My (and I believe Hadley’s) favorite time of the day was in the evening when we snuggled on the couch. Even if she was cowering in her crate, the moment I sat down on the couch, I’d have company. That’s what made me so sure what she really wanted was to love and be loved. Like all of us.
The coming week would be a big one for Hadley. We planned to cut down a Christmas tree, install it right next to her crate and pile presents under it. And there would be puppies! (What?! Did I say puppies?) Hadley’s little world was about to explode.
It was time to pick up the puppies from Lily’s litter at Chris’s house. In the end, Chris had decided that she could handle caring for four of them and would only send five with us. They were arriving just a few days before Christmas. I couldn’t imagine a better Christmas present! Most already had approved adopters, so we’d only have them for a few weeks until they were old enough to go home.
They now looked like little chunky Lab puppies. If you’ve ever seen Lab puppies, you know that it doesn’t get much cuter or busier. At five weeks, they had no qualms about walking through, playing with, or even sleeping in each other’s poop. I tried to stay on top of it,† but with the Christmas chaos, visitors, my own work, Hadley, and the fact that I had to bake six dozen cookies and package them beautifully for a neighbor’s cookie exchange, it was pretty much impossible to keep the puppies poop-free those first few days.
Fearing Hadley would be overwhelmed by the puppies, we kept her in the kitchen. This didn’t last long as we had plenty of untrained guests who didn’t remember to shut the gate. A few hours after they arrived, Hadley crept into the mudroom, wide-eyed at the puppies. She lay down and pressed her side against the pen fence and let the puppies sniff her all over. After that, whenever they whined she would get up from wherever she was hiding and trot to their pen. Then she’d lie down beside the pen and let the puppies poke at her and lick her through the wire. She seemed genuinely concerned for them. I immediately started filling in the blanks of Hadley’s story—maybe she was taken from her litter too early, maybe she was so scared and sad because she had never been socialized by her siblings. I’d never know, but if those little cherubs could help Hadley come out of her shell—it would be my best Christmas present.
Everything I’d read said we should wait for Hadley to come out of her crate on her own. And that made total sense. She was insecure and needed to know she had a safe place she could always go to, but here’s the thing—some of us need to be pushed from the nest.
I’m not a huge fan of change. I like to have my little routine in my little world. Things like software updates, new technology, attending public events, even parties make me anxious. There’s no avoiding most of them, so I plunge ahead, stuffing my worries and nerves aside. And you know what? It almost always goes well. And then I’m happily chatting with new people or marveling at how much easier my work is with this new whiz-bang system. I wasn’t going to venture out of my crate on my own, but once you force me—hey, this is pretty great!
I thought maybe Hadley and I were kindred spirits in this, so one day I let her out of her crate in the morning and then I closed it behind her. At first, she seemed worried. She clamored up in her couch cushion cave and hunkered down. But after a day or two she was boldly trotting through the kitchen, snagging a bag of cookies abandoned by some kid, and slinking back to the couch, hoping we didn’t notice. Nick followed her out and retrieved the cookies, and a moment later she was back, sniffing around the backpacks.
I had to shut Gracie’s crate also because otherwise Hadley would take up residence there, so Gracie claimed the Frank bed. The first time Hadley attempted to join her, Gracie snarled and Hadley scooted away, but an hour later, I found them sharing the bed like the matched set they were.
When I took Hadley out for her walk, she fearlessly approached one of the cats and was game to chase it if it wasn’t for that silly leash. Next, she grabbed a stick and carried it around with her as we toured the yard.
Who was this dog?
I knew it wasn’t just the closed crate; the puppies were key to Hadley’s blossoming. She loved the puppies. Her giddy joy when I carried a puppy toward her reminded me of the Looney Tunes Abominable Snowman when he picked up Daffy Duck. I will hug him and squeeze him and name him George, her excited wiggles seemed to say.
