Another Good Dog

by Cara Sue Achterberg

  I ignored his comment and told him about the leash divider I’d ordered online so I could walk them together.‡‡ Even if it didn’t work, I figured as long as they didn’t both take off at the same time, in the same direction, I’d be able to hold them. Their combined weight was barely sixty-five pounds.

  And in the meantime, I’d try very hard not to lose my heart or my footing.

  *At many shelters “owner-surrenders” are not held long before being moved to the euthanasia list, as the shelter knows that no one will come looking for the dog.

  †I would later learn that I was lucky in this instance as rubbing noses and inserting hands inside mouths is not a safe way to “meet” a dog, especially a dog with such an unknown history. OPH does outreach programs to teach children how to safely interact with dogs.

  ‡Who knew writing was such a spectator sport?

  §Gracie makes a point of not even looking in my direction when I call her name.

  ¶But for the record, I DO love Gracie.

  #Although I do occasionally flirt with the idea of switching pictures on the OPH website and giving Gracie away to an unsuspecting adopter. Kidding. (Mostly.)

  **Instead of leaving it to soften and collect flies before the cat claimed it and then barfed it up later.

  ††Extremely common with all the rescue dogs.

  ‡‡In my teens and early twenties, I fox-hunted occasionally. I remembered the young hounds happily coupled together as they learned the ropes. I envisioned Texas and Tennessee having the same experience.

  SEVEN

  Heartbreak

  Leaving Brady in his new dorm, two hours away, was scary. This was my kid who everyone affectionately termed an “absent-minded professor.” What if he lost his key? Brady liked to take long walks, meandering for miles lost in the stories in his mind. That was fine in our little rural town, but how was that going to work here? What if he was mugged? Selinsgrove didn’t seem too dangerous, but still. One of his classes was scheduled for 8:00 A.M. and it was a rare day that summer when we’d seen Brady before noon. How would he ever get up in time? I’d bought him an alarm clock, but there were no guarantees that he’d use it.

  “This is the honors hall?” I asked as we made our way down the narrow hallway. I noted that the rooms on either side of his were for girls. Things sure had changed since I went to college and boys weren’t allowed on the hall after 11:00 P.M. Brady’s room was already crammed with his roommates’ furniture, boxes, and luggage. A refrigerator was perched atop two stacked dressers. There would be three boys crammed in a dorm room meant for two because the school had accepted so many new students they’d run out of housing. I couldn’t imagine how three young adults could coexist in such a tiny space, especially when I knew that one of those young adults hadn’t cleaned his room in a decade, hoarded books like the Library of Congress, and wrote on a manual typewriter.

  When it was time for us to leave, Brady walked us to the car. Standing under the ancient oak trees that ringed the campus, he hugged me. “Thanks for making this possible for me,” he said. “I love you.”

  In that moment I realized we’d done okay. Somehow, some way, we’d raised a grateful, smart, loving person. He might get lost or lose his key, but he’d figure it out.

  “Just like that,” I said to Nick as we pulled out of the campus. “It’s over.”

  “It’s not over.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah.”

  The part of Brady’s life where his parents guided his days was over. For the first time in almost nineteen years, I wouldn’t know where he was or what he ate or whether or not he was happy on a daily basis. Sure, we could call, but it wasn’t the same. I couldn’t exactly ask him for a play-by-play of all the days that I’d missed. I had to let go.

  I was happy for the distraction that Texas and Tennessee brought. When we picked them up from transport, they seemed shell-shocked, creeping along beside us across the parking lot. They were beautiful border collies from the same shelter in rural southwest Virginia. Texas looked like the border collies in the pictures—black-and-white patterns played across his body. Tennessee was all black and a little larger and more solid that Texas. They were sweet boys and it was easy to love them. You couldn’t find better-mannered guests.

