My Very Good, Very Bad Dog

by Amy Newmark

  TV time is a shared event with Stella, Kevin, and their cat Guinness lounging comfortably on an oversized sofa. “When it’s time to sleep, Stella hops onto our bed and dives under the covers. She’s definitely overcome her fear of enclosed places,” Kevin boasts.

  Lisa reached over to hug Kevin. “He’s made a complete reversal since that first day I asked to bring Stella home. Now he adores Stella and the unconditional, childlike affection she offers us.”

  Rhetorically, since Lisa clearly adores her unstoppable Stella, I asked, “How about you, Lisa?”

  “As for me, I thought I was just helping another victim, never guessing that she was so much more than a survivor. I hadn’t imagined the positive changes in store for me. Watching Stella open her heart to us and learn to trust humans, despite her early treatment, was inspirational. If she can take another chance on life, I can live mine fuller as well. Moving on is a wonderful form of liberation.”

  Our meal finished, Lisa and I dabbed away a few tears and hugged at the diner door. I remain in awe of the connection between man and his best friend.

  ~Marsha Porter

  One-Eyed Lily

  Fun fact: Many dogs lift their legs to pee higher because urine scent sprayed above the ground, such as on a fire hydrant or pole, carries farther, better marking their territory.

  I arrived one morning at the Humane Society where I volunteered as a dog walker. An old black German Shepherd lay on the office floor, curled up on an old blanket. She’d been brought in as a stray and put in the office to spare her the stress of the chaos of the kennels.

  Her information sheet really didn’t say much, other than the name they’d given her, Lily; her age, just “senior”; and her status “stray.” Only she knew where she’d come from, but she looked like it had been a long, hard road.

  “Can I walk her?” I eyed her uncertainly.

  “Sure, go ahead,” the desk clerk said. “We’ve had her out a few times.”

  I grabbed a leash and signed her out. “Come on, Lily!” I said in my most cheerful, happy-dog voice. “We’re going for a walk.”

  Of course, she didn’t know her name yet, but she knew I was talking to her and struggled to her feet. Most German Shepherds ride low in the back, but Lily looked as if her hips could go out at any moment.

  When she looked at me, I gasped. “Oh, my gosh! She’s only got one eye.”

  But when I looked more closely, I realized her second eye was there. It was just very small and sunken. The vet said it was probably the way she’d been born.

  Lily slowly followed me outside. We plodded up the hill to the free-run pens, where I turned her loose. For a moment, she stood there, back end drooping, with no life in her face. Finally, after a few moments, she wandered off and stood with her nose in a corner.

  I tried to toss a ball for her, but she just stood, head down, and watched it roll away. “Oh, Lily, what are we going to do with you?”

  I clipped the leash back on, and we took a little walk, shuffling along so she could sniff the bushes. Finally, I brought her back to her blanket in the office. “See you in a couple days, Lily,” I told her, but her head was already down on her paws again.

  For the next couple weeks, I made a point to stop and see Lily, and take her out for a bit. She started to make the effort to stand when she saw me. She walked a bit stronger, it seemed, and I thought I saw some glimmer of interest in what we were doing.

  But nobody seemed interested in her.

  With so many healthy young dogs and puppies needing homes, few people stopped to look at a broken-down, old, one-eyed dog. After a while, it became clear she was not going to be adopted.

  The Humane Society dog trainer had spent his career training German Shepherds for police work. Lily was breaking his heart. He’d noticed my bond with her. “She can’t live on the office floor forever,” he told me. “Would you maybe be interested in fostering her?”

  I wasn’t even an approved foster home, but my heart said “yes” before my brain had time to kick in. Twenty-four hours later, I had myself an ancient, one-eyed foster dog.

  My daughter Kika went with me to pick her up. I put a blanket down on the back seat, and together we hoisted Lily up onto it.

  Kika laughed. “Look at her! She knows she’s going home.”

