We pulled out of that parking lot with our precious new puppy, and I never looked back. We lived in that town for five more years and never once visited the shelter again, but every time I drove past I looked to see if there was smoke coming out of the incinerator.
That was seventeen years ago. Shelters have changed quite a bit, but not nearly enough. There are still kill shelters, but now at least, there are many rescues and no-kill shelters too. We toured the local Animal Rescue, a no-kill shelter just a few miles from our house. Most of the dogs had been there for quite some time. We took our youngest son, Ian, who was twelve at the time, with us and found one dog that seemed pretty nice. And by pretty nice, I mean he didn’t lunge at Ian like he intended to kill as several had; he wagged his tail, and he had all his limbs.
We walked the dog around their property. I tried to picture him as ours. He was sweet, but nervous, and clearly wanted to go back with the other dogs. His manners were fine, but he seemed uninterested in us. Maybe I would have felt differently if there had been an incinerator in the parking lot, but we put him back. He was a nice dog; someone would certainly adopt him.
We looked on website after website at dog after dog after dog. It was pretty clear that Nick would be happy with any dog. He just liked dogs. Any of them would be fine for him. This was going to be my call, my decision. We filled out lengthy applications and enlisted our friends to be references. But none of the dogs measured up. None felt right. I’d watch Gracie roll on my couch, leaving a trail of white hair and the faint scent of horse manure, and think—we have to be pickier this time. We can’t adopt just any dog.
I emailed about several dogs only to be told they were already adopted. I began to wonder if the shelters were leaving pictures of the best dogs up on their site to entice people into applying. The old bait and switch, as it were.
Finally, I found a dog that seemed like a good fit. He was a young border collie at a shelter in Maryland, about a forty-minute drive from us. We were told we couldn’t meet him until we’d been approved, so I filled out yet another application and listed references. Over a lengthy phone interview, I answered questions about our income, family members, habits, dog knowledge, and how we would care for this dog if we were approved.
It hadn’t been nearly as complicated when we’d adopted Gracie only five years before. She’d come through a rescue. It had only been a matter of a few emails before we drove to her foster home and picked her up.
A few days later I got an email telling me that there was no need for a home visit. I had not been approved. What? We’d had Lucy for seventeen years and Gracie for six now. Wasn’t that evidence enough that we could provide a good, safe home for any dog? No, I was told; our invisible fence was not a safe situation for dogs. When I explained to my friends why we weren’t adopting the border collie, they told me to apply for a different dog but not mention the fence. It wasn’t as if anyone would see it if they came for a home visit. After all, it was invisible.
I considered this option, but in the end lying or not lying wasn’t the point. There was nothing wrong with keeping a dog in an invisible fence. Let’s see—the options are incinerate the dog because we can’t afford to shelter it any longer, or let someone adopt it and keep it in an invisible fence? Which is worse? AGH. The policy was stupid, and I told the shelter contact that in a lengthy email. I never heard from her again.
Right around that time, I saw a post on a local Facebook group I’d joined for pet owners and animal aficionados. It was a plea for foster homes for rescue dogs. I imagined we’d never be approved to foster a dog, what with our dangerous invisible fence and all, so I scrolled right past.
The next day I saw a post from a local friend about her foster dog. She was a beautiful Treeing Walker Coonhound. I messaged Karen right away and asked about the dog. She said this dog was very skittish and shy and needed time. We decided to wait and see how it did at Karen’s house.
Maybe it was because I was spending so much time on shelter and rescue sites, but the idea of fostering kept coming up. Every time I turned on the computer there was another mention of fostering. “Maybe we could foster dogs,” I said to Nick. “Essentially give them a try out, and keep the one that’s best.”
“You’d never be able to give a dog back,” warned Nick. “We’d end up with twenty dogs.”
When another hound dog appeared with an outfit called Operation Paws for Homes, I commented on the post, casually. “We might be able to foster this dog,” I wrote.
