed on Monday morning have a second chance.

I found Patti, transporter extraordinaire at the National Brittany Rescue and she asked if I wanted to foster a senior for her.

“Nope. No fostering for me. Not now. I gotta fix up my yard, and the holidays are coming. No fosters for a while,” I told her with all certainty.

The next morning on Facebook, Patti discovered that I was a downright liar.

The lie was unintentional; I wanted it to be true, and why I couldn’t just let someone else step up the plate, I can’t explain; all I can say is that my gut told me to, and when I thought of not doing it, my eyes welled up with tears.

Dogs were brought up on the stage one by one and introduced by their shelter workers to give them a moment in the spotlight. Up on stage, there was a brindle pit bull mix, short and stocky, with a big goofy grin on his face. He had been at Castaic (a county shelter about 100 miles north) since September. This was his last chance.

I had seen a brindle pit bull puppy earlier at a rescue and a couple was there looking at him. Once this older brindle pit named Bruno came off the stage, that same couple stopped the shelter worker and started talking to her. Clearly they knew what they wanted. Good. Maybe this kid would get a home.

There was something about him, and after the couple walked away and I wandered around a little more, I went to Castaic’s booth to meet Bruno. He had been out and about a lot, so he was in his crate taking a break:

Terri, his handler, was the shelter worker who had taken him under her wing when he first arrived. She worked with him daily, helping to train him. He came in as a stray, and hadn’t had any real interest in almost two months. Each week, she fought for his life when it came time to red-list the dogs. The shelter manager wasn’t the biggest fan of pits, and Terri was always fighting for them. She even had to fight to bring him. The manager agreed and told her that if he came back Sunday night, there were no guarantees of his life lasting past Monday morning.

There was just something about him—this joyful spirit in his eyes that I couldn’t let be snuffed out. I went back to the TAPS booth and said that “I found this dog that I really like...”

Jen, who had photographed Lulu at the Strut Your Mutt event, said, “Hey I have a favorite too!”

We both took out our phones, and there on each of our phones was Bruno. “No way! Of all the hundreds of dogs here, we chose the same one! I was going to try to find a foster for him. Do you want to foster?”

“Yeah, I’ll foster, but I need a rescue behind me,” I said.

Shelley saw Jen and me getting all excited and she let me drag her over to Castaic’s booth to meet Bruno.

“You’re going to have to ask Christy,” she said.

It was a total parenting move: if Mom doesn’t want to say No, she diverts to Dad. Damn it.

Jen had walked away, so it was just me when Christy returned to the booth.

Shelley immediately said, “Stephanie has something to ask you.”

So I meekly presented my case. I had never initiated before. I was always asked to foster. I had no idea how to say, “Will you take this dog if I foster?”

Her answer when I got to “pit bull” was, “I’ll support you any way I can, but he’s going to be your responsibility. He’s yours. You have to find another foster when you’re away; you’re going to have to do this.”

The fact was, Christy had been financially destroyed by a pit bull just around the same time I was with Missy. Pits are hard to find homes for. But she could see this one was something special to me.

The other fact is that TAPS isn't primarily a rescue; it's a legal organization that only adopts out rescues when there's collateral damage--like all the dogs in a hoarding case... or like Lulu who was at the shelter while they were tending to some hoarding case canines.

Christy told me the top three rescues she thought might be willing to take him on, and sent me to their booths. One said, “I’m not so sure,” one had already pulled four dogs and was beyond capacity (even if they have a foster, rescues can only have so many animals on the books), and the final one, well, by the end of speaking with them, I didn’t want Bruno going there anyway.

Plan B was this: I would take his ID#, and if he ended up going back on the truck, I would put a hold on him, adopt him myself, and then find him a home. That was risky. A rescue isn’t just there as a possible reimbursement of expenses; it’s my legal foundation. If a dog needs to be rehomed five years from now, I don’t get the call. If there’s any legality down the road, I have an entity to protect me. And, it also makes it easier to get donations to pay for things. As I learned with Missy, a dog without a rescue is like a person without a country.

At 3:15, the “auction” began. First, Best Friends announced that they would be taking in every LA City animal not adopted by 4 o’clock. That left the county kids (including Bruno) on the major sell list. One by one, each of the remaining dogs went up on stage for one last push. People gave incentives. For the dog that needed medical treatment, one of the incentives was medical paid for a year… then, when no takers, medical for LIFE! Still no takers. Then, a rescue would take him if a foster could be found. A kind young woman in tears said she’d foster; and so the deal was done. This dog wasn’t going back on the truck.

Christy had said that I should put in the incentive that I would foster if a rescue took him. Money might have to be put up front as well, but start with fostering.

Bruno went up, and Terri tearfully told his story. The problem is that much like being in the security line at the airport, there are certain buzzwords that you are not allowed to say at a public shelter. “Putting a dog down,” “being put to sleep,” “killing,” and “he’ll be dead,” are all these things shelter workers and volunteers are not allowed to say. I can cause I’m not an official member of anything—there’s a lovely freedom in that. But Terri couldn’t. Only her tears could portray the harsh truth.

No adopters wanted him. The announcer said that there was a foster if a rescue took him. I saw a blonde woman in the crowd raise her hand. Bam! Rescue acquired.

Hanging with Friends is a relatively new rescue on the scene. They became a 501(c )3 just last year. They’re based in Hemet (about 100 miles east of Los Angeles.) No one in my circle of rescue friends had heard of them.

I introduced myself to Lisa, the founder, and Krista, the trainer and Hollywood-based partner. I filled out a form so they had my info, and I said to Lisa, “That’s a lot of trust. You don’t even know me,” thinking geez, how do they know I’m not crazy?

“Nah. I can get a good read on people. And anyway, someone would have whispered in my ear by now if they had a bad feeling about you. No, really, they would have.”

And so, with absolutely no plan, no prior knowledge of this rescue, no preparations done back home, I walked out of the NKLA Adoption with a new charge at the end of my leash.

And so begins my end of the year adventure. Goal: Bruno will be in his forever home before the holidays (Hanukah is a bit early this year, so let’s say Christmas.) I don’t have much of a plan, and I don’t have any guarantees it’ll happen. I’m only listening to my gut and going with it. There’s not a single part of me that believes I made a bad decision; I have no regrets. The only regret I would have had, was not stepping up to the plate. For some unknown reason, I’m supposed to be part of this kid’s journey. I’m supposed to find his forever person. Well, gut instinct, I say, “Challenge Accepted.”