  Lily lay across the seat, tongue lolling, grinning from ear to ear. Her one good eye was bright. For the first time, she seemed like a happy, optimistic dog.

  Kika and I drove home in high spirits, laughing and feeling good about our rescue mission.

  We pulled into our driveway about twenty minutes later, and I opened the back door to let Lily out. That’s when we realized she’d soaked the blanket — and the car seat, too. It was an omen of things to come….

  When we got into the house, I expected Lily to explore, but she went no farther than the kitchen and adjoining family room. She didn’t sniff, like most dogs in a new place would. She just walked in circles, wearing a big smile.

  “Look how happy she is!” Kika said.

  I’d have thought she was appreciating her new surroundings in her own way if she hadn’t walked right into a corner and stood smiling at it until we finally pulled her out and turned her around.

  Okay, so she had some dementia, along with her one eye, sinking back end, and maybe incontinence. We were in for good times.

  But Lily smiled — oh, how she smiled. And we just had to smile back.

  We set up a crate in the family room for her, lined with soft blankets. She went right in, beaming like a proud new homeowner.

  From then on, that crate was Lily’s home base. She divided her time between curling up there, walking in circles… and smiling radiantly at the corner.

  Lily had been billed as house-trained, but we never saw any evidence of it. In fact, she seemed determined to “hold it” anytime we took her outside or tried to walk with her — only to let it fly as soon as we stepped back inside.

  All I could figure was that Lily was — literally — house-trained. She only wanted to pee in the house.

  Nor did she respect her own crate, as any dog expert will tell you dogs naturally do. Every morning, I pulled soaked bedding from the crate and threw it in the washer. Every day, I treated stains in the area rug (and finally gave up and hauled it out to the curb).

  After several weeks, I had gotten no calls about possible adopters for Lily, so I went online and looked at her listing. There was my one-eyed girl — with a banner across the photo that said: “Adopted!”

  Kika thought that was hysterical. “They got you, Mama! They really saw you coming!”

  The shelter later explained that’s what they mark on unadoptable animals in hospice foster. After that, when anyone asked about our “new dog,” my insistence she was “just a foster” rang a bit hollow.

  “How long are you fostering her for?” a friend asked.

  I hesitated, lips twitching at the joke on me. “Till she dies.”

  Lily’s tongue hung out in a wide, panting grin. She got the joke, too.

  We had Lily eight months, until her back end sank so low she could no longer get up and down the steps to our back yard without a boost. And she was much too heavy for me to do that, especially several times a day. Lily never lost her smile, but her body was quitting on her.

  The day she left us, my daughter Maria and I sat and petted her while the drug took effect, and she slipped away. In that moment, eight months of soggy bedding and destroyed carpeting didn’t even come to mind. All I saw was her happy smile. It had blossomed from the moment she’d left the shelter, seemingly knowing she’d be safe, fed, and loved, with a roof over her head, a corner to stand in, and blankets to pee on.

  The vet tech held me while I sobbed. When I left, I told the shelter, “No more fosters.”

  A month later, I got a call. “What if it’s a very little foster…?”

  And that is how we got Spike.

  ~Susan Kimmel Wright

  The Crate Escape


  Fun fact: The term “dog days of summer” was coined by the ancient Greeks and Romans to describe the hottest days of summer, coinciding with the rising of the Dog Star, Sirius.

  The cruiser slows as it rounds the bend, the policeman looking across the street in amazement. The construction workers on the corner drop their shovels and stare. The neighbors watch from their windows and doors, mouths hanging open.

  What they’re looking at isn’t a fender bender, or a tsunami, or a Sasquatch. It’s my sister Brittany “Rollerblading” her dogs.

  Clad in a helmet, elbow pads, and Rollerblades, fourteen-year-old Brittany careens down the street, pulled by Georgia, Sadie and Tucker, three energetic dogs sprinting as fast as their legs can go. My brother Zac follows, Rollerblading behind a large Boxer named Digsby. As neighbors gawk and stop to watch, the humans and dogs finish their last twenty-mile-per-hour loop around the neighborhood and slow to a halt in front of our house. Inside, five more canines — two Portuguese Water Dogs, two Cockapoos, and a Golden Retriever — wait eagerly to walk at their own slower pace.