  Those first few days, they watched everyone’s every move. Sadly, they cowered when any of us raised a hand above our waists, moved quickly, or picked up anything large. The dogs were in the kitchen eating their supper as Ian gathered his gear for baseball practice one afternoon. When his ride pulled in the driveway, he grabbed his bat from where it was learning in the corner, swinging it up over his shoulder. This sent both dogs scrambling across the wood floor, their nails struggling to find purchase.

  “Poor pups,” I told them as I lured them out from under the kitchen table after Ian left. They seemed grateful for any kindness thrown their way. Ducking their heads and sniffing at a proffered treat, like that visiting relative who was always saying, “Please don’t go to any trouble . . . really, I’m fine.” They crept about the house cautiously, and Texas ran into our sliding glass door numerous times. I wondered if they’d ever been in a house before.

  At transport, another foster had told me about “male dog wraps,” after I mentioned my concern that these boys we were picking up might mark our house as Frank had when he first arrived. She explained that the wraps were basically diapers that covered the hind end of a male dog, encasing the potential weapon.

  “You need to cover up those bad boys,” she said.

  Brilliant! I thought. First thing the next morning, I headed to the pet store to get some male dog wraps of my own. Tennessee gave me a worried look as I strapped a pirate-patterned wrap on him. I whispered, “I’m just covering up that bad boy,” and gave him a pat. It didn’t take long for both dogs to understand the place to pee was outside, and we put the wraps away for the next male foster dogs.

  Texas and Tennessee had only just settled in when we learned that Frank was being returned. I’d watched by email as the heartbreak unfolded for both Frank and his adopters. He could not make the adjustment to his new home. It just wasn’t the right fit.

  “We have to take him back,” I said after I told Nick the news.

  “I know,” he said, with a gleam in his eye. I knew what that gleam meant.

  “That doesn’t mean we’re keeping him.”

  “It doesn’t mean we’re not either,” he said.

  I wasn’t looking forward to wrestling with that decision again. I’d thought all along that it was up to us to choose a dog, but I was beginning to wonder if it wasn’t actually up to the dog to choose us. Was Frank too attached to us? Would he be capable of adapting to another home?

  Frank was alarmed to find new dogs in the house when he arrived, and he challenged Tennessee on several occasions. Texas was happy to let him rule the roost, but Tennessee wasn’t so willing to let him steal all the toys and all my attention. A few snarls later, they’d worked it out and spent the rest of the afternoon chasing each other around the kitchen, slamming into cabinets and upsetting the water bowl.

  Along with a large bag of food, a collar and leash, and my mixed emotions, Frank returned with his own beautiful custom dog bed. The huge L.L. Bean bed was large enough to share with his two new best friends. The almost-adopters insisted we keep it as it was monogrammed, Frank. We found a spot for it in the kitchen and it gave the canine guests, and occasionally Ian, a place to relax when restricted to the kitchen. The “Frank Bed” would become the favorite spot for dozens of fosters to come.

  I’d been attempting to walk Texas and Tennessee on a dual leash and for the most part it worked, but the dogs had very different personalities and as such, they didn’t always want to go in the same direction at the same time. It was Texas who seemed to do most of the unsorting whenever they got tangled. He’d quietly back up, duck, or lift a paw to untangle them while Tennessee kept moving along oblivious to the messes he was creating
. They were the yin and yang of border collies.

  I was outside in the garden one afternoon, having left the three dogs in the house for a rest (or a wrestle as the case might be). Suddenly the door swung open—one of the dogs had figured out the lever handle. All three of them took off across the yard, ducking under the pasture fence and continuing up the hill. I watched for a stunned moment before running to the house for three leashes and taking off after them.

  They only went as far as our horse pasture. I could see Frank running in large goofy circles around the horses. He knew to give them wide berth. The horses were completely unconcerned or possibly unaware as Texas and Tennessee approached them from opposite sides, crouched low in the grass. Images of one or both border collies getting their heads pummeled by Cocoa’s alpha mare hooves sent me flying over the fence.

