A friend of mine lost his old dog recently. Missing furry companionship, he has been toying (a little dog humor) with the idea of opening up his home to a rescue. In an effort to help him find a small breed dog, I looked through some adoption sites showcasing available dogs in our area. So many eager, and some pitifully sad, faces looked back at me. Each new picture tugged at my heartstrings. The largest percentage of potential adoptees on all the sites I visited were definitely pitbulls or pitbull mixes, followed by other larger breeds such as German shepherds, mastiffs or boxers. Even though I enjoy dogs of all size, I lean toward smaller breeds. Large breeds need space, something that is a premium at my house. Also, being small myself, I sometimes find bigger breeds a lot to handle. Scattered in between the pictures of the larger breeds, smaller faces were also represented. Lots of dogs in this group were tagged “seniors”. I wondered if perhaps these dogs had owners who, like themselves, had a little mileage on them. Perhaps the owners had either passed away or moved into a retirement facility and had been unable to take their pets with them. Senior animals require special hearts to offer them a home. Little kids pulling on their ears or dragging them by their tails would probably not be activities a senior animal might enjoy. Older dogs are more likely to have health issues requiring more vet outlays, and won’t be with you as long as a younger pet would. They will, however, usually be so very grateful for your kind attention and give you lots of love and appreciation in return.
Some of the animals on the sites I visited were labeled “eviction dogs”. This tag identified them as pets sacrificed by their owners when the owners had been dispossessed by eviction. Their people moved on, having to leave their beloved pets behind. In most cases the owners couldn’t take their animals with them so left them at a rescue, but in others they simply abandoned them at the house or wherever they’d been staying. I’d like to think perhaps the owners had no choice. However, I believe we always have a choice when it comes to doing the right thing. How terrified a family pet would be to find their owners gone and no food in their bowls or nowhere to find shelter. Animals trust us to do our best by them. I am always disappointed when we don’t even come close to measuring up to that bar.
On the opposite side of the coin there are people like my dear friends in the Bay Area who have now “adopted” eleven cats. They are not an organized cat rescue by any means, just two nice people with a soft spot for puddy cats. Three of the eleven cats are siblings. All are beautiful white cats with distinctive eyes, one blue and the other greenish yellow. Neighbors left them on the front porch of their recently sold home and moved away. Word out in the neighborhood there was a soft touch down the street, the three made their way to my friend’s front door and were welcomed into the fold. These cat rescuers provide not only a home and three squares a day but make sure the animals are neutered and all their vet needs taken care of.
I too have a huge soft spot when it comes to animals. When looking for a volunteer opportunity when I first moved to the mountains, I jumped at an ad asking for volunteers at the local shelter. When filling out the volunteer application, in the section titled Areas of Interest, I checked the box next to dog walker. Upon meeting me in person, the staff decided putting me in the cat section would be a better fit. They explained some of the dogs were big, muscular animals, and the owner felt I might have trouble managing them by myself. Once I became familiar with the routine I looked forward every week to seeing the sweet faces peering at me out of the cages. Some had been abused so hid under blankets or in cocoons provided for them, but most of them were excited to have a good ear rub and a clean cage so were glad to see me. The kitten cage got most of the attention, but the older residents came and went at a steady pace too. Even if I got attached I was always delighted to see one of them leave out the front door.
Pitbulls were the primary breed at that facility as well. Curious, I asked why. According to the owner, people often got pitbulls as puppies only to find when the animals matured they couldn’t control them. Also, as per their reputation, some of the dogs leaned toward aggressive behavior or had been trained to be aggressive. Pitbull lovers will argue this point, but it certainly seems true it is often that breed mentioned when a vicious dog attack is reported. For me if I have an animal in my home I don’t ever want him to be scoping me out as a lunch order.
At this stage in my life, it’s a cat for me. I enjoy the freedom sharing space with a cat provides me. Boo does not require a walk or three every day, uses a litter box to relieve herself, and though she loves me immensely (or so I’ve convinced myself) the cat does not need me present 24/7 for her to enjoy her quality of life.
Over the years, I’ve had cats, dogs, rabbits. hamsters, birds and fish. At the time my kids entered high school our roll call included two cats, two dogs, and a rabbit. An entire wall in the garage was devoted to storing dog kibble, cans of wet dog food, cat food, cat litter, rabbit food, and flea abatement products. The local pet shop sent us a thank you note over the holidays for keeping them afloat. The two dogs included Sushi, a four year old Shih Tzu, and Barnaby, a three month old golden retriever. Barnaby was husband No. 2’s dog. Before he came to live with us I felt we had enough players on the field with three kids, one dog, two cats and the bunny. However, after much cajoling, I caved in, and the search began for a puppy. Apparently Sushi was a little fru-fru for my husband. He preferred larger, more “manly” dogs. Insert testosterone here. After many visits to local breeders, Barnaby was selected from a boisterous litter of eight pups. The first thing my husband noticed about him was his exuberant personality. The first thing I noticed about him was paws the size of Clydesdale hooves. At first we called him Atticus, after Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird (my favorite movie). Enduring two weeks of hearing my kids yelling, “Abacus” and “Attica” when calling their new puppy, a family meeting was held and the easier to remember name of Barnaby was agreed on.
