I was frustrated that all anyone was seeing was the bad side of John Coffey. I’d hardly ever heard him bark before that day. He was actually a quiet dog. No one who was in Hanover for the event that day would have believed me. He rarely pulled on the leash, but at the event he was gagging and coughing from the effort. He growled and barked at the other dogs. Who wanted to take home the barking, gagging, bully dog? No one, apparently.
I couldn’t even distract him with tennis balls. When I picked one up, his gaze would lock on it and he’d chase after it, only to drop it the moment another dog/person/food/noise/car came into his view. He was too distracted to show off his superior catching skills.
All anybody got to see was a nervous, frantic, barking bundle of snarly nerves. That was not John Coffey. I felt badly that I’d put him in a situation where his best self couldn’t be seen.
Especially when he had such a great best self.
We’d settled into a routine with John Coffey and Gracie (who had become great buds) when I saw a plea for a foster home for a returned puppy. I was openly owning my puppy addiction at that point. Or maybe I just wanted to ease the heartbreak that surrounded any return. I knew the puppy would be confused. I knew the adopter would be in turmoil. Whenever I saw a notice on the OPH page about a dog or puppy being returned, I wanted to swoop in and take them all. Make it better. No dog should have to stay where she wasn’t absolutely wanted and loved.
It made me think about why I kept Gracie. Was it just the guilt? There might be a sliver of it there, but it was mostly that I made a promise to Gracie (and the kids who loved her). Fostering had given me a new appreciation for her. She was consistent. She was trying. She was doing the best she could. There was a lot to appreciate in that.
So that Wednesday, Foo Foo†† moved in. She came with a plethora of pink—two pink collars, two pink leashes, many pink toys, a pink harness, a pink sweater, and even a puffy pink jacket. There was a hot pink crate, but I declined it as we already had three crates cluttering up our house.
Foo Foo herself was not pink. She was gray. Steel gray. Even her eyes were gray. She was sleek with a long nose and skinny head that made her look very much like a seal. Pink looked nice with gray, but in honor of her new start, I slapped a gender-neutral neon yellow collar on her. It was padded and more comfortable than the stylish skinny pink one she’d been wearing when she arrived. I’d never been a girl who would suffer for fashion. I didn’t imagine this puppy was either.
At thirteen pounds, Foo Foo was a total cuddle-muffin, and everyone wanted to hold her. She was fine with this. We set up the puppy pen in our kitchen where she could have front row seats to the action. John Coffey was decidedly jealous. He peed on her puppy pen the first night. Foo Foo’s presence sent him into overdrive. He competed hard for everyone’s attention.
John Coffey was much bigger and heavier than Foo Foo, and I worried he’d hurt her, but he quickly realized his role as the big brother. He let her attach her alligator-like mouth to his neck and walked around the kitchen dragging her like a fancy scarf. He’d wrestle and play with her, but it wasn’t the hardball he played with Gracie. When she got too big for her britches, he’d sit on her or knock her down with a quick swing of his hips.
When an adopter turns up, I trust that OPH did their due diligence and the pup is the right match, but sometimes it’s completely clear that there is magic at hand, as well. Once again, I was going to lose a dog I could have happily adopted. Loving these dogs and letting them go wasn’t getting easier. They were only ours for a few weeks. And then their lives were upended once more, but hopefully they left us healthier, more confident, and with a heart all shined up and ready to love.
The family that arrived to meet John Coffey were quite obviously his people. He knew it immediately. Three boys—all for him! He circled them, his butt wagging in overdrive. They’d followed his progress on my blog and were well prepared for his enthusiastic personality. John Coffey was so anxious to get going that he leapt in their car as soon as a door was opened. We had to bring him back out to take a picture. When I snapped the shot, he had a huge smile on his face. That’s still one of my favorite adoption pictures.
It was a super-duper awesome adoption. One that made me absolutely sure that what we were doing made a difference. Of course, now I had all my fingers and toes crossed that he would not overwhelm them with his happiness and enthusiasm, and that he would NOT break into the “Lego room” that their four-year-old told me about!