  I knew I needed to get them out of the pasture, but it was fascinating to watch them work. Tennessee crept closer to the horses, his body close to the ground. He glanced back at me as if awaiting my signal. Texas approached them from the far side, his body so low that only his ears were visible in the tall grass. This was not their first rodeo. These dogs were clearly trained. When one of the horses shifted a few feet away from the others in search of better grass, Texas scuttled sideways like a crab, his eyes never leaving the horse.

  Finally, I whistled and called them. Texas immediately turned and trotted calmly to me. Tennessee glanced back at the horses, and then at me as if to say, “Are you sure? Couldn’t we just have one little chase?” I called again firmly and whistled and he came to me. I clipped on leashes and we headed back to the house with Frank loping along behind us.

  I watched Texas and Tennessee trot along in front of me. Real border collies! What would Nick say if I told him I wanted to keep all three dogs?

  When Frank was returned, I’d asked my foster coordinator, Mindy, to place a hold on him while I sorted out my feelings about adopting him. I didn’t think my decision had changed, but I wondered if his return was a sign. I tried to imagine our lives with a dog like Frank in it. I weighed his jealousy at sharing me with the dogs who came and went in our lives, with his happiness at being in our home.

  In the end, I decided that if I kept Frank I couldn’t keep fostering. It wouldn’t be fair to the dogs we fostered, or to Frank. It wasn’t time yet. There were too many more dogs left to save. Too many being euthanized because they had no place to go. Frank could survive without us, but there were so many other dogs who couldn’t. I emailed Mindy, “Change Frank back to adoptable.”

  The following Tuesday I had my first ever live TV interview. I woke up with my stomach in knots. What was I thinking agreeing to this? I wanted to be a writer, not a movie star. I read over the notes from the TV studio about not wearing loud patterns or white because “they can play tricks with the camera.” I stared at my closet until I felt a panic creep in. “Just get it over with,” I muttered and pulled out a black top and purple skirt. There is so much I love about being a writer, but promoting my writing is right up there with visiting the dentist or shopping for tires. A necessary torture. I can’t speak for all writers, but I’d much rather write than talk. So, the idea that on this day I would have to talk ON LIVE TELEVISION was terrifying.

  To calm my nerves and delay the inevitable, I spent extra time with the dogs that morning giving them an extended playtime outside because I knew they would be cooped up for a good portion of the day while I was in Harrisburg. The horses were in the barn away from the hot morning heat, and Texas cast longing glances toward the empty pasture.

  Now that I knew Texas and Tennessee would come the moment I called, I never put a leash on them. The three dogs had their usual crazy runaround and tackle game for a good twenty minutes. I marveled at the speed and intensity of their chase and laughed when Tennessee reversed directions so fast his feet went out from under him and he tumbled partway down the hill. Texas seemed to be flitting about on the edges of the game that morning, occasionally whacking at his head with his paw in an odd way, like swatting at flies. I could have watched their shenanigans all day, but I needed to put on makeup and agonize over my hair before the interview, so I called the dogs and headed for the house.

  Frank stayed by my side, while Texas and Tennessee swirled around us as we walked down the hill. When we reached the bottom, Texas spied my neighbor’s goats and immediately assumed the low crouch of a herding border collie, creeping toward the road. I panicked for a moment, worried he would dart across the road to herd the goats; but when I whistled he immediately spun around and raced back to me. Such a good dog.

  My interview went fine. While my pulse raced and my face flushed red, I managed to come across coherently thanks to the host who was very good at her job. When I got stuck at one point, my mind blanking, she smiled and prompted me with another question. Anyone watching would have thought my book was the best thing she’d read that year, when in reality she’d only seen a picture of the cover.* I liked her though, and felt like if it weren’t for the cameras and the lights and the people watching our every move, we could have been friends. I hadn’t told anyone about the show beforehand because if people I knew were watching, I’d have been even more nervous. So other than Nick there wasn’t anyone to call to see how it went.

