You Had Me at Woof

by Julie Klam

  We did not. Beatrice very nearly had a seat at the table in our home and there was no furniture or rug that was off-limits to her. My dad was very concerned about this special rug he had that was colored with vegetable dye. I’m not really sure why, but you cannot pee on it. And Bea didn’t. (But Violet did.)

  I think because their dogs were so much bigger than Beatrice, my parents and their dogs didn’t begrudge her lying on the couch with the people at cocktail hour. I remember the first time I went to their house with Otto. They had recently put down wall-to-wall sea-foam carpeting in the upstairs. Definitely no dogs allowed. That didn’t apply to Otto. “He doesn’t see color,” I’d tell my father. Dad wasn’t amused. I watched him stand at the foot of the stairs, Otto at the top, head cocked, with my dad yelling, “Get down here, fatty!” Otto looked at him, considered the offer, and went back to my mother’s dressing room to lie in the sun. Sea foam wasn’t his choice, and it wasn’t his problem either.

  I am not sure their dogs were aware that Bea was even a dog. To them she was more of a doglet, and she quickly tired of being disrespected. When the summer came to an end, we all happily returned to the city with plans to get to work, make lots of money, and not have another kid, yet.

  I felt the space within me that was filled with the longing for another child quickly transformed into a desire for another dog. When I brought it up to Paul, he was very emphatically against it. Primarily, he felt that we were just getting back on our feet. Why would we want to complicate things? And there was also the cost and the time. Paul wanted to wait until things settled down a bit before getting back to the business of having a second kid. I felt entirely ambivalent about the second kid. Well, not so much ambivalent as terror-stricken by the thought. Kid number one was now walking and talking and sleeping at night and using the bathroom. A new baby would be like starting at square one. It was all sort of out there in the ether of the relationship; we weren’t ready for anything at the moment so it was all hypothesis. And one of the unexpected side effects of our summer away was that now Violet was afraid to sleep alone. So she slept in the bed with us. And Bea. When I went to the gynecologist, she asked me what birth control I was using. I said, “My daughter and our dog sleep in our bed.” She didn’t ask any further questions.

  In the meantime, we both started working again. I was writing from home on a computer that insisted on taking me to the Internet to look at dogs, specifically Boston terriers in need of rescue. There was always the thought that somewhere I’d find the reincarnated Otto who I’d imagined would have his identifying feature, the walleyes. I also thought he’d be back in Pennsylvania. The largest site for this sort of search is Petfinder.com, which kept leading me to Bostons who were in the custody of Northeast Boston Terrier Rescue. I went to the website and read the description.

  Northeast Boston Terrier Rescue (NEBTR) is comprised of volunteers based in NY/NJ and PA and serves Boston Terriers in need within reach of our helping hands. Most dogs in foster care for placement are adolescent to adult dogs in need of rehoming in life for a multitude of reasons and will need caring hands to guide them as they transition into new homes. All of our rescue dogs are fostered and evaluated for a two-week minimum to allow us to assess their personality and provide them with basic foundation skills—House/Crate training, basic manners—to ease their transition into new homes. It is our belief such work in foster care better prepares dogs for success and helps form lasting bonds.

  I clicked on a link called “Success Stories” with photos and stories of the dogs saved. One in particular stood out. It was a studio portrait photo of a Boston terrier whose tongue was hanging out of his mouth. His name was Champ and it said, “This attractive fellow is Champ. Champ was abused by his former owners. His jaw was broken and never set, so his tongue hangs out of his mouth. His new owners report this just adds to his wonderful personality! Champ now has a caring wonderful family who love him and his flaws.”

  I FELT A STINGING in my eyes and a lump in the pit of my stomach. I needed to help dogs like Champ. Dogs like Otto.

