Probably because we so wanted to believe it, we got the impression that everyone was OK with the idea. Linda had tears in her eyes. We knew what we had to do. “I don’t want to leave Harley at the animal shelter one more night,” she said.
“Let’s go get him,” I agreed.
CHAPTER THREE
Going Home
AS MUCH AS I MIGHT AGREE WITH ANYONE WHO SAYS THAT WE impulsively adopted a year-old rescued dog we had only met a few hours ago, I have to plead not guilty by reason of pet lover insanity. I know people who carefully think through the decision to adopt, search the Internet, and spend time at different shelters to bring home the right animal. I applaud them for it. We are well educated and have been around a multitude of dogs without being tempted. Yet we could not bring ourselves to pass on Harley even though we’d done none of the reasonable research. Go figure.
I have heard from and know people who adopted older shelter dogs, and after a brief period of adjustment, the animals blended well into their homes. For some animals, the transition from shelter to home has been instantaneous.
To help us understand Harley better, after we adopted him we started to investigate information about cocker spaniels. We found disturbing items like “cocker rage” (a genetic tendency, caused by overbreeding, in which some cocker spaniels, later in life, suddenly bite the hands that feed them) and “needs to be brushed and groomed daily” (not a good fit for our busy lifestyles). I wondered if we’d have chosen this breed had we done our homework.
For any other major decision, we’d have at least slept on it overnight. Misgivings about what we were getting into might have come had we waited for a good night’s sleep to slow us down. I’m not saying anybody else should follow our example. I’m just admitting that we weren’t prudent or deliberate.
After meeting Harley and feeling his pleading eyes bore into me, there was only one thing I believed we could do in good conscience. With our emotions ruling the day, we wouldn’t let the homeless little fellow spend any more time in the animal shelter kennel.
Linda and I rushed back to the shelter. A string of green lights whisked us through traffic, and we arrived twenty minutes before the place closed. The adoption counter was open. Harley’s papers to put him on hold still sat there, ready to be processed.
While I submitted the paperwork requesting to adopt Harley, a young clerk told me that the dog was physically in excellent shape. Later, Linda confided in me about her conviction that this dog would be a special gift from heaven. “While you signed the papers,” she said, “on the inner screen of my mind, I could see a shaft of brilliant white light. It swirled in a circle around our heads. Then the light slowly entered us like a stream of water being absorbed into a river. A strong wave of divine love surged through my body with such force that I felt a jolt. I understood in that moment, this soul had joined our family.”
After we completed the adoption process, Linda and I put Harley’s new matching blue collar and leash on him. We brought the nervous and excited little dog to a grassy area outside the shelter. I walked him around for a few minutes so he could relieve himself, while Linda sat on a bench and watched.
A thin, tall woman with curly dark hair approached me. “Did you just adopt this dog?” she asked. After I nodded yes, she stood in front of Harley. She lowered and then raised her cupped hand toward her chest in the dog-obedience hand signal that goes with the command “sit.” Trainers use this gesture because even with no training, a dog will automatically sit while raising his eyes to the treat hovering above his head. Harley immediately plopped his little butt down on the grass and stared at her. He waited for her hand to reveal a hidden treat. “Smart dog,” she said.
“Smart dog,” I agreed. It pleased me that someone had noticed Harley was a smart dog even before we drove off the shelter parking lot.
I gestured for him to hop into the backseat of our car. Nimbly he jumped up as if he wanted out of there as soon as possible. While I drove, Harley surveyed traffic from the side windows. His innate curiosity seemed to be overcoming a natural nervousness at being uprooted once more.
Linda said, “Let’s take him for a walk around Lake Harriet before we go to the pet store.”
Lake Harriet, with its Victorian pavilions and public paved trail, is a Minneapolis landmark. I felt a tinge of sadness at Linda’s suggestion. The three-and-a-half-mile path around the lake had been our favorite place to walk Taylor.