My husband’s job took him on the road about three weeks out of four. Though Barnaby was to be his dog, I had a sinking feeling he was going to my responsibility. Quickly, Barnaby lived up to his exuberant personality. Busy, busy, busy. Busy chewing a hole in my Italian leather couch, busy gnawing the frame off the laundry room door, and busy not using my lovely back yard as a place to go to the bathroom. Aside from the fact I took him outside to do his business every half an hour, he far preferred the recently installed Berber carpeting inside the house when feeling the need to relieve himself. The first month he lived with us I went through an industrial sized bottle of carpet stain remover.
Being a large animal, he required space to run in. When my husband was home, he walked Barnaby (a manly walk) before he left for work and again at night after dinner. When he was not home, one of us was tasked with the job. When still a puppy, walking Barnaby was not a problem. But, as he grew into those gigantic feet, walks began to be contentious enough to have us drawing straws to see who got tasked with the duty. While on his walks, Barnaby did not miss once single trace of scent. Covering a one block radius could take an hour or more. The dog stopped to investigate every tree, bush, discarded ice cream wrap, and trash can. Training him to a leash was another thing not going well. Even on an extension leash, your arm was fully extended the entire time he was attached to the other end. If another animal crossed his path , he took off as if a torch had been set to his tail. Once I set a world’s record for wire fence hurdles trying to keep up with him while chasing a terrified tabby cat.
Another fly in the ointment was Barnaby was, by nature, a retriever. We owned a rabbit. It didn’t take Barnaby long to realize that rabbit fell just after quail on his list of prey. When really engaged with the rabbit the dog could be found en point outside the rabbits room quivering with excitement. The rabbit, Cinder by name, was also quivering, but not so much with excitement. Cinder was a Valentine’s present from my husband. She was a pure black lop eared bunny, who should have been named Beelzebub. Before getting a rabbit, I read stories about people who owned bunnies as pets. Tiny creatures who greeted their owners at the front door endearingly thumping their little paws. Animals easily trained to the littler box with gentle, sweet personalities. You know, like Thumper in Bambi. Cinder had not availed herself of this reading material, nor I believe, had she seen the movie. If you tried to pet her, she would reveal sharp razorlike teeth. This, was not by way of a welcoming grin. When I introduced her to the litter box, she ate the lining. Done with her meal, she deposited an entire room full of bunny poops on the floor for me to clean up as a thank you. Once, when trying to get her out from under my son’s bed I tried to gently nudge her with a broomstick handle. She gnawed the stick in half before I could rescue it. After we had her for about a year she escaped through an open door into the back yard. (No, I did not offer her a gentle nudge. Not that the thought hadn’t entered my mind.) The back door was left open by accident one day, and out she went. Being a rabbit, she immediately got to work digging a rabbit hole, where she made her home for the next six months availing herself of my garden whenever she got hungry.
While Cinder enjoyed the new found freedom of her spacious outdoor rabbit hutch, Barnaby was driven crazy by the scent of rabbit floating in the yard. If we let him out, the dog would maniacally dig holes in the grass and dirt around the hutch. Dirt would be flying in the air for hours, his brown snout only rising for meals. Each day we would fill the holes, and the next day he would dig new ones. For six months our yard looked like a band of marauding gophers was having their way with it.
Aside from being adept at digging holes Barnaby wasn’t up to speed in other areas. No matter how hard we tried he remained totally resistant to any type of training we attempted. Finally, at a friend’s suggestion, we enrolled him in Obedience School. The class was to be held in the local park for eight Saturday’s in a row. I, of course, was the one to be taking him five out of the six days as was the usual way of things. In all fairness to Barnaby, this training should have started much earlier than a year after we brought him home. It was what is was at that point, so we decided to move forward with positive enthusiasm. The first Saturday proved to be a gorgeous early summer day. There were probably thirty dogs on leashes at the appointed meeting spot by the time Barnaby and I arrived. Barnaby, excited at the prospect of all his “people” around him, nearly dislocated my shoulder trying to say hello to all his new friends. Twice, he wrapped my legs like a mummy with his leash running around me in circles trying to get a look at all the other dogs. The instructors introduced themselves as a married couple with twenty years experience. The first day, we were told, would be devoted to teaching our animals to about positive and negative reinforcement, how to correct your animal, and basic hand signals for tricks you want them to perform like sitting and lying down. Barnaby spent most of his time with his nose at the backside of whatever animal passed his way. Watching him perform, or not perform, the instructor finally came over and offered us a little personal instruction. Barnaby immediately jumped up on the man leaving two large paw prints on the front of his shirt. Ah, there’s that enthusiasm again. If he got an A for that he might have passed the class with flying colors. In spite of his abysmal showing, the man assured me Barn would do better as the weeks passed. I tried not to notice the dirty paw prints on the man’s nicely pressed shirt as I dragged Barnaby away from all his new friends and got him back in the car.
At any rate, we persevered for the next seven weeks. Barnaby sat when he was told to stand, yawned when he was asked to sit, and ate grass and threw up if I tried to rein him in when he was walking next to me. The instructors told me on his last day they had rarely failed a dog. Because Barnaby had a sweet spirit, if not a willing one, even though he hadn’t mastered any part of their course he would nonetheless get a certificate along with the rest of the dogs. Truly, though retrievers are generally known for their intelligence, Barn was never the sharpest pencil in the box. We loved him though and he gave us many laughs and stories to tell at family gatherings over the years.
Animals are comical, loving, and loyal. They bring so much to a family, or fill a lonely spot for a single person or add a dimension for a couple. Most probably there will never be a time in my life that I can’t find space for one.
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