To keep the puppies safe from Hadley’s overly enthusiastic affection, we took the same approach we did when an older sibling wanted to hold the newest baby we brought home years ago. We got her comfortable on the couch and then we handed her the swaddled infant, or in this case the wiggling bundle of happy puppy. Then we supervised the interaction.
For their part, the puppies loved Hadley right back, climbing over and under her, lounging on top of her, chewing her tail, and giving her all manner of kisses. We kept all the action up on the couch and supervised, because Hadley could get overly excited and forget her size, plus Gracie was acting like the neighborhood bully who trotted by and snarled threats at them.
The puppies all had adopters, so there was no pressure to advertise their cuteness; still, I couldn’t resist and regularly posted pictures on my blog and Facebook. In no time at all, they had fans all over the world.
We celebrated the New Year in much the same way we had every year—dear friends, board games, leftover Christmas cookies, and plenty of beverages. I left Hadley’s crate open so that if she was overwhelmed by the presence of so many new faces, including a three-year-old, she would have a place to hide. She surprised us all by joining the party. As we gathered around the game set up on the coffee table, Hadley hopped up on the couch. She hung out the entire evening, despite the three-year-old instructing her to get in her “room,” so she could latch the door (she’d already tucked Gracie into her crate for the night). Hadley sat gamely‡ beside me through a loud game of Telestrations and plenty of rounds of Apples to Apples.
It had become clear that for all her fear and trembling, Hadley loved people. She was ready to find her family. My New Year’s hope was that she would find her forever home quickly so she could start falling in love with the right person.
Hadley and I were both distracted by and in love with the puppies. Not much was getting checked off my to-do list. Just like my other litter, I spent hours standing in the puppy room doorway watching the entertainment. The battles were epic. Hadley watched them from the other side of the fence, racing back and forth and whining to join them. When the puppies tired, they slept in a pile against the fence where Hadley lay on the other side.
Having a birthday at Christmas time is tricky. Instead of more presents, it’s become our tradition to go away for Nick’s birthday. This year was a monumental birthday, so I decided to surprise him with a visit to nearby Gettysburg.§ This meant leaving my teenagers in charge of the puppies.
I left detailed instructions and paid the kids per poop. In one twenty-four-hour period, Ian cleaned up sixteen poops and Addie put the rubber gloves on and held her nose long enough to deal with seven. If you’re doing your math, that means five puppies produced twenty-three poops in twenty-four hours. That’s nearly one poop per hour! Consider that the next time you think, hey, it’d be fun to foster puppies!
*He even forced me to shake on it.
†So to speak.
‡So to speak.
§Plenty of monuments there to celebrate the monumental birthday. I even found an obscure blog with an obscure walking tour I could download that would make my nerdy husband happy.
TWELVE
There’s an Adopter for Everyone
I’d never heard Hadley make a sound in all the time she was here, but somehow the house was quieter once she left. I missed her. Nick missed her. Ian was once again not happy with me for letting one of our dogs go.
Everyone else went to see the new Star Wars movie on Sunday, but I stayed home to dig out my desk. New year, new start and all that. I thought clearing my desk might clear my mind, and yet my mind kept finding its way to Hadley. I’d forgotten to
ask the adopters what they would call her. I couldn’t stop picturing her sweet, terrified eyes the night we brought her home six weeks ago. I kept trying to replace that image with the playful gleam she had when she was wrestling a puppy or the way she often glanced up at me when we walked outside—checking that I was still there. Maybe it hurt so much because she was the most broken dog we’d ever fostered. We’d watched her come out of her shell, going from a terrified, shut-down dog to the happy, playful puppy she was meant to be. I should have felt proud of what we’d done, not sad. Happy for Hadley, not worried that she missed us or would regress without our support.
I sifted through a stack of papers to file and shook off my worry. Clearly, adoption magic had happened once again. Evelyn* adopted Hadley, but her adult son Dave would spend his days with her. Dave and his teenage daughter lived with Evelyn. Dave was on disability for a condition that had already required numerous surgeries. He was home full-time. When he introduced himself to Hadley, she licked his hand. I think she sensed his gentle spirit. She was as relaxed as Hadley could be in the company of three new people.