After we held a memorial service for Taylor, we scattered her ashes at one of her favorite spots for viewing the lake. It seemed fitting to take Harley to Lake Harriet as a symbolic way of introducing him to our sweet friend. We had walked almost daily with Taylor, until cancer riddled her body. I sensed a visit to the lake would help to reconcile the past to the present.
When I stopped the car at a red light, a Harley-Davidson motorcycle pulled up next to us. Harley lunged from the backseat to the armrest between us. His ears flailed back. He glared at the bike and growled. Linda’s eyes widened. Harley had ferociously expressed dislike for his namesake. She looked at me and said, “This dog does not want to be called Harley.”
“Definitely not,” I agreed.
From the shade trees around the lake, a gentle breeze swirled leaves that floated to the ground and blanketed the browning autumn grass. After we parked the car on the lake lot, Harley shot out of the backseat. Canada geese honked, and mallard ducks quacked warnings: A new hunting dog had arrived on the scene.
Lake Harriet shone a deep blue. Sunlight sparkled off its reflecting waves. Our little cocker spaniel spied the swirling leaf piles on grassy patches alongside the path. He immediately jumped into the multicolored leaves like a little kid bouncing on a mattress.
Joy filled my heart at the sight of this dog playing. He had so much of the unknown to fear. Yet he rolled and played, and bits of pumpkin-colored leaves clung to the curly fur of his black paws.
“Harley loves leaves,” I said.
Linda watched him for a while and said, “Let’s call him Leaf. That name keeps coming to me. I think he’d like it.” The name fit this slender dog, so light on his feet. His life had been scattered during an autumn cycle of change. “Yes, it’s a perfect name,” I said. “A dog named Leaf.”
While watching him roll around, I decided to try out his new name. “Leaf,” I called. His little head shot up, and he looked at me with the intelligent expression in his eyes that had intrigued me at the animal shelter. “Leaf,” I said again, more softly this time. “Leaf.”
As we continued our walk with Leaf, I began to feel lighter and less burdened. The sharp, heavy pain of Taylor’s death lifted now that my heart opened with love for another being. This abandoned and confused pup desperately needed a safe and loving home with good people who would never desert him. I looked down at Leaf and inwardly proclaimed, “I’m going to be here for you from now on.”
Then, as if that thought wasn’t powerful enough, I said out loud, “Leaf, I’ll always take care of you.” I wanted him to know that he’d never go back to the animal shelter. I wish I could say that Leaf looked back at me and nodded or somehow communicated that he understood. There was no reason for him to believe that human words could be trusted. Or that promises people made to dogs would never be broken.
On the way back to the car, a large man approached us from the opposite direction. Leaf’s little body stiffened. As he did when the Harley motorcycle idled next to our car, he emitted a menacing growl. Although he weighed only twenty-five pounds, I had to use my strength to pull in his leash and hold on to it tightly. Leaf acted as if he wanted to take a chunk out of the man’s leg. What memory brought such a strong emotional reaction from our little cocker spaniel? I managed to stop him from lunging for the man who innocently strolled past us.
Linda and I exchanged worried glances. “OK, Leaf,” I said. “It may take time for you to relax and trust us to take care of you. It’s OK, boy. You will soon be home.”
At the pet-supply store, L
eaf smelled dog-food bags and other dogs who shopped with their people. The smiles and comments about how adorable Leaf was reassured me. We’d made the right decision by adopting such a well-adjusted, friendly rescue dog.
While nobody was looking Leaf lifted his leg to take ownership of one of the floor-level bins that contained dog treats. I caught the power play too late to stop it. While Linda held on to him, I hurried to get one of the cleanup wipes. The store supplied them for overly stimulated canine customers.
When we went to check out, the young cashier said, “I have a girl cocker spaniel. I love her so much. Do you have problems house training? I’ve had my dog for over a year. She still has never been house-trained. But I love her.”
I thought about the smell in the clerk’s home. I knew that I would work hard to teach Leaf where to go to the bathroom. Our previous two dogs had been relatively easy to train. We’d only had to take them to a spot in the backyard a few times, and they’d figured out exactly what we wanted them to do.