  I read on about what the volunteers did. It sounded perfect. I could help these dogs without getting one. In fact, it would be far better for all involved to help several rather than just one. The idea of doing volunteer work appealed to me as well. I had just cut out a quote from Marion Wright Edelman: “Service is the rent we pay to be living. It is the very purpose of life and not something you do in your spare time.” My grandmother drove buses of veterans during World War II, my mother and father taught disabled kids and mentored, and everyone in my family was heavily involved in various Jewish organizations. I sent an e-mail asking if I could help and got an application back.

  Hello Julie.

  I am the moderator for the welcome list and received your application to join the Northeast Boston Terrier Rescue group (NEBTR).

  We are always delighted to have new volunteers. Could you give me a little information about yourself, please?1. Who referred you to NEBTR, or how did you come to us? Internet search.

  2. Since we are a rescue group, our main objective is to assist in helping the many Bostons in need. We like to have on file a member’s full name and address, with phone numbers and e-mail.

  3. Have you any experience with Rescue? I adopted a rescue whom I had for ten years.

  4. Who do you live with? Husband and three-year-old daughter, and female Boston (spayed) (age three also).

  There are many ways in which members can help. Please let us know what you could do:Helping in transporting Bostons to and from homes: I don’t have a car.

  Pulling and transporting dogs from shelters: Yes, in the five boroughs.

  Fostering of Bostons until a forever home is found: Yes [kind of bold of me since I had yet to discuss it with the husband, but two weeks? That seemed okay].

  Fund-raising . . . making or donating items to raise funds: Yes.

  If this sounds like an organization you would like to be with, then please let me know.

  If you have any questions or need assistance, please feel free to contact me.

  Sheryl Trent

  Northeast Boston Terrier Rescue

  I sent the form back and got another e-mail from Sheryl thanking me and telling me that without a car I probably wouldn’t be called on to transport and with a three-year-old child, they most likely wouldn’t be able to give me a dog to foster since they didn’t really know what those dogs’ personalities were like and wouldn’t want to risk injuring my child. I would be able to do visits to prospective homes (in the New York metro area) when they came up. In the meantime I could familiarize myself with the Yahoo! group listings to get a sense of what they did.

  I was slightly disappointed, because fostering sounded fun, but also excited that I had committed to do something. And in a couple of years when Violet was older, maybe then I would be able to help more.

  Joining an existing Yahoo! group is like coming into a foreign language class that’s already under way. They’re all talking in acronyms and using terminology you’ve yet to learn. The first post I read said something about an HC. I Googled HC and it said: “Hors Concours,” which meant non-competing. Well, when the rescue group used it it meant Home Check—the home visit that was done for every prospective foster or adoptive home. I was going to have to get an HC before I would be able to foster, though that didn’t seem to be in the cards for the near future.

  There was a lot going on all the time. The postings involved issues with fosters, requests for someone to foster or for the group to get ready for a mass of incoming (from a puppy mill or just various people surrendering at the same time), information about upcoming fund-raisers, links to Boston terriers in shelters in the area, links to Bostons on Craigslist, warnings about pet food recalls, a lost-dog notice, and the occasional “OT” (off-topic), which was usually a joke or a poem. I had a feeling it was going to be one of those things where I’d join up but never really be a part of it . . . like the pregnancy Yahoo! group I’d
joined and dropped.

  About two weeks into it, my attention started to drift. Everything in the group seemed to be happening in York, Pennsylvania, or Rochester, New York.

  And then, as so many stories begin, one night the phone rang. It took me a while to understand what was happening. The intake coordinator of the group, Jane, had gotten my number from Sheryl. It turned out there was a Boston puppy, an eight-month-old, whose owner wanted to surrender him because she worked so much that he was spending all of his time in, and she was spending all of her money on, doggie day care. She’d bought him at a pet store on a whim even though she’d never had a dog and knew nothing about Bostons. I said, “Yes, yes,” and “Oh, the poor dog,” and “Oh, the dumb owner.” I called Paul and told him the good news and he said, “We’re going to end up keeping him, right?” And I said, “Of course not! Two-week foster!” And he said, “He’s going to sleep in our bed, right?” And I said, “No, he’s not.” I wanted to get him, assess him, and move him out so we’d be available for the next one. Sure it would be hard. I’d read the posts about the failed foster homes. Those wimpy people who fell in love with the dogs and couldn’t let them go. That would never be me.

