by Amy Newmark
Sandy looked at the sleeping dog thoughtfully: “I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly courageous person, but with him pulling her, it was easy for me to swim next to her and reassure her all the way to shore. We made a perfect team.”
~David S. Milotta
The Night Coffee Woke Up
Fun fact: Black Labradors, rather than yellow or chocolate Labs, are favored among hunters because they blend well into the scenery, making them less noticeable to prey.
I didn’t know I wanted a dog until we got one. Shortly after we bought our home, my husband, EW, secretly perused the classifieds seeking a black Labrador puppy. When caught, he began to list his reasons: “She would be a good watchdog. Mo (his son, who lived with us part-time) needs a dog. A home isn’t a home without a dog. Did I say that it would be good to have a watchdog?” I was not convinced, but still we drove to a nearby small Maine town with a blank check and returned with the cutest puppy in the world. She had a short puppy nose, a fat puppy belly, lively black eyes, and a livelier tongue. I admit that I carried her home in my arms and was smitten.
We named her Morrison’s Midwatch Coffee. She was a pedigreed black Labrador. Morrison was our son’s name, Midwatch had been a name on her sire’s side, and Coffee was the name we would use for her. We drink our coffee black and we sail, so it all fit. Our home was an old four-square on a large city lot, just a block back from the water of the Fore River in Casco Bay. During the three cooler seasons, she went to work every day with EW, riding in the back seat, taking swim breaks and coffee breaks that often included a game of fetch with a tennis ball. EW sold marine supplies, and many of his customers had dog-friendly shops, with dog biscuits in jars for visitors. Coffee was living the good life.
She had chores to do at home. She greeted neighbors on three sides, played T-ball with the little girl next door, and gave unconditional love to everyone. While she would bark whenever someone pulled into the driveway, she wasn’t the best guard dog. When EW’s cousin Jeffrey and two friends delivered a sailboat to Maine from the Caribbean, they showed up looking and smelling like three guys who’ve been on a boat for three weeks. We’d told Jeff where to find the key, and he’d asked us about the “guard dog.” Upon our advice, Jeff simply unlocked the back door, put his hand out to a madly barking sixty-pound dog, and said, “Hey, Coffee. Good girl.” She totally caved.
“Yep, glad we got a guard dog,” I scoffed that night.
Jeffrey laughed and looked at EW. “That’s how you got Barb to agree to a dog?”
EW smiled. “It worked. Even if Coffee doesn’t.”
She slept in our room at night. Every so often, she would find something disturbing outside and wake us. Actually, she would wake me. Every time. While EW slumbered peacefully next to me, Coffee would stand at the window on my side of the bed and growl… at something. Perhaps a neighbor was getting home late, or a squirrel had run from treetop to roof, or a raccoon was looking for an open garbage can. Coffee would hear it, decide I needed to know, and growl — starting softly and getting progressively louder until I rolled out of bed, identified the threat, patted her on the head and fell back onto my pillows.
Early one spring morning, her growls began louder and quickly escalated to short barks. Still, EW slept (or pretended to) while I jumped out of bed and ran to the window. Down below, three men were dragging a large inflatable dinghy with attached motor past our home, keeping to the grass as much as possible. Like Coffee, I knew this was suspicious. First, this was a nice dinghy, and no one who owned it would drag it without a trailer. Second, they were heading away from the river and ocean. I made the call.
“South Portland Police Department, what is your emergency?”
“I’m calling from North Marriner Street, and there are three men who I believe are stealing a dinghy.”
“Why do you think they are stealing it? Is it your dinghy?”
“No. It’s a very large inflatable. They are dragging it into the field away from the water, and they don’t have a trailer.”
“Stay inside, Ma’am. We have officers on the way. Can you describe these men for me?”
So I did, guessing at their height, describing their build, noting their hair color and clothing, while Coffee ran from window to window on the first floor, barking and keeping them in sight for as long as possible. By now, EW had gotten up and also kept a lookout. Two police cars passed our home, heading toward the field where our street ended.
Since the dispatcher had asked me to remain available, EW took Coffee for her morning constitutional and “business” trip, while I made coffee. They had returned and we’d all had breakfast by the time a police car pulled into the driveway and a uniformed officer knocked at the front door. Coffee, as she always did, made a good effort to act like a real guard dog, but the wagging tail didn’t go with the fierce bark, and he wasn’t fooled. “Good dog,” he said as he smoothed her head and fondled her ears. “Good morning, Ma’am. Is this the dog that caught our crooks?”
“Really?” I asked. “I was right?”
“Oh, yes. You sure were.” Turned out that these hapless fools were part of a gang formed to steal as many large inflatables as they could during one night. They had a panel truck into which they had hidden all but one inflatable — this last, irresistible one they didn’t want to leave behind. So the truck driver agreed to meet them in the field, and all these guys had to do was get that boat to the truck. The South Portland Police Department had taken my call seriously, blocked the three streets that had access to the field, arrested the gang and recovered all of the boats.