When we arrived home Leaf was hesitant. Unlike the eager Taylor, he didn’t immediately leap from the seat. “He’s cautious,” I told Linda. I snapped the leash onto his collar and signaled for him to jump out of the car. “OK, boy,” I encouraged. He bounded onto the concrete garage floor. Was he starting to trust me already?
We walked through the backyard and into the back door of our home. Leaf thrust his nose in the air and took a long, slow inhale of the world he was about to enter. “Cats,” Linda crooned. We laughed. The smart cats were nowhere in sight. They were most likely downstairs in their “basement apartment.”
I snapped off Leaf’s leash. He hurried into the kitchen. Feverishly he sniffed everything. When we entered the dining room from the kitchen, his paws touched the carpeted floor. He yanked his right paw back as if he’d had an electrical shock. The carpet with its multiple odors—cat, human, Taylor—must have unnerved him. Linda said, “It looks like he’s never walked on carpet before.”
“Maybe he hasn’t been inside a house,” I added.
Leaf made his way from the dining room into the living room. He glanced at me from the corners of his eyes and did another quick inhale with his upturned nose. The depth of his sniffing told me that with each step he cataloged all the rich new scents.
Linda was concerned that the cats would be indignant and then angry if they didn’t at least get to see their new brother. We knew the importance of gradually introducing a new pet into the home. The older residents have to first become accustomed to the smells and sights of an unfamiliar animal.
I went downstairs, picked up our seven-pound, black-and-white tuxedo cat Cuddles, and held her in my arms. Raised as a kitten and adopted from the same animal shelter where we’d found Leaf, Cuddles is our self-appointed hostess. When reporters come to the house to interview us about our books, Cuddles wins them over by playfully posing for the camera.
While Linda held on to Leaf, I stood at a distance and showed him to Cuddles. She reared up her spine and hissed at him. Leaf playfully lunged toward her, and she spat back at him. “Enough of that,” Linda said. “She knows he’s here.”
I took Cuddles back downstairs and placed her on the soft pillow of her couch. She glared at me. If Cuddles, our friendly cat, had had such a reaction, what would happen with Speedy, our skittish tabby? He was not at all fond of strangers. Still, I thought it was important for Speedy to get his own sniff of the intruder. His green eyes glowered at the bouncing dog. Within seconds I returned Speedy to his basement couch. If it were up to him, I’m sure he’d just as soon never again lay eyes on that dog.
Linda and I sat on the couch to think about what to do next. I said, “Guess Leaf doesn’t exactly remind the cats of Taylor.” While we talked, Leaf found the picture window that spans the living room wall and overlooks the city sidewalk in front of our house. He hunched down on his back legs. His tiny face landed at exactly the right height for peering over the windowpane. Occasionally his tail wagged as a person walking a dog passed by the house.
The bird on his perch remained uncharacteristically quiet. If he had yearned for more drama to keep him entertained, his wish had come true. Sunshine’s head bobbed from side to side. He watched Leaf dart from one room to another. Any noise or sound caught the dog’s attention, and he’d run toward it.
For some reason Leaf’s nervousness and discomfort made my affection for him grow. I assumed that for some period of time, he’d had to take care of himself. He looked like a pup who learned not to rely on others. Yet I sensed that this dog needed me.
After a few days the cats could come upstairs. They’d go back to their routine of looking out the living room window and lounging on their carpeted kitty condo. We planned to put up a gate we had purchased at the pet store between the hallway and my office. Leaf could stay in one section of the house, and the cats could get used to his presence without having to be in the same room with him.
We also bought a large fabric-covered dog crate and a soft dog bed that fit into it. Leaf would have a man cave to call his own. As for crate training, we’d learn more about that careful process later when we bought a book on the subject.
On the first night of Leaf’s arrival, we thought he might be scared, so we put his crate in our bedroom. That way, he’d be able to hear us breathing and feel comforted. At first he whimpered. Then, as if he was an instrument reaching crescendo pitch, Leaf’s whimper turned into a howl. If anyone doubts that dogs descended from wolves, they’d only need to hear Leaf’s howling to know the truth. One or two blood-curdling wails prompted Linda to wish hopefully, “He’ll stop in a few minutes.” Ten minutes later he was still baying.