  First, we had to have our home check. We were great, our home was fine, and Beatrice introduced a growling, snapping aspect into her personality that made me think we’d flunk for sure. We didn’t. It turned out that her reaction was “normal” and Jill, the volunteer, recommended introducing any potential foster to Beatrice outside on neutral territory. Little did Jill know that Beatrice considered the entire borough of Manhattan to be her territory.

  Now it was all approved and I just had to make arrangements with the owner, Charlotte, for the transfer. She e-mailed a bio and pictures of Hank. He was very cute and sweet. She had not yet had time to get him neutered but she would give us the money for that and he was “pretty much housebroken.”

  I met Charlotte in a pocket park by my home. Hank was bigger than his pictures and he was a little hyper, but you know, he was a puppy and probably very nervous about this trip. I had Bea come out for the neutral meeting; there was a good deal of snarling and barking as we took the dogs up to my apartment. Hank flew into the apartment jumping from chair to couch to dining-room table. “He’s nervous,” I told Paul. “Me too,” said Paul. Hank finally wound down and went to his bed, where he gnawed on his rawhide. Charlotte got teary-eyed as she prepared to say good-bye. She looked at him resting in his bed and said to him, “Why couldn’t you always act like this?” (Red flag! Hmm, but didn’t she say she was giving him up because she worked so much?) She handed over his papers from the pet store and the vet and signed the surrender forms I’d downloaded earlier, and where it said “Donation,” she said, “Well . . . he was fifteen hundred dollars!” In other words, she’d already donated to the pet store. I was anxious about the whole scene and figured the sooner she left, the sooner everyone would settle down, so I didn’t push it. I did remind her that she’d said she’d pay for the neutering and she told me to let her know the cost when it was done.

  And Charlotte left. And Hank did not.

  It was evening so we were all settling down to bed, or we tried to while Hank flew from chair to bed to head. Violet was in a self-taught earthquake position, crouched, head tucked under, beneath the table. There was no crate for him; there was no off switch for him. Apparently, what was meant by “pretty much housebroken” was “he pisses and craps wherever the hell he feels like.” All night long he barked and flew and yelped and . . . bit.

  In the morning I called Sheryl from my cell phone as I walked to the gym. It was our first conversation. She had a big laugh, a smoky voice, and an Australian accent. I did a five-minute monologue on the Horrors of Hank and how wrong Charlotte’s description of him was. She listened and waited till I finished.

  “First thing, love,” she said gently, “when owners are surrendering, many times they will say anything.”

  “You mean lie?” I said, and she laughed.

  She gave me some suggestions to calm Hank and told me to set up his neuter appointment; she explained the protocol about the billing and I told her that Charlotte was paying.

  When I got home, I e-mailed Charlotte. She answered right away asking how Hank was doing. She said she’d been extremely worried about him. I told her he was fine and she was relieved. I told her that I was arranging his neutering and she didn’t respond. The next day I e-mailed again to tell her the appointment had been set up and that it was going to be about four hundred and fifty dollars, not including post-op pain medication. Again, silence. A couple of days later she sent a reply that she’d been in Hawaii and got my e-mail and that four hundred and fifty dollars was too expensive; she offered to pay half. I was livid. Here I was taking in her effing dog that she didn’t give a whit about. I called Sheryl.

  I spewed my unedited thoughts about Charlotte’s behavior. I was shocked! Simply shocked. Sheryl was not. “Welcome to rescue,” she said.