The officer in our living room patted Coffee again and offered her a large dog biscuit. As Coffee trotted off to her bed to enjoy her treat, the officer took my formal statement. The next day, a very small article appeared in the paper, and then we heard nothing about the case for weeks until Coffee once again alerted us one morning that a police car had pulled into the driveway. She was delighted and clearly remembered the officer (or at least the large biscuit).
She was not disappointed. Not only did she get another biscuit, she was presented with a police department citation, suitable for framing, declaring her to be an outstanding watchdog and a hero to the community. She may not have been the best guard dog ever, but she was smart enough to know when to kick into gear for the important stuff, and that’s what mattered.
~Barbara J. Hart
My Inspiring Dog
Fun fact: The American Humane Association Hero Dog Awards are an annual, national competition, with eight categories: Law Enforcement Dogs, Arson Dogs, Service Dogs, Therapy Dogs, Military Dogs, Search and Rescue Dogs, Guide and Hearing Dogs, and Emerging Hero Dogs (the category for “ordinary” dogs who do extraordinary things).
A Message from Morton
Fun fact: A study published in the American Journal of Cardiology found that pet owners had a much greater survival rate than those without pets one year after a heart attack.
The dogs that need me always seem to find me. I don’t look for them but somehow I know, as if they are sending me messages telepathically. This was the case three months after both of our beloved Shih Tzus died suddenly.
I was working at my computer when I was hit with the familiar yet indescribable knowledge that another dog needed me. The sensation was so strong that even though I knew my husband Dave didn’t want one, I started searching online to find the dog that needed me. No pictures spoke to me until I came across the Humane Society’s website.
Sure enough, there was Morton. He was ugly enough to be cute and he needed an owner who had experience with special-needs dogs. In my mind, we were a perfect match. I expected resistance when I broached the subject of Morton with Dave, but he simply said, “If the dog needs us, let’s go get him.” I called the Humane Society to make an appointment, but they couldn’t fit us in until three days later due to the intake of a large number of dogs.
I found it odd when we finally did meet Morton that he was much larger than I e
xpected, and I didn’t feel any special connection to him. Even though I was a bit disconcerted, we went ahead and met with Jennifer, an adoption specialist. The Humane Society cares deeply about their animals, and the screening process is thorough. To my surprise, at the end of our interview, Jennifer talked us out of adopting Morton. She didn’t think we were a good fit because of my health issues. I’d had a heart attack two years before, and my energy levels hadn’t returned to normal and were not expected to do so. She felt Morton would be too much work for me, and Dave agreed with her.
However, Jennifer thought we’d be ideal for one of the dogs they’d just rescued from a puppy mill where they’d been forced to live in cages for their entire lives. They did not know how to be dogs. They needed the love, patience and experience she felt we had. She took us to an area that was not open to the public where we saw some of the saddest, most scared and timid dogs we’d ever seen. I was overwhelmed with compassion.
They’d all been shaved down to their skin. I’d walked past the first cage thinking it was empty. As we started to make a second walk past the cages, I realized there was a dog in the first cage. “Gaston” was written on the label on his cage. I hadn’t noticed him before because he was so little. Actually, with his shaved body and pointy nose, he looked like an oversized white rat, but the moment I looked into his eyes, I realized that Morton had just been the messenger. This was the dog that needed me.
Gaston was only seven and a half pounds. When I picked him up, he pressed his tiny head into my chest and wrapped his little paws around my hand with a determination and strength that belied his size. There was no doubt we were meant to be together. We continued to bond while Jennifer gave us what little information she had on the dog: He was a Maltese, approximately five years old, and Gaston was just a name the staff had given him. Technically, because he had not been seen by the vet, he was not available for adoption, but we could pre-adopt him. As long as everything went okay, he would be ours in about a week. I hated putting him back in his cage, but we had no choice.
We filled out the necessary paperwork, and toyed with different names on the drive home, as Gaston didn’t suit him or us. Ultimately, we settled on Gus, a little name for a little dog.
Exactly one week later, we brought Gus home. He’d been neutered and had half of his teeth removed because they were rotten. His liver enzymes were elevated, his back leg was stiff from inactivity, and his coat had a yellow tinge from poor diet. We didn’t care. We happily signed the release documents and were thrilled that he was ours.
We’d never had cages for our other dogs, but Jennifer had told us it would be important at first for Gus to have one. A neighbour lent us a cage, and I placed a small soft-sided dog bed on top of a comfy red plaid blanket inside it. Every day while I waited for Gus to be ready, I bought toys, new dog bowls, a sweater, a toy pup tent, soft dog treats and really small chew bones.
At first, life outside the puppy mill was very traumatic for Gus. He was terrified of everything and everybody, including Dave, who is the most caring animal person I have ever known. Understandably, Gus operated on a fear-based assumption that anything new was a threat that needed to be run away from. He wouldn’t take food from our hands, and he did not know how to play. He was afraid of dogs that wanted to sniff him and people who wanted to pet him. And he certainly wasn’t house-trained.
Every day we share with Gus is a lesson in miracles and gratitude. We have watched him advance from hiding when Dave entered a room, to taking his first piece of food from Dave’s hand, to now barking confidently at Dave’s heels when he is too slow to give him his morning treat. As for play, he’s progressed from shredding paper towels on his own to playing fetch the ball with me. While he still doesn’t like to be touched by people, he lets our neighbour Jon pet him and initiates sniffing opportunities with the dogs he knows. The first time he ran freely and fast around our yard was to watch pure joy in motion.