We tried to calm him. I found a night-light and plugged it in, so that its glow warmed the bedroom. Again, we switched off our bedside lamps. The howling resumed.
“Leaf, what’s wrong, baby?” Linda asked.
Five more minutes of shrieking. Then Leaf became quiet. We almost fell asleep when Leaf started yowling as if announcing the end of the world. I moved his dog bed out of the crate and placed it closer to our bed.
“He might need to go outside,” I told Linda after he howled again. I put on my clothes and fastened Leaf’s leash to his collar. We trekked out the front door for a midnight stroll. He walked around in circles in the front yard. We hadn’t yet established a place for him to go regularly in the backyard. No scents were sweet enough to signal his spot. Finally he peed a little. Could sleep be in sight?
I trundled him back indoors. He sniffed the carpet. Before I could stop him, he lifted his leg and left his mark. He did have to go after all.
Linda got up and found the pet-stain remover we’d bought that day. She soaked the wet spot with the solution. Then she sat on the living room floor and sighed.
Since we couldn’t sleep, we discussed our options. We resolved to return to the pet-supply store and find an herbal remedy that could help to calm our dog’s nerves. Throughout the first night I repeatedly took Leaf outside for bathroom breaks. He didn’t need to go anymore. Why would he? Our living room had served as his urinal.
By morning two sleep-deprived new dog parents faced each other over a cup of strong coffee. Their rescued cocker spaniel snored quietly outside his dog crate.
CHAPTER FOUR
Leaf’s Secrets
I HOPED THAT WE’D EVENTUALLY DISCOVER ENOUGH CLUES TO LEAF’S secret past for us to be able to help him heal. As I soon discovered, he brought many scars with him from his previous life. Severe separation anxiety made it difficult to ever let him be by himself, even in a room in our house. His unfamiliarity with living indoors destroyed our carpet. Due to his strong chase instinct, he terrorized our cats. Leaf lurched at other dogs, rabbits, and squirrels whenever we walked him around the neighborhood, which meant sore shoulders and knees for us.
I looked to veterinarians, trainers, and animal-loving friends for help. Because animal communicators had helped us with our pets in the past, I was grateful when one of them offere
d to listen to Leaf telepathically.
Marcia Wilson, a California woman who had served as a judge in our Angel Animals story contests, offered to tune in to our troubled boy. On a cold November day, Linda, Leaf, and I huddled together in a quiet bedroom to have a conversation with Marcia by phone. She quickly told us, “This is different than my sessions with other dogs. Leaf is very quiet. Too quiet. He won’t talk to me.”
What could we do? Although each person we consulted had given important pieces to the puzzle that was Leaf, no one had been able to adequately advise us on how to make him more comfortable or less anxious. Our sleepless nights were blending into stress-filled days as we tried to cope with all of this dog’s erratic behaviors and fears.
Marcia tried to reassure Leaf. “All your new mom and dad want to do is to make life better for you.” Then she asked him what had happened at the shelter. His answer would make us understand the depth and source of his suffering.
“I got left.”
When Marcia told us what Leaf had communicated to her, he lowered his head. His body slumped to the floor. Marcia, who couldn’t see Leaf’s body language, said, “He feels so much shame. He doesn’t know what he did wrong.”
Even though Linda and I reassured him that this was his forever home, would Leaf still wonder if he would ever be left again? How long would it take before he believed that no matter how often we corrected him or gave him time-outs in his comfortable crate, he was home? How much praise and affection would he require to bolster his self-esteem? Could he believe that we’d never stop loving him?
After making a revelation that obviously destroyed what little self-confidence he had, Leaf did not want to discuss it further with Marcia, as the memory was too painful. When the session ended, we tried to console him with a pat on the head, but he turned away from us. His little body quivered with embarrassment and grief.
Dog Named Leaf Page 3