Immediately I got a message back with a link to an application. What the heck, I thought. They’ll never approve me with my invisible fence. I filled out the form, clearly stating our dangerous fence. I got an email back that same day asking when could I talk. Maybe they had only skimmed my application. Maybe they hadn’t noticed my big bad fence.
The next day I spoke with Mindy, from OPH. She didn’t say anything about my fence. She was more concerned with Gracie and her lack of heartworm meds. I explained about Gracie’s inability to swallow pills and how we’d tried for years to give her the expensive pills but most months we found them later under her dog bed. She said they’d have to consider this and she’d get back to me. Meanwhile, I wondered what the big deal was about heartworm, so I looked it up. “Holy shit,” I said to Nick. “We have to get those pills into Gracie somehow.” But then I read further and realized that there was also a topical heartworm medicine. I contacted my friend and neighbor who also happens to be our vet and asked him about it. “We don’t carry it, but I’ll write you a script,” he said.
I emailed Mindy back. “No worries. We found a way to get heartworm meds in Gracie.”
And that was that. We were now officially fosters for Operation Paws for Homes.
“Operation Paws for Homes?” asked Nick. “That’s kind of dorky sounding.” I made a face and then informed him that I’d been reading about rescues and OPH was very professional and moved a lot of dogs. “That’s good; I wouldn’t want us to take in some oddball dog and be stuck with it for years,” he said. I looked at Gracie, but said nothing.
Many of the rescues I’d read about were loaded with passion, but lacked organization and resources. I learned later how much rescue work is done on “a wing and a prayer,” and can only admire the self-sacrificing work done by so many, but if I was going to drag my family into this with me, I needed an organization with a real budget and a real plan. The people I talked to at OPH were passionate and professional, an important combination.
OPH also valued natural, healthy dog care—doling out coconut oil to help build up the foster dog’s immune system and cranberry extract to avert UTIs, feeding grain-free dog food, and dosing with probiotics.
“They’re weirdos, like me,” I said when I told the kids about the probiotics and grain-free food. They nodded knowingly. They’d spent the last eight years fighting my efforts to feed them more vegetables and less processed food, turning their noses up at my homemade yogurt. When I refused to subscribe to cable television or buy soda, they claimed I was stunting them socially. They rolled their eyes when I brought home a grain-grinder and invited local beekeepers to move their hives in. They were much more enthusiastic about Mom’s “dog thing” than Mom’s “organic thing.”
The next day, we were emailed a list of dogs headed our way on a transport that very weekend!
I looked through the options. I wanted to pick a good dog for our first foster. Fifteen-year-old Addie wanted a small dog—purse-sized. Twelve-year-old Ian, wanted a really, really big dog. When I asked my oldest son Brady, a senior in high school, what kind he wanted, he shrugged his shoulders. He was already mentally checking out of this inn, so he said any dog was fine. I chose Galina, the sweet little beagle with floppy ears and freckles who was now sleeping in our living room.
Galina was an odd name, a regular occurrence in dog rescue. One dog we’d considered adopting the month before was named Cornbread, and another Burrito. I wondered if the names were chosen according to what t
he rescue worker had for lunch that day. I thought Galina was a city in Texas, but I googled it and discovered it was the name of a wedding dress designer. So maybe the rescue worker was reading Brides magazine on her lunch break.
The next morning when I opened Galina’s crate, she regarded me warily from the back corner. I brought her some food and watched as she wolfed it down quickly. Then she took a tentative step toward me.
“See? I’m not so bad,” I said. I reached for her, and she braced herself but didn’t move. I clipped a leash on and she followed me outside. As the day wore on, she warmed up slowly. At first, remaining in her crate, but eventually wandering out to meet Gracie. In a few hours, she was exploring the house, crawling under the chairs in the kitchen in search of crumbs, and happily eating every treat I offered.