There’s a lot of pressure on a dog and a family at a Meet and Greet. One of the biggest benefits of the foster system is that by the time dog and adopter meet, there’s been plenty of information passed back and forth between adopter and foster. Anyone who picked out Hadley in a shelter and adopted her for her adorable looks would have been completely unprepared to deal with a puppy so shut down. Dave had followed Hadley’s story on my blog and commented several times. He was drawn to Hadley and understood, perhaps identified with, her fearfulness. He knew a challenge lay ahead. She was doing well here, but her progress might have come faster if there hadn’t been the constant teen traffic and puppies and grumpy hostess dog and busy, busy foster mama always doing ten things at once. Her soul would do well with a quieter home. Evelyn and Dave knew it would take time. They seemed like patient people.
These were the things I kept reminding myself of, but still, I checked my email incessantly, hoping for word. I busied myself working on a new journal. Crafting homemade journals, using discarded scrapbook papers and old books, always helped me find my happy. This one would be dog-themed and I’d use it to document the dogs we fostered. We’d fostered twenty-five dogs in our first year. If we’d had one more, Pennsylvania would have required us to have a kennel license. I’d decided we needed a license—just in case. The journal would help me keep the details straight for the dog warden who would come for twice yearly surprise inspections.
Although I tried not to be a “helicopter foster mom” after my dogs were adopted, I couldn’t help but reach out to Dave the next day. I needed some morsel of good news to beat back my worries. I sent him a quick note, “Just checking in,” and then waited for a response.
While I waited and worried, I took care of the puppies. Thank goodness for the puppies—they were a joyful, constant distraction.
Finally, I got a call from Dave. Hadley was doing great. She was going for walks with him in the neighborhood and a young relative of theirs had come for a visit and Hadley lit up at the sight of a child. She’d also made friends with another dog already. She was fine. I could stop worrying.
On Monday, Chris, Melissa,† and I took the puppies for their first-ever vet check. Because the puppies were born “in rescue” they hadn’t had a wellness check. Most OPH dogs have a vet check before traveling northward. These pups came north in their mama’s belly. Before we sent them home with their new families the next weekend, we were headed to a local vet to get them checked out.
The logistics of getting nine puppies to the vet required two cars, three crates, and five people. Melissa rode along with me. We chatted happily until we smelled the unmistakable scent of a car-sick puppy. The road to the vet who treats OPH dogs at a discount is long, winding, and narrow. There was nowhere to pull over and nothing we could do, but get there as quickly as we could. When we arrived, we discovered that the puppies had cleaned up the mess themselves.‡
Chris was already there, and it was fun to see how much the rest of the litter had grown. Edelweiss was over thirteen pounds! And I thought my Foxglove was big at twelve. Although to be fair, we weren’t totally certain that was his weight because he couldn’t stop wiggling and wagging on the scale long enough to get a clear read. He was the only puppy to wag his tail enthusiastically while having his rectal temp taken!
The vet said they all looked healthy, and she also said some of them were pretty large. “Might be some Great Dane in there,” she remarked. I looked at Chris and we both shook our heads, a silent agreement not to mention this idea to the adopters.
Everyone was weighed, had their temperatures taken, and was examined. They were all perfect—except Pigweed. Something was amiss with the joints in her legs.
As the vet spoke, I spun back through my time with the puppies. Had I done something wrong? Was this my fault? After Texas’s unexplained death, I’d harbored a secret doubt as to whether or not I was qualified to be fostering. I didn’t know enough about dogs, sometimes neglected to pay attention to details, and was disinclined to read directions or ask for help. Between my shoddy housetraining skills, multiple mix-ups with worming schedules, Hitch’s escapes, and not realizing Homeboy was a girl, I’d certainly lowered the bar for OPH fosters. And now I’d screwed up a puppy.
