by Amy Newmark
Every few hours, I would hear Buster make his rounds, his feet following the thin dirt trail around the perimeter of our home. After he was assured all was safe, he returned to his spot beneath my bedroom window until the time came to make another round, another patrol.
Like a night watchman, just keeping us safe.
~Angela F. Foster
Reprinted by permission of Bruce Robinson
Juneau
Fun fact: Whole genome sequencing indicates that domesticated dogs and gray wolves are descended from a common extinct wolf ancestor 27,000–40,000 years ago.
I first started my wonderfully fulfilling journey into the world of animal rescue eighty-seven years ago, at the age of ten. Although each creature, large or small, was precious, there was one that formed a special bond with me and will remain forever in my heart.
Born in the mountains, Juneau was the descendant of an adventurous Husky that had invaded the wild-wolf gene pool many generations before her birth. While adopting wild animals of any kind into the home as “pets” or companions is not recommended, Juneau’s small percentage of dog genes precluded any thought of abandoning her to the wild where, without wolf parents to guide and nurture her, she would soon perish. This little wolf pup needed someone to care for her, and that someone happened to be me.
When I first met Juneau, she was about four weeks old. Her coal-black fur was thick and soft, with a narrow white streak running down her chest, a trait commonly seen in black tundra wolves. Her fat little tummy caused her to waddle, as her long, thickly furred tail helped her maintain her balance. I fell in love with her at first sight, but wondered for a moment if I could give her the kind of home she deserved. What wolf traits lurked inside that sweet, innocent-looking little body? But as I cuddled her, warm and yielding in my arms, all my doubts and fears vanished. She would be raised with my other canine rescues who would welcome this little orphan as one of their own.
After wrapping her in a blanket, I bade farewell to those who cared as deeply about her future as I did, and climbing into my pickup with my precious little bundle, I headed for home.
Our first night was spent in a mountain cabin. I gave her a bottle of prepared formula after which she eagerly chewed on a small amount of ground meat. When she had finished, I lifted her onto the rough-hewn bed. She crept under the blanket, and we fell asleep together.
When we arrived home, the resident dogs crowded around the latest arrival, sniffing her all over with tails wagging as they welcomed her into the pack.
I continued to give Juneau a bottle for as long as she wanted. I also handfed her, and when she snatched morsels of meat, her sharp little teeth bloodying my hands, I wrapped the meat around a spoon. Without harming her, the hard metal taught her to take food gently and with restraint — a habit that remained with her for the rest of her life. To further enhance the bonding process, I “wore” her in a little sling around my neck, breathing into her nostrils as she breathed into mine. She traveled everywhere with me in this fashion until she grew too heavy for comfort. At six months, she could jump like a deer, and all the fences were raised to a height of ten feet. But we needn’t have worried, because Juneau had no intention of leaving home.
As she matured, there were times when she was chastised, but she was never physically punished. A stern word of reproof was all it took for the ears to flatten, the head to lower in shame, and the body to roll over in the classical pose of submission. And because she was always treated with gentleness and respect, she learned to be gentle and loving in return. She settled well into family life, and apart from her super-intelligence and obvious wolf appearance, she was just another dog. At no time during her life was she ever a threat to humans, or even to other animals.
This incredible super-intelligence never failed to amaze us. Spontaneously, she learned to point with outstretched paw at a carton of milk on the counter, or anything else she happened to fancy. She learned to open latched gates and turn knobs. She skillfully used paws and teeth to pull the blankets off me when she thought I should be up (which was usually at dawn), rushing at me with teeth bared, uttering fearsome noises. But the prancing gait and furiously wagging tail assured me that it was all a game.
I remember waking from a deep sleep one night to find Juneau standing over me, two feet on either side of my body, frantically trying to rouse me. As I slowly came to my senses, I smelled smoke. A small fire, caused by faulty wiring, had started, and the carpet was already beginning to burn. Sam, my six-year-old Wolfhound, still snoozed by my bedside, oblivious of the danger. Jenny, our Sheepdog, wandered nervously around the room, aware that something was wrong yet not knowing what to do. But Juneau knew.
For years, a nightly ritual unfolded at dusk. As the skies darkened, Juneau started to pace. Her restless wandering persisted until the door was opened, and she disappeared into the night. Through the window, her dark shape could be seen outlined on the grass, silent and still as she listened for sounds of movement among the nocturnal creatures hidden in the undergrowth. True to her Arctic heritage, deep snow and subzero weather only seemed to enhance her desire for the cold outside world. But before midnight, she was at the back door, ready to rejoin the only family she had ever known.
Now she is gone, but I remember Juneau on fall days when the mountain air is cool and crisp, and the aspens turn to brilliant canopies of red-gold. I see her flitting across meadows, joyously free, poetry in motion, but always ready to return to my side at my command. To her, I was always the alpha, the leader of the pack.