Just before John Coffey’s family arrived, I got word that the puppies were being born!
What puppies? (You sound just like my husband!)
These would be the unborn puppies I’d committed to fostering when they were weaned. Chris, the mama dog’s foster, works full-time and could only commit to foster if someone agreed to take the puppies once they were weaned in about five weeks. She didn’t have to ask me twice. I tried to stay away, but as I might have mentioned, I have a puppy problem. “Hello, my name is Cara and I’m addicted to puppies . . . it’s been three months and twelve days since I last smelled puppy breath.”
While John Coffey was claiming his people and I was explaining the paperwork, my phone buzzed with texts that the puppies were arriving. (Number three is here!) As we took a picture, handed off the food and forms, and said our last goodbyes, my text went off again. (Four!)
As soon as their van cleared the driveway, I was racing across town to Chris’s house. I arrived amid a crisis. Puppy number two had been born with a cleft palate and was fading fast. Chris, her friend Sam, and daughter Caitlyn were distressed and scrambling to try to help this tiny soul. OPH medical was advising by phone how to tube feed the pup.
Fostering pregnant dogs and litters takes a special heart.‡‡ This was Chris’s second litter and the second time she would lose a newborn puppy. Tears ran down her face, as she took the tiny puppy from Caitlyn who had been holding it against her skin to keep her warm. Sadly, there was very little any of us could do. The puppy passed quietly and peacefully as Lily gave birth to puppy number five.
Despite her current circumstances, Lily was a beautiful black Lab with a wide expressive face, kind eyes, and a generous soul, allowing me, a complete stranger, to sit beside her for a front row seat to each birth. I tried to be a calm, helpful guest, but in my mind I was jumping around, shrieking, Oh my God! Did you see that? She just had a puppy! Look at all those puppies! In contrast, after the tears over the lost pup, Chris, Sam, and Caitlyn calmly watched the miracle unfold, quietly joking about the aggressive pup trying to nurse on his mother’s leg. I had to wonder if I could be as composed and capable in their shoes.
I’d seen horses give birth, but this was my first canine birth. While Lily didn’t need our assistance at all, I’d like to think our presence gave her a measure of comfort. We chose flower names for the pups in honor of their mama. The nine pups looked like skinny guinea pigs with their smashed noses and eyes squeezed shut. Chris told me their noses were squished to make it easier to nurse, but they probably wouldn’t be like that forever and their eyes would only stay closed for two weeks. The whole scene, bloody towels and all, was amazing. I doubted anyone in that neat little neighborhood with the matching houses and solitary tree in the front yard had any idea a miracle was taking place right on their street.
I had promised Chris I would take the puppies in five weeks when they were weaned, but now I tried to picture nine puppies in my mudroom. It was a terrifying thought. Six had been overwhelming, but nine? There was probably a limit to Nick’s willingness to indulge my addiction and this might just be it. I batted those thoughts away. I had five weeks to figure it out.
When the births were finally over, Chris and I opened the bottle of wine I’d brought to celebrate. We watched Lily resting with her puppies. I learned that Chris is a registered nurse which explained why she handled the grosser elements of the days’ activities so well. I knew who I’d be calling if I ever took in a pregnant mom of my own.
; By the time I came home to my lone foster puppy, Foo Foo, I was pretty high. Foo Foo looked enormous to me, even though she was only a bitty thirteen pounds (the newborn pups were all about one pound). I carried her to the couch and recounted the entire birth for Nick, whose only comment was, “Wow. Nine?”
“But we might not have to take all nine,” I told him. “Chris said maybe she could keep a few of them.”
Nick shook his head and went to bed. I took Foo Foo out for a last walk before putting her in her crate. We climbed the hill in the darkness. I sat on the fence, while Foo Foo battled with a cornstalk that had fallen over. The air was crisp, and I could smell all the woodstoves warming homes up and down our hollow. The stars were especially bright and for once, the lights from the Walmart across the valley didn’t seem to dull their shine. Foo Foo tired of the cornstalk and pulled me back toward the woods. I took one last look at the star-soaked night and thought, I witnessed a miracle today.