  As it turns out in life, very little ends up being how you think it’s going to be. You know the Yiddish proverb “Mann traoch, Gott lauch”: “Man plans, God laughs.” My grand plan was to join a rescue group because it would be less of an emotional investment than getting a second dog. Kind of like thinking that having a different date every night is easier than a steady boyfriend or girlfriend. What I saw about fostering was that in addition to the obvious difficulties of taking in a surrendered dog, you also weren’t keeping them forever so in a sense you had to stay on an emotional leash—or not and then end up keeping the dog.

  I started to see that there was a strong learning curve, and that the rhythm of rescue involved expecting anything at any time. But being part of a group helping hundreds of dogs a year was so amazingly rewarding. I felt like I was more than a drop in the bucket; I was on a team of superheroes. Doing the work helped me to figure out that giving was a crucial part of my fabric. It was only when I began to help give voice to these creatures who cannot speak or ask for help for themselves that I felt the balance come into my own life.

  LESSON FOUR

  How to Listen to That Still, Small Voice

  Our first foster, Hank, it seemed, had some deep issues. We read articles and books about how to deal with them and correct his behavior. This was a new frontier for me since I’d never trained any of my own dogs. In fact, when Otto came to me, he understood the commands “sit,” “stay,” and even “roll over.” After a few months, I had unlearned him. With me it became clear to him that he got what he wanted whether he sat or stood on his head and no longer had use for commands. Every so often he’d sit when I asked him to, but his heart wasn’t in it. Occasionally, he’d do it for guests, like someone who picks up a child’s yo-yo at a party. (“It’s something like this, right?”) Once I had a dog trainer come to my home to help me teach him. I was concerned about his snapping at certain people. She walked into my apartment with a little bag of dry cat food X’s that she used to reward the dogs and her eyes fell on a plastic plate on the floor on which I’d lined up several kinds of treats including deli meats.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “That’s his snack tray,” I replied.

  “I don’t think I’m going to be able to get him to obey for my Friskies when he’s got his own buffet.”

  Later when we were outside walking she told me to make him go left when he wanted to go right. I looked at her. What was on the left? If he wanted to go right, I saw no problem with this. Finally she told me that Otto didn’t need a trainer, I did.

  So here I was years later wishing that I had gotten one. One article by a respected dog trainer said that when the puppy bites you, you should make a noise like a hurt puppy. I gave this nugget of wisdom to Paul and watched him respond to Hank’s nips with a high-pitched yowl. “Yee!” he yelled. Though it made me laugh really hard, it had zero effect on Hank.

  We quickly passed the two-week mark. Charlotte, the owner, ceased to exist, it seemed, and never came ac
ross with a cent. At the end of each week, I sent the directors of the group an update on Hank’s progress—of which there was none. The first one I creatively called “Hank’s Pupdate.” The next one was simply “hank.” Rather than settle in, he got worse and worse. I didn’t care about the chewing of shoes and dolls, or the fact that every time we turned our backs on him he’d be standing on our dining-room table, face in a plate. I could even bear the relentless barking, but when he took flight, his mouth wide open, heading our way, we all got really unnerved. We gave him a circus name: Hank the flying biting clown dog. (We pretended he was funny, so Violet wouldn’t be so frightened.) Returning from the playground one day we opened our apartment door and Hank’s teeth sunk into Violet’s arm. She was physically hurt, but worse than that, her feelings were hurt. I told Sheryl and Jane that we weren’t the right people to foster him. I suggested military school. They called a guy in the group who had taken some other bad seeds and turned them into upstanding dogs and he agreed to take a stab at Hank. We were looking at a minimum wait of a week to get a transport set up since the guy lived eight hours upstate. Mattie lent us her car so Paul could meet the guy halfway and we could get Hank out of our lives sooner. Once he was going, which he seemed to know, he was pretty much in a constant state of ballistic. We just ducked and covered, ducked and covered. It was like Hope and Glory.

  With all that, we still felt sad when we watched him drive away, his face plastered against the back window of the car. After all, it wasn’t his fault he’d never been socialized. It’s an owner’s job to teach manners.