One moment remains imprinted on my memory as if it were yesterday. I was walking in the high country with Juneau and two of our other dogs. Sam was trotting ahead, while Jenny was on some special mission of her own. Juneau was exploring a wooded area a hundred yards away. I was bringing up the rear when, stepping on some loose rocks, I lost my balance and headed down a steep incline on my back. At the bottom, I lay motionless, stunned by my fall. Within moments, Juneau was at my side. As she stood protectively over me, nose scenting the air and eyes scanning for possible danger, I experienced an indescribable sense of safety. Rigid and alert, she stood guard over me until I struggled painfully to my feet. Then she was off again like the wind, happily investigating every little scent that wafted to her keen nostrils. Sam and Jenny stood at the bottom of the incline, gazing in mild surprise as they wondered what had happened. But again, Juneau knew.
Juneau died peacefully in my arms at the age of fourteen years, five months. I still miss her, squeezed between the counter and my knees as I prepare her evening meal; I still miss her warm body pressed against mine at night; I miss the music of her voice — the haunting wolf call that was her only contribution to the wild she never knew. I miss Juneau, my beautiful, gentle wolf dog more than words can tell.
~Monica Agnew-Kinnaman
Extended Litter
Fun fact: A pregnant dog will usually lose her appetite about a day before delivering her puppies.
It was the Fourth of July and my neighbor decided to give the neighborhood its own personal display of loud but beautiful fireworks. Hershey, my four-year-old mixed-breed dog decided that fireworks were too loud and dangerous. As soon as the first blast exploded into the air, leaving brilliant colors in the clear night sky, she began to pace.
Hershey had given birth to eight puppies only a few short weeks before and she perceived the fireworks as a possible danger to her babies. She nervously paced from room to room in the house. Eventually, she decided she wanted a closer look at the fireworks, so I brought her outside.
Once outside, Hershey began pacing all over again. There was a break in the display, and she wasn’t sure where to look for the danger. Just as she was calming down, a bright blue firework whizzed through the air and exploded with a bang. Hershey ran straight for the house door. When I let her back inside, I assumed she would go straight to her puppies, but she didn’t. I was curious about what she would do next, so I followed her as she began another tour around the hous
e.
To my surprise, her first stop was to the bed where my younger daughter lay under the covers fast asleep. My daughter was curled up facing the wall, and Hershey couldn’t see her face very well. Hershey solved the problem by placing her front paws on the bed and leaning over until she could reach close enough to sniff my daughter. I still wasn’t sure what she was doing, so I continued to watch.
Hershey checked my older daughter next. She was still awake and on her cell phone like a typical teenager. Hershey sniffed her quickly, but not for long since she could see she was still awake.
Hershey left my daughters’ room and headed into the room containing my two sons and their bunk bed. My older son was sitting on the lower bed, awake, which meant he only required a quick sniff.
But my younger son was more of a problem, as he was in the top bunk. Hershey couldn’t put her front paws on the bed to give him a quick look and sniff. She also couldn’t see him very clearly from her position on the floor. There was no easy way for her to reach him. What she chose to do surprised me.
She sat down on the floor and stared at my son without moving an inch. When my son moved in his sleep, and she was satisfied that all her human babies were okay, she returned to her puppies.
The fireworks continued to entertain the neighborhood outside for another twenty minutes. Hershey paced the house and checked on her litter to make sure they were all right until the last firework. On that Fourth of July night, I realized that as far as Hershey was concerned, my kids were a part of her litter that needed to be watched over. It felt good to know my dog was willing to protect my children as though they belonged to her.
~Keysha G. Cass
Oreo
Fun fact: If you chase your runaway dog, it may cause him to run more, but if you run away from him, he may chase you and you can secure him that way.
When you live on a farm, people are always dropping off stray animals. They leave dogs and cats, and once we even watched someone open a car door and place an opossum on the road. So we weren’t surprised when a black-and-white Border Collie mix showed up on our porch one day. Usually, we called the local animal shelter to pick up the strays, but my young son Alec fell in love with this dog instantly, and within an hour, he had named him Oreo.
Within a day, I could see how he would cause havoc in a house. The great outdoors itself barely seemed enough space for him to run. When he was let out of his pen, he became a black-and-white blur of fur darting all over the place at breakneck speed. His high energy was entertaining, but also wearing. He never seemed to tire of running, of jumping on people, or of barking.
He barked incessantly, not only at strangers or wild animals, but at wind, leaves, and snowflakes. Sometimes, at 2:00 a.m., I thought he must be barking at the dark itself. He was also a world-class escape artist, wriggling loose from every sort of collar ever devised, and jumping over his enclosure fence with the agility of a white-tailed deer.
In an attempt to rid him of some of his excess energy, I often took him on long walks. They never seemed to tire him out, and I soon got tired of releasing him from the leash as soon as we reached the fields, only to have him return covered in the stench of some dead animal. The last straw was the day I reached for his collar to connect the leash and got a handful of stinky, gloppy cow manure. From that day on, it was my husband Gary’s job to leash him up for walks.
One day in late summer, Gary, Alec, and I walked with Oreo to the edge of the hayfield and unhooked the leash. He took off on his normal sprint across the lush, green fields and soon disappeared over the crest of a hill. My family walked the tractor path along the fence at a much slower pace, looking for four-leafed clovers and wondering when the sickle pears would be ripe enough to pick when suddenly we heard barking behind us.