I watched the vet write notes on her chart and wondered if I should mention the phone call we’d gotten from Brady while on Nick’s birthday getaway in Gettysburg the previous week. When my phone rang, we were at an Irish pub. We’d both already had a beer or two, so there would be no rushing home. Hopefully, this had nothing to do with the puppies.
Brady’s voice was panicked. “I think I broke one of the puppies,” he told us.
“What?” I said. “You can’t break a puppy.”
“She jumped out of my arms and went splat on the floor. I think something’s wrong with her front leg. She’s holding it funny.”
I quizzed him. Yes, the puppy could walk on it. No, she wasn’t crying anymore. Yes, she’s back to wrestling with her litter.
“She’s fine,” I told him. “Puppies are pretty bendable.”
But now I wondered—should I tell the vet about that fall?
As it turned out, Pigweed wasn’t permanently damaged from her inadvertent leap from Brady’s arms; what she had was a hereditary condition. It was called luxating patellas, which sounded like a delicious Italian dish, but wasn’t. It meant that the kneecaps in her hind legs§ could float out of position. It didn’t bother her now—which was clear if you’d ever seen her racing around my puppy pen. The problem with luxating patellas was that later on it could grow worse, or . . . she could grow out of it. So, it was random and treatable and might be nothing.
Of course, I read all the blather on the Internet about the condition, and still obsessed that we had caused it in some way. I told Nick, “If we broke her, we have to buy her.” I watched Pigweed, and carried her around obsessively. I wanted to keep her safe and not let anyone think she was less than a perfect puppy.
Because that was the thing—she might be a perfect puppy. She might never have any pain from her crazy wandering patellas. The vet had said that if she was fed well, watched her weight, and got plenty of exercise she might be fine all her life.¶
And besides, there was no such thing as a perfect puppy. The vet pronounced the other eight as just right, but who knew what was lurking inside their DNA?
I wasn’t naïve enough to think this puppy would have a hoard of takers. She’d need a little extra care and she might need vet treatment at some point. But luxating patellas were not a death sentence. They were just a more intentional life sentence. I hoped that all the adopters planned to feed their pups well, keep them at a healthy weight, and be sure they got plenty of exercise.
Not long after Pigweed’s diagnosis, I watched a video of another writer talking about battling breast cancer at the age of thirty-three. Near the end of the video, she said somet
hing to the effect that having cancer upset her at first because she thought, “I’m going to die!” but then she realized that had always been true.
We are all going to die.
So we should probably take full advantage of the day before us, because tomorrow was no guarantee—for any of us or for our puppies.
Four out of five puppies took off for their forever homes the next weekend. All adopters are happy, but puppy adopters bubble over with excitement. Who isn’t over-the-moon happy to be taking home an adorable puppy? Some of that happy might wear off after a few days of cleaning up poop, but for that thirty minutes or so when they are meeting their puppy and signing the papers and taking pictures, they are THE happiest. And that’s fun to see.
Sneezewort (now Cooper) jumped all over his new boys and Snap Dragon (now Rocky) gave his new mom a facebath. The grins on the faces of Foxglove’s (now Teddy’s) new mommy and daddy practically split their faces, and seeing the dreams come true for one teenager when she snuggled Begonia (now Calypso) made my day.
And that left Pigweed alone. It was a long, tough night for that little girl. We learned she could bay like a hound when she was VERY sad. It would take a week for an adopter who was not worried about luxating patellas to come forward and until then she would be alone in the puppy pen.
After her first long night of crying, Ian asked, “Next time we do puppies, can you make sure they ALL go home on the same day?”
Yup. That would be ideal.
I tried to head off this predicament by claiming a very small foster dog—a sort of puppy impersonator who could keep Pigweed company. Chuggy Alabaster (who could resist a name like that?) arrived on Saturday afternoon. He was a pug/Chihuahua cross and weighed a little less than Pigweed. He had a smashed-in, turned-up nose, plus a mini-Superman build—svelte waist and broad chest. He was about a year old and had lots of small dog energy. The perfect playmate.
Another Good Dog Page 15