Gus is a happy little soul who appreciates everything in his world. He has gained a full pound, has a shiny white coat, and there’s not a trace of stiffness in his leg. While he sleeps tucked into me at night, we ended up buying his cage because he loves it so much. It is located five feet from my desk where I work from home, and it’s his safe place where he sleeps and keeps his growing number of possessions during the day.
I was, and continue to be, the center of his universe, but he doesn’t panic if he loses sight of me anymore because he knows I always come back and pick him up so he can snuggle with me. I often think of Morton and hope he has found his safe place in the world. I thank him for sending me a message that there was a dog that needed me and, as it turns out, a dog that I needed more than I could ever have imagined.
~Laura Snell
The Dog that Lives under the Table
Fun fact: Most dogs need to be “socialized” — have positive experiences with humans — before fourteen weeks of age, or they may always feel shy or afraid around people.
I was just going to look when I went to the animal shelter. I had lost my best friend, a Jack Russell named Katie, to kidney disease. I knew we could never replace her, but I felt a new dog with its own personality would help fill the emptiness in my heart and home.
The dogs were excited to see visitors and vied for attention, barking and jumping up on the viewing glass. But one dog sat in the far corner, head down, ears drooping, tail tucked, and body shaking. The longing in his soft brown eyes drew me to him. The shelter volunteer said he had been in an animal hoarding situation with forty-seven other dogs. Being invisible was his way of surviving.
I went home without him but I was back the next day. I named him Gibbs after the character Leroy Jethro Gibbs on NCIS, my favorite TV show.
The moment I put Gibbs down, he raced around the den looking for a way out. He dove under the dining table, ignoring his carrier and the bed we had so carefully placed in a corner of the room.
We finally put the dog bed under the table, complete with a soft worn towel and a small teddy bear for company.
Gibbs was skin and bones. My husband tried all types of commercial dog food, but finally resorted to home cooking. He made a great meatloaf with beef, rice and cheese. Gibbs loved it. We learned to place the food on the floor. Gibbs would grab a bite and head back under the table. I guess the big dogs wouldn’t let the small ones near the food dish.
My husband calls him feral. He grew up ignored, a puppy that never learned to play. Scared of people. Gibbs flinched at any sudden movement, afraid to trust, but most of all, never knowing affection.
My daughter Kathy and granddaughter Kelly came over to meet the new member of the family a few weeks later. “Where is he?” Kelly asked, looking around.
“Under the dining table,” I replied.
The three of us got on our hands and knees, peering under the table as we struggled to get a glimpse of my new pet.
“Why is he under the table?” Kelly asked.
“He lives there and won’t come out while we’re here,” I explained. “He’s terrified of everything.”
“He doesn’t look very happy,” she said. “You know, Gram, when I was collecting supplies for the shelter, there were all these puppies, jumping around, giving kisses, wanting to play. Were they all adopted when you got there? This one is so sad.”
My daughter crawled under the table, trying to pet the timid, quivering dog. “He won’t even let you touch him.” Kathy shook her head in disbelief. “If it was me, I would take him back.”
“I can’t do that. I don’t think anyone else would have him. Everyone, even animals, deserves a chance.”
“What’s his name, Gram?”
“Gibbs.”
Not making eye contact, Gibbs drew farther back under the table, putting as much distance as possible between himself and us.
“Why did you pick this one?” friends and family asked. “He needed me” was the only answer I could come with. “Look into those eyes. He wants to communicate. He just doesn�
�t know how.”
My son-in-law said to think of Gibbs as a fuzzy fish. “You feed him and watch him. That’s it.”
My friend Kwan said that God sent me Gibbs to teach me patience.
It’s been more than two years. What others consider small steps, my husband and I consider major victories. Gibbs still doesn’t eat out of a dish, but he will eat off the placemat — no more hiding under the table to eat. While he won’t take food from my hand, there are times he will run up and snatch string cheese dangling from the tips of my fingers.
He has found a second haven, a spot wedged between the wall and the end of the couch, close to us, but not too close.
Gibbs’s day is spent running from the table to the hidey-hole, dodging anyone standing in his way, still sleeping under the table at night.
When it’s just my husband and me in the evening, sitting in our chairs and watching TV, Gibbs will come and lie down on the carpet. Not next to us, but near enough to be a part of the family — as long as no one moves, that is.
Some days when he’s comfortable and feeling secure under the table, we can scratch his head. Of course, we have to move slowly and only for an instant.
Gibbs’s saving grace is being housebroken. “Outside” is the magic word. Ask if he wants to go outside and then get out of the way. He races around the room, comes to a screeching halt at the back door and does what we call the “potty dance,” jumping into the air and spinning around in circles until we open the door. He’s still not sure if the yard is a safe place, so either my husband or I have to go outside with him. While sniffing and inspecting, looking for that perfect spot, he keeps a watchful eye on us, making sure we’re still there.