I also thought, Someday I’m going to foster a pregnant dog.
*OPH requires that a foster hold puppies for two weeks and dogs for one week to ensure that the animals are healthy and ready to go to a forever home.
†Shannon had been the approved adopter for Texas and so both OPH and I were happy to have found her a puppy.
‡See what I mean about the confusion of calling the person fostering a foster and the dog they are fostering a foster? I’m still learning the logic of rescue dog language.
§I sported a lovely black eye and a sore wrist, and yes, Nick made the requisite jokes about our fight.
¶I’m not making that up!
#Was he planning to take them with him when he left?
**Which he rocked, by the way. John Coffey was a first-rate kisser.
††Who had been named Daisy and seemed to answer to it despite only having been with her new adopter for two weeks.
‡‡Many pregnant moms don’t make it out of the shelters because no one wants to adopt a pregnant dog, and shelters aren’t equipped to whelp puppies. And even if they did, young litters living in a shelter would be in grave danger of being exposed to parvo and other contagious diseases that their immature, unvaccinated immune systems couldn’t survive. Many arrive in foster homes having had no prenatal care.
TEN
Hero Dog
Foo Foo’s adoption was imminent, so when I heard about a very special dog on the returns list, I jumped at the chance to invite her to our house.
Momma Bear was from Iraq. I’d followed some of her story via the OPH Facebook page, but had never met her. Upon introduction, she leaned against my leg, humbling me with her instantaneous affection. I was struck by her intelligent, trusting eyes.
The details of her story were third- and fourth-hand. I recovered most by combing through old emails and badgering other OPH people, but as all of it had taken place nearly a year ago, it was old news in the world of dog rescue where the present tragedy quickly supersedes the previous one. Here’s the gist of Momma Bear’s story:
The previous winter, Oscar and his wife* were working in Iraq, living near a university. They were attempting to help rescue dogs in a dangerous and unstable country.† The enormity of the problem made for heartbreaking work. Oscar and his wife had rescued seventeen dogs through their own efforts and money when they learned of three dogs living on the university’s campus that would soon be exterminated per campus policy. Hearing that one of the dogs was injured, Oscar went to the campus to see what he could do. There he found Momma Bear, along with the injured dog.
When Oscar attempted to assess the injured dog, he was surrounded by a pack of male dogs. Momma Bear put herself between him and the pack, using her large size and the ferocity of a mama bear to defend Oscar and the injured dog. He was impressed by her bravery, and experienced it again when he returned to the campus to help another dog who had just given birth. Once again, this remarkable large white dog accompanied Oscar around the campus and protected him from other dogs.
Oscar named the dog “Bear” because of her large size, white fur, and clipped ears and tail, which made her look like a polar bear. Ultimately, he rescued all three of the dogs, along with the new puppies, and put them in boarding kennels while homes were sought. Three months passed and all of the puppies and one of the dogs found homes. Oscar and his wife were preparing to leave the country, so they contacted Nowzad‡ to see if they might be able to help. Was there any way to get Bear and the remaining dog, Sultan, to the United States where a rescue organization might sponsor them?
Nowzad agreed to help bring the dogs to the United States and reached out to OPH to see if they would foster the dogs when they arrived stateside. OPH agreed and found foster homes for Bear and Sultan. OPH doesn’t reuse names and there was already a Bear in the system, so they added Momma to the name after hearing her story. Sultan became a foster fail, but Momma Bear was eventually adopted.
Now, nearly six months after she arrived in the U.S., she was being returned to OPH. I glanced at the return notes, but they contradicted themselves and didn’t square up with the notes from Momma Bear’s previous fosters. Many times we don’t know the real reason a dog is returned, and for my part, I wasn’t interested in the why, only the when. A few days later, Momma Bear arrived at our house.
I sat beside her on the floor her first morning, stroking the long white fur on her back. She glanced up at me and licked my hand. She was a young dog, but her life had not been easy. Her back was swayed, and her ears and tail had been cut off by kids in a local village. She had a bare patch on one elbow, and who knew what other scars hid beneath all that fur. She regarded me with large, brown eyes and licked my hand again.