Galina’s first weekend with us was quite similar to having a visit from a busy toddler. She was adorable and made us speak in high pitched baby voices, but every time she was left unattended (and sometimes when she wasn’t), she put something she shouldn’t in her mouth. “Gross,” I laughed as she made off with Ian’s smelly soccer socks he’d left balled up beside the front door. Ever since he could walk, Ian had his hand or foot on a ball of some kind. He loved to play the game, any game, simply for the sheer joy of it. His sports gear littered our home. That weekend Galina gnawed on his baseball glove, chewed through the elastic on his shin guards, and popped a tiny souvenir football he’d won at the beach. She couldn’t resist the delicious scents of sweat, salt, and dirt.
I pulled a paper with the high school course selection list from her mouth. “Do you need this?” I asked Addie, holding out the wrinkled, sodden sheet. She paused, her hands poised above the piano keyboard, scowled at me and shook her head, before returning to her music. She had no patience for my interruptions or this new dog. Most days, Addie filled our home with music. She practiced for hours, pouring her emotions into the music. She’d always been an intense child. Even the doctor said so when at one day old she looked him in the eye and tracked his finger as he moved it back and forth. “She’s very intense,” he remarked. I remember lying in my hospital bed and wondering if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
Turns out it’s both. Having such an intense approach to life resulted in many tears and much yelling in her younger years. As a teenager, her highs are high and lows are low, and she always has an opinion that strains the fabric of our conservative small town. But when Addie pours all that intensity into her music, the result is stunning. Again and again, I listen to her sing or play and am left marveling at her gift and wondering where it will take her. Making a living in the arts is no small feat, but I am learning to accept her dream. When she talks about majoring in musical theater in college, her eyes light up with excitement, and each time I counter with, “But what else would you study?” her face drops and my heart knows I should have stayed quiet.
When Galina found a bottle of vitamins, she made music of her own, racing through the living room, the pills rattling in the plastic jar. I chased after her already imagining how I would explain to OPH that my foster had overdosed on children’s vitamins. That night when she chewed the side off the ottoman, I was almost grateful. The ugly vinyl ottoman had been an impulse buy and looked every bit as cheap as it was. Nick hauled it to the garbage and I vowed to keep a better eye on Galina.
On the counter at the orthodontists’ office where I’ve taken all three kids for braces, there is a shadow box containing a mangled, half-eaten retainer with a sign that says, “Dogs love retainers!” Every time I’ve seen it, I’ve thought, what kind of person would let their dog chew up a retainer? Now I knew—the kind of person who brought home a strange beagle in the dark of night and didn’t keep tabs on it.
By the end of the weekend, Galina seemed to like us more, but she still shrank from my touch. As I petted her, she froze, waiting for me to finish. It didn’t make sense that she shied from our attention, especially because she followed me from room to room, wagging her tail as I talked to her. What was her story? Galina arrived with no history. I scanned the handful of documents that came with her. No clues to her origin, only information on her health when pulled from the shelter. It seemed that people who work in the shelters don’t have time to document each dog’s story, they’re too busy trying to keep them alive. We’d have to deduce Galina’s history by her behaviors.
One Tuesday morning, Ian called shortly after he’d arrived at the middle school. He’d forgotten his drumsticks and practice pad, could I bring them? It was rare that Ian forgot anything. Brady and Addie had both been diagnosed with ADD at some point in their elementary years. They forgot instruments, lunches, and homework on a regular basis, but Ian was different. He had his father’s sense of responsibility, laying out his clothes the night before, reminding me about his orthodontist’s appointment, and was always dressed and ready thirty minutes before it was time to leave for practice. So when he called that morning asking if I could bring his drumsticks, I groaned and questioned whether it was necessary, but ultimately agreed to bring them to the school office before band period.