  “How many dogs do you take care of?” people often ask incredulously. When Brittany was ten, she started a home boarding business called The Crate Escape, turning her love of dogs into a way to earn money for horseback riding lessons. She started out with a dozen dogs that visited throughout the year, but word spread quickly, and she got more e-mails and calls every week. Now, she cares for more than seventy dogs on a regular basis.

  Most kennels keep dogs in cages, but in Brittany’s care, a dog’s day couldn’t be more different. Visiting pups nap in front of our fireplace, chase tennis balls in our back yard, and join the family on hiking and kayaking adventures. Brittany brushes them, gives them baths, removes wax from their ears, and clips their nails, all free for the owners. Many dogs sleep in her bed at night, often four or five at once. Depending on the size of the puppy pile, sometimes there’s barely enough room for Brittany.

  When they’re not staying at The Crate Escape, our neighborhood dogs pull at their leashes when their owners walk by, trying to turn in to our driveway. Georgia, a Boxer who lives a few houses down the road, runs over whenever her owners let her outside. She trots up our steps and “knocks” on the front door with her paw, waiting for Brittany to come out and play.

  But it’s not all tennis balls, treats, and wagging tails for Brittany. Taking care of dogs is a lot of work. They all have their own foods, medications, quirks and routines. Some have hip or heart problems and need special care. Some are afraid of thunder or bicycles, and others wake up at 4:00 every morning, barking to be let outside. But no matter how complicated or exhausting, Brittany takes care of all her charges’ needs.

  Brittany has read the entire Dog Training section of our library, and it’s not uncommon for owners to be shocked at how well behaved their dogs are after spending time with her.

  Recently, Brittany boarded two Labs named Trixie and Muffins. When their owner dropped them off, she warned that the two were uncontrollable, and often jumped on the dinner table and took food. Brittany knew her work was cut out for her as she watched the frantic dogs tearing around the kitchen, barking and jumping on people. But as soon as the owner left, Brittany got to work re-training Trixie and Muffins. First, she took both dogs for a long walk to get rid of all their pent-up energy. To teach them that she was the leader, she made them walk slightly behind her. When they got home, she went through the door before them. Trixie and Muffins were used to going wild at dinnertime, but she waited for them to sit quietly before putting the bowls of kibble down.

  At first, the dogs seemed uncertain about the new way to behave that Brittany was showing them. But within half a day, the change was unbelievable. The Labs followed Brittany around like shadows, obedient and relaxed. If they started jumping up or barking again, it only took one stern look from Brittany for them to stop, sit, and wait for her to tell them what to do. Needless to say, the owners were dumbstruck when Trixie and Muffins came home one week later — calm, polite and happy. In the months since, people who have had dogs for years have started coming to Brittany for advice.

  Our brothers joke that Brittany spends so much time around dogs, she’s starting to sprout a tail. Nobody is ever surprised to hear that she wants to become a veterinarian. For Brittany, running The Crate Escape isn’t about making a profit, or impressing people with how much she’s accomplished. It’s about the 280 muddy paws that she’s constantly wiping, the hundreds of Milk-Bones she hands out while teaching new tricks, and the blankets that will never, ever be fur-free again — no matter how many times they’re put through the wash.

  Big or small, purebred or mutt, well behaved or a diamond in the “ruff,” each dog is special to Brittany. She gives a piece of her heart to every four-legged fur ball that comes into her life. When people remark on how lucky all the dogs are, Brittany has a thoughtful reply. “It’s true, I scoop a lot of kibble, and go on more walks than I can count,” she says, “but there’s nothing quite like being woken up by three wet noses on your face, or having a caring paw placed on your arm when you sneeze. There’s no doubt about it — I’m the lucky one.”