She had won the hearts of plenty at OPH as she’d journeyed through the foster system regaining her health and confidence, being adopted, and now being returned. So many people were pulling for her, and I could see why. She was special. I would write about her for the newspaper, I decided.
The next day, I sat down at my computer and glanced behind me. Where was Momma Bear? She’d been my shadow up until that point. I found her standing at the entrance to the hall that led to my office.
“C’mon, girl,” I coaxed.
She stood in the doorway wagging her stumpy tail. I tried luring her with treats, but she refused to step into the hallway. I put on a leash and pulled, but she panicked at my efforts. She would not set foot in the narrow hallway.
“All right, you win,” I told her. “Let me get my laptop.”
I worked in the kitchen that day to keep her company. Later in the week, I went back to my office to work, but she did not join me, always stopping at the hallway entrance. I wished she could tell me what had happened in a narrow hallway that made her refuse to chance it. What nightmares had this dog brought with her across the Atlantic?
I tried to sort out her story so I could explain it clearly in the article for our local paper, but as I got to know her it was hard to reconcile the pictures of the sad, skinny dog in a barren land or the complaints of the returning adopter with the sweet dog lying in my kitchen.§
When Gracie growled at her upon introduction, Momma Bear looked at her with patient, knowing eyes, waiting for Gracie to let go of her threat. Gracie backed away, and after that she watched Momma Bear warily, but she never again threatened her.
Momma Bear was an easy dog to love. Her big heart and gentle nature couldn’t be missed. Ian was smitten upon first sight, and after the first day Nick said, “Tell them there’s no rush in finding her a home.” I even caught Addie lying on the hard, cold kitchen floor, arms wrapped around Momma Bear, quietly whispering her secrets.
Foo Foo fell in love hard, following Momma Bear everywhere. She would most likely pine more for Momma Bear than for me when she left that week. Momma Bear tolerated Foo Foo’s affection, allowing her to climb all over her, hang from her collar, and chew on her legs.
She was a large dog, as big as a small bear, but never seemed to be in the way. Her watchful eyes missed nothing and i
t was rare to see her truly sleeping. Somehow she managed to stay out from under my feet even as she followed me everywhere, like my large protective shadow. And she was perfectly housebroken. And when I say perfectly, I mean it. No accidents. At all.¶ Unlike pretty much every foster dog we’d had, Momma Bear was quiet and saved her barking for important things like the UPS guy on the porch waiting for a signature or Brady when he was locked out at 2:00 A.M.#
“She’s the best foster dog we’ve ever had,” said Ian, petting Momma Bear as he sat next to her on the kitchen floor.
“She is,” I agreed. I was busy getting ready for Thanksgiving. My extended family would be arriving from Ohio, New Jersey, and New Mexico, plus friends from Maryland. I loved our crowded house at Thanksgiving—the competitive cooking, the excessive eating, and the cousins reconnecting. It was my favorite day of the year.
“So why don’t we keep her?” Ian asked, not for the first time.
“We’ve been over this,” I told him, leveling my eyes at him before moving on to the task at hand—one hundred homemade crescent rolls.
“Don’t you love her?” he asked.
“I do,” I told him. “But that has nothing to do with it.”
He sighed and hugged Momma Bear, who licked his bare head. Ian has alopecia areata, which means he has no hair anywhere on his body. It’s an autoimmune disorder he developed when he was four years old. There is no known cause or cure at this point. Those first years after his diagnosis were hard on me as a parent. I was grateful that alopecia wasn’t life-threatening, but as I told so many people, alopecia was life-altering. I hated that my kid would have to explain his baldness time and again. It’s hard to be different when you are young, and I worried that he would be teased.
For the most part, that hasn’t happened. But what has happened is that Ian has grown up to be more sensitive to other people. He’s kind to everyone and looks beyond physical appearance. We’re all different, Ian’s difference is just more obvious.
Another Good Dog Page 13