I decided to take Galina with me on the drive to school. She hadn’t been in a car since her arrival. As we drove, she peered out the window, occasionally letting out a quiet hound mutter when she saw something of interest. After leaving the drumsticks in the office for Ian, I hurried back to the car. Galina was sitting in the driver’s seat, paws on the steering wheel, watching out the window for me. As I approached she spun two circles, tail wagging, and then retreated to the backseat.
“See? You do like me!” I said, when I got in the car. She lay down on the seat and regarded me with her sad hound dog eyes as if to say, “For now.”
A few days later, we woke to eight inches of fresh snow. When I took Galina outside, she launched enthusiastically off the porch only to be immediately swallowed up in the deep powder. Her surprised expression made it clear she’d never seen snow before. With a quick shake of her head to free her long ears, she accepted the situation and in moments was leaping along like a dolphin across the yard. Ian chased after her with his sled.
The day was everything a snow day was supposed to be—sledding, shoveling, and hot chocolate. In the evening we all curled up on the couch in the living room to watch a movie. When I flicked on the TV, Galina stared at it intently. She climbed up on the back of the couch, never taking her eyes off the screen, and sat through the entire movie, seemingly enjoying it as much as we did.
This being Pennsylvania, the kids were back in school the very next day. We referred to this area as Pennsyltucky, partly because of the terrain, but mostly because of the attitudes and the plentiful 4x4 vehicles. Perched just four miles above the Mason-Dixon line, our exit is a frequent pit stop for people making their way from Baltimore or D.C. northward, as it boasts pretty much every fast-food restaurant in existence including a Cracker Barrel, whose parking lot is jammed at all hours. The original town is half a mile west of the exit and consists of one stoplight, a family-owned grocery store, and plethora of antiques shops. There’s a Walmart next to the interstate that serves as the town center; you can’t stop in to buy a roll of paper towels without running into someone you know.
“How’s the dog-thing going?” asked a friend as we stood in line to check out.
“I like it,” I told her.
“What kind of dog do you have?”
“She’s a beagle. Well, mostly beagle. She’s kind of small.”
“Like a pocket beagle?”
“Is there such a thing?”
“Yeah, I saw them in the paper. They weren’t cheap.”
I went home and informed my family that Galina was actually a pocket beagle. Nick looked at me skeptically.
“Where’d Galina come from?” asked Ian as she sat in his lap while he worked on homework at the kitchen table.
“South Carolina.”
“Didn’t anyone down there want her?”
“She was on the euthanasia list.”
Ian put down his pencil. He looked at Galina in his lap. “They were going to kill her?”
I nodded and unloaded the groceries. “They kill lots of dogs.”
“Like how many?”
“The shelter where she came from has to euthanize more dogs than they adopt out.”
“I’m glad she’s here,” he said and went back to his work. I was too. But in the big scheme of things, we’d only saved one beagle. There were countless others who never made it out of the shelter. I didn’t want to think about it. I couldn’t imagine having to be the person who decided which dogs lived and which dogs died.
Gracie watched Galina warily that first week, keeping her distance. But one morning I caught the two of them playing a game of tag in the living room. I’d come running when I heard Gracie’s snarls, but as I watched, they chased each other back and forth around the couch and coffee table. Galina looked like she was smiling and Gracie’s mouth hung open in delight. Eventually they lay down side by side on the carpet in a sunny spot. We were all in love with her, it seemed, even Gracie.
One night as I was walking Galina, waiting for her to focus and take care of business, there was a commotion in the driveway. Because of the snow and ice, the hay truck couldn’t get up the hill to our barn, so the hay was unloaded on the driveway instead. Nick began loading bales in and on our SUV to haul up to the barn. Galina was very interested in this activity, so I took her up the hill to watch.
I looped her leash around a post in the barn and helped stack the bales. Galina watched patiently, until a few chickens wandered into the barn probably looking to see if there was a second seating for dinner.
“What are these delightful creatures?” Galina yapped, in a high-pitched bark we hadn’t heard her use before. A voice that clearly said, “I have found my people and they are chickens!”
Another Good Dog Page 2