  “You did fine, really. You looked great,” he told me as I walked to the car. I checked my phone for messages and saw one from my neighbor, “OH MY GOD! You were on TV!” She’d been at a doctor’s appointment and had seen the show in the waiting room. “I told everyone in the office that I knew you!” she told me later. There it was—my five minutes of fame. It was a relief to have it behind me.

  When I got home, the dogs treated me no differently than before I’d become a TV star. I let them out of their crates and then took them out for a romp, but they tired quickly in the heat and we went back inside. Not having the heart to put them back in their crates again, I double-checked that there was no food on the counters and left all three boys gated in the kitchen to run a quick errand. I needed to get my passport photo taken so I could renew my passport for an upcoming trip.

  I was gone about twenty minutes. When I arrived home, Frank and Tennessee greeted me at the door. I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped inside. There was an eerie smell, almost chemical; it made me shiver. Texas lay on the giant Frank bed with his chin on his front legs as if asleep. Only he wasn’t asleep. He was too still. He was gone.

  I screamed, and Ian and Addie came running. Texas’s body still felt warm. Had he choked on something? I looked in his mouth and saw nothing. “NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!” I yelled as I searched for any sign of life. “This can’t be happening! My beautiful boy!” I sobbed. I knelt next to Texas and stroked his still form. “This can’t be happening. Please, let this be a dream.” Addie and Ian stood beside me, not knowing what to do or say, but the other two dogs began wrestling as if nothing was wrong.

  At that moment, Nick pulled in the driveway. Addie ran outside to tell him what was happening. He was white as he checked Texas all over, too, prying his mouth open and forcing his fingers down his throat searching for an object that wasn’t there, hoping he could still save him. Neither of us could find any sign of injury or trauma. Texas was dead.

  I made phone calls, spoke with several OPH officials and the medical director. No one knew what could have happened. They would send his body to the state lab for testing to rule out anything contagious he could have brought with him from Virginia. I spent the rest of that teary day hugging Tennessee and Frank, and calling people, looking for clues, trying to figure out how Texas could have just laid down and died.

  “It happens,” said my vet, Chris, who is also my neighbor and friend, after we’d talked through every possibility. But it still made no sense to me. He was healthy, happy. Just that day I’d noticed what a shine his coat had gotten. He ate well, had learned to love treats, played and ran and smiled his big border collie smile. I could still picture Texas creeping up on my horses, letting it g
o as far as I dared before calling him off. He was a beautiful dog. I told Chris about the head swatting I’d seen Texas doing that morning and he said it might have meant something or not. We couldn’t know without an extensive autopsy, and OPH and the state would only test for infectious diseases. Autopsies were expensive, and I understood that resources would be better spent saving dogs.

  That night when the tears finally slowed, I was angry. One of the reasons I’d gotten into fostering was because I didn’t want to ever watch another dog die. Losing my beloved Lucy the year before had hurt too much. I didn’t want to do it again. I’d rather suffer through a thousand goodbyes than bury another dog. And now that’s exactly what I was doing. I didn’t sign up for this. I was done fostering. No more.

  The next morning, I walked Tennessee and Frank. They played and tussled as if Texas had never been here. I made the painful call to Texas’s approved adopter, who was actually my friend Mer. Her daughter, Shannon, had fallen in love with Texas when she met him the week before and was planning to adopt him and train him for agility. Texas would have been a superstar. We cried on the phone and I cried more when we hung up, imagining Shannon’s heartbreak at her mother’s news.

  How many tears had I shed this year over dogs? Loving them was too risky, I decided. There was no way around the inevitable grief. Could I keep doing this? Could I continue putting my heart out there again and again?

  I couldn’t get the image of Texas lying on the Frank bed out of my head. He was so still. So gone. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach persisted and just looking at Tennessee or thinking of little Shannon brought tears. It had been almost a year since Lucy died, and here I was again. Back in this dark, painful place.

  Sitting on the hill with Nick, surveying the manor the next night, we talked about it.

  “Maybe you need to dial it back a bit,” he suggested.