  ~Caitlin Brown

  My Clever Dog

  Fun fact: For his book The Intelligence of Dogs Stanley Coren contacted all of the dog obedience judges registered with the AKC and the Canadian Kennel Club. According to the judges’ rankings, the top ten dogs in terms of working and obedience intelligence are, in order: Border Collie, Poodle, German Shepherd, Golden Retriever, Doberman Pinscher, Shetland Sheepdog, Labrador Retriever, Papillon, Rottweiler, and Australian Cattle Dog.

  Precious Punishes Herself

  Fun fact: Dogs can understand, on average, up to sixty words or phrases, although some can understand up to 300 words.

  Precious, our black Lab-Shepherd-Chow mix, showed us early on that she was oozing with personality and intelligence. As a puppy, she figured out how to unzip her bed and how to drop a ball down the stairs to play fetch with herself. She recognized the need to make noise (drop-catching a ball, continually squeaking a toy) to get attention, and seemingly understood more than basic commands and words.

  She knew that if she was a “good girl” while we were at work, she would get a special treat when “Mommy” came home. One day, I came home, and noting the trashcan was still in its usual position, assumed she had been good. I promptly handed her a treat. I was a little surprised that she initially wouldn’t take it, and then did so only with my encouragement. Then she lay down uncharacteristically in the hall with the treat in front of her. I remember thinking that perhaps she wasn’t feeling well and figured I’d keep an eye on her.

  I headed out the other side of the kitchen and found trash strewn about the dining room. I couldn’t help but shake my head in disgust, and said, “Oh-ho… so somebody really wasn’t a good girl after all.” I thought, too late now, she already has the treat, and went to change clothes after picking up the mess.

  After changing, I sat down on the couch to begin grading papers. A few moments later, Precious came into the living room, walked up to me, and placed her uneaten treat on my lap. Then she backed away and sat with her head down in shame. I sat there stunned — I couldn’t believe it! She knew she didn’t deserve the treat, and so she returned it.

  Of course, with that demonstration of shame, I had to let her have the treat, though it took quite a bit of coaxing and letting her know I forgave her. After that, I don’t think she ever bothered the trash again!

  ~Catherine D. Crocker

  The Timeshare

  Fun fact: Three types of identification are often used for dogs: tags, microchips, and tattoos. Identification greatly improves the chances you’ll find your dog if she gets loose.

  The black-and-white-spotted, mixed-breed dog had been spending a lot of time around our house for the past week. “It says her name is Boones, and there’s a phone number,” my son Chris confirmed after checking the small ID tag hanging from the dog’s collar
. “I’ll give them a call to let them know where she is in case they’re worried about her.”

  I stayed with the dog while Chris went in the house to make the call. I didn’t want her to run off should the owners wish to come and get her.

  Chris returned looking disheartened. “I see why Boones has been spending so much time here. That guy’s a total jerk! He says to do what we want with her — but if she returns to his house, he’ll shoot her.”

  When I asked if the man explained why he didn’t like her, Chris replied, “No, but he sounded pretty adamant about shooting her.”

  “Let’s keep her here for a while. Maybe he’s just having a bad day and will have a change of heart.” I tried to remain positive.

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Chris chuckled. “I doubt he even has a heart.”

  Food worked wonders for keeping Boones at our house. Although she had to share the cat’s food on the first night, we made certain to buy her some food of her own early the following morning.

  After a couple of weeks, we assumed we had a new dog. We hadn’t encountered any problems with her, nor had we heard from her owner.

  Chris decided to give him another call to ask if he wanted us to return his dog. His response in not-so-kind words was that she was all ours, and we were never to call again.

  That was fine with us.

  Boones seemed to thrive with our love and care. However, after several weeks, we began to notice that she was a little heavier than what would be an ideal weight for her. Since we knew she was getting plenty of exercise chasing butterflies, jumping for the Frisbee, and retrieving her ball, which the grandkids loved throwing for her, we decided to cut down on her food.