We turned to see two unfamiliar dogs speeding toward us, and they did not look friendly. Ears back, teeth bared, they flew toward us over the dirt path. Gary shoved Alec and me toward a tree with some low-hanging branches. “Get Alec in the tree,” he ordered as he picked up a heavy stick. Heart pounding, I hoisted Alec onto a limb, and Gary squared off to face the attacking dogs and give us time to get into the tree.
Suddenly, a black-and-white streak shot over the hill and slammed into the bigger of the two dogs with such force that it tumbled into the other stray. The aggressors scrambled to their feet, but before they could get their bearings, Oreo wound in between them, over their backs, and around them in a tight circle, knocking them to the ground again and again. In less than a minute, the invaders had had enough, and they turned tail and ran back in the direction they came from. Oreo was hot on their heels until we couldn’t see any of them anymore.
Shaken, I lifted Alec from the tree. “Is Oreo going to be okay?” he asked, turning in my arms, searching the knee-high alfalfa with anxious eyes.
“I hope so,” I said, meeting Gary’s worried gaze. Our wild, crazy, sometimes infuriating dog had just saved our lives. I only hoped he hadn’t paid for ours with his.
We walked back toward the gate. Gary still carried the stick, and I carried Alec. We had almost reached the end of the field when Oreo came trotting up calmly from the opposite direction, his long, pink tongue lolling. He must have chased the interlopers in a giant circle, all the way to the far borders of our land.
“Oreo!” Alec squealed and twisted out of my arms to drop to the ground. He threw his arms around Oreo, and the three of us lavished our proud dog with praises and pats along his soft fur. His tail wagged happily as he soaked up the attention.
Finally, Gary said, “Let’s go home. I bet Oreo needs a drink after all that running.”
I grabbed his collar to attach his leash for the short walk along the road.
“Oh, Oreo!” I said in dismay as I discovered my fingers covered in manure again.
“Don’t yell at him, Mom,” Alec said. “He’s a good dog.”
I smiled and wiped my hands on the grass until I could wash them at home, then gave Oreo a grateful pat on the head, well away from his collar.
“You’re absolutely right, Alec,” I said. “He’s a hero.”
~April Serock
A Light in the Heart
Fun fact: Some animal shelters test how a dog behaves around cats so they can advise people on whether the dog they want to adopt is “cat-friendly.”
“Has anyone seen Charge?” I murmured, only half-expecting a reply. The kids were running around the house, each doing their own thing, and my husband was watching the football game. So I made a quick check of the bedrooms and looked out in the back yard. Since she had only been out of sight for a few hours, I wasn’t overly concerned. I assumed she must be under one of the kids’ beds, hiding from all the chaos that was normal for a Sunday afternoon in our home.
Charge was a homely, mixed-breed canine, to put it kindly. It wasn’t her fault; she was simply gifted with the worst appearance traits from each of the breeds in her background. She was about the size of a Cockapoo, with gray-and-black wiry hair, short legs, and a long straggly tail. She constantly cowered when strangers approached, which definitely did not help her appearance. But she had a heart of gold, and we loved her.
My husband had found Charge wandering along the freeway one day on his way home from work. She looked as though she hadn’t eaten in weeks, so he stopped and coaxed her into the car with bits of his leftover lunch. Not knowing what to do, he brought her home with the hope of finding her owners or at least a loving family that would take her.
However, once she was in the house, the kids were bound and determined not to let her go. After a day or two of whining and begging, we reluctantly gave in and told them we could keep her — a decision I never regretted.
After observing her actions for a few days, it was obvious that she had been abused. She was extremely untrusting and afraid of everyone. In time, though, she came to love the kids and slept on their beds every night.
Charge was exceptionally nurturing with the children. I wondered if the fact that
she had been mistreated had conditioned her to be protective of those who were hurting.
Every time the kids cried, Charge would run to them and tenderly offer her comforting paw. This worked wonders when they were injured, but it more or less defeated the purpose when they were whimpering during a time-out!
Unlike our mamma cat, who had recently given birth to a litter of five, Charge would have been an awesome mother. Sadly, she was never blessed with puppies. We sometimes joked that she was too homely to attract suitors.
When I was finally able to get everyone’s attention at the dinner table, I asked again if anyone had seen Charge. After a unanimous “No,” I thought it would be a good idea to take a look around the neighborhood.
“Who wants to go look for Charge with me?” I hollered as I opened the door of the hall closet and reached in to get my shoes.
“CHARGE!” I screamed, because there she was in the closet! She looked up at me from inside the kittens’ box as if to say, “Shhh, I just got them to sleep!”
We usually kept the closet door open a bit so Mamma Cat could go in and feed her litter, but she always left as soon as they finished nursing. Apparently, Charge knew they needed more Mamma time and was more than willing to help out.
The kids giggled with glee upon seeing the dog in with the kittens. My husband shook his head and quipped, “Only you, Charge. Only you!”
Charge continued to mother the kittens until they were placed in their new homes. She may not have been an attractive dog, but as Kahlil Gibran said, “Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.” Charge truly had that inner beauty.
~Connie Kaseweter Pullen
