Knowing this history, I was concerned when he turned up on my porch with no crate, no toys, and no girlfriend. I offered him a towel to cover the seats of his very clean car into which he was about to place Maria for their two-hour ride home. I warned him that several of the puppies had gotten carsick. He chuckled at this. I handed him Maria whom he held awkwardly, as if she might spring a leak at any moment. I asked, “Have you ever had a puppy before?”
“Oh yes, my family had puppies.”
I assumed this translated to his mother/father fed-watered-walked-housetrained and cleaned up after the puppy, and he and his siblings played with the puppy. At least that’s how it went at our house. Someday my kids would be adopting a puppy and someone would ask, “Have you ever had a puppy?” and they’d say, “Oh yes, my family had LOTS of puppies—hundreds.” But would my kids actually know how to care for a puppy? Maybe.
After the adopter left with Maria, I emailed the adoption coordinator, “I have a bad feeling about this—can you please check on this puppy?” She assured me she would. I crossed my fingers and hoped I was wrong—dreams and good intentions can only take you so far.
Eliza’s adopters arrived that evening and couldn’t be more excited or prepared. Such a difference from earlier. They’d smartly come with towels, which was a good thing because Eliza barfed all over her new mommy on the car ride home.
The last puppy, Peggy, left on Friday. Her family brought us a donated bag of dog food as a parting gift. They adored their new girl and we stood in the driveway and fawned over her at length before they loaded her up with the kids in the backseat and took off. We were all especially happy to see Peggy leave as she had cried for nearly two days since Eliza left. I spent the two days typing with Peggy on my lap and learning to do many things one-handed. It brought back memories of when I had a baby in the house.
The puppies were gone and Schuyler was due to leave the next week. I told Nick, “We’ll be dog-free by Thursday.” Which was perfect because we were due to leave that Friday for Carapalooza.‡
But then I saw Debbie’s post.
Could somebody take Gingersnap?
I scrolled right past. I couldn’t take Gingersnap. I had a big weekend planned. No room at the inn.
But it nagged at me. Gingersnap had been in rescue for ten weeks and had already been in two different foster homes. I knew how hard it was on dogs to readjust to a new environment and everything I read about Gingersnap said she was a sensitive girl who would take those adjustments to heart. If no one stepped up, she would land in a boarding kennel for who knew how long. Debbie was having surgery and could no longer foster her. I looked at Gingersnap’s picture again and read the description. I scanned her OPH page. She had no adoption applications. I looked at her big grin and read Debbie’s notes. She was excitable and sweet. She was housebroken. She was great with kids. She needed plenty of exercise. A boarding kennel was no place for her long-term.
I mentioned to Nick I wanted to take in another foster. “But she’s housebroken and crate-trained. She’ll be no work for the kids to look after while we’re gone.”
He sighed and rolled his eyes, but he didn’t say no. It was almost my birthday, after all.
Debbie dropped Gingersnap off on Sunday. She filled the house with her crazy energy and Schuyler was happy for the company. They romped around the kitchen, eventually ending up side by side on the Frank bed chewing tennis balls.
Gingersnap was the same color as my horse, Cocoa—liver chestnut, which is a sort of burnt red, penny color. She was thirty-nine pounds, smaller than Schuyler, but those thirty-nine pounds were all muscle. She was not a quiet dog. In any way. But wow—such a huge heart. Gingersnap LOVED every dog and person she met. She loved them so much she couldn’t hold back and launched herself at them, licking faces and wiggling her whole body as if this new person was the BEST PERSON SHE’D EVER MET!
Gingersnap had the same reaction to other dogs. Because of this, she couldn’t attend adoption events—apparently, she considered the whole scene one big giant playdate. Not all dogs§ wanted a new friend RIGHT NOW. Especially a friend who was extremely physical in her affections and perhaps a little manic. Schuyler, on the other hand, was ripe for a playmate and the two of them spent the week wrestling and chasing and fighting over who got to sleep in the laundry basket (which was too small for either of them).
Despite the manic enthusiasm, or maybe because of it, Gingersnap was my kind of dog. She was misunderstood, but had an enormous heart and brimmed with unbounded personality. She just needed the right adopter—someone who had a serious running habit, a large fenced yard, and/or an enthusiastic canine playmate. I was sure that person was out there and eventually would find Gingersnap. Until then, she’d found a home here.
On Tuesday, I got word that Maria was being returned. I was not surprised by this. The adopters said she was crying and barking too much. Hello? You just brought home a puppy who left her siblings for the first time—this is what they do. I was frustrated, but at the same time Wednesday evening couldn’t come soon enough. I wanted my puppy safe back in my arms. She’d likely had a confusing and frightening week going from our puppy pen and all her siblings to a solitary life in an apartment with two people who didn’t know how to care for her. Upon her return, I lavished Maria with attention. Schulyer did too; they snuggled and played together on the Frank bed. It made my heart happy, but it also complicated things. So much for a dog-free house by the weekend.
Schuyler, Maria, Gingersnap, and Gracie made a colorful, happy bunch. The next morning a Facebook memory popped up in my feed from the year before when we were still relatively new to fostering. It was a picture of me with four dogs the weekend we’d babysat for Kylie and Hitch, and still had Carla. I’m laughing in the picture, amazed that we have four dogs in our care. Now four doesn’t seem so crazy. In fact, as we watched our merry band of four, I said, “I like our little herd,” and Nick said, “Me too.”
When Schuyler was spayed, she’d been tested her for heartworm and had returned questionable numbers. The vet’s office sent her blood out for another test and it had come back negative. Heartworm is always a scary thing, but for now, it appeared she was negative. It could stay that way, or the numbers that appeared could indicate she was developing heartworm. Either way, we all breathed a sigh of relief when her adopters assured us that they understood heartworm and were prepared to adopt her no matter what.
On Thursday Schuyler went home to her forever family and soon after, her adopters¶ posted pictures on the Hamilton Puppy Facebook page. Seeing her happy and settled was the best birthday present I could have gotten.
We were all set to leave for our weekend in Virginia, but first I had to draw up a puppy-care schedule for the kids. I listed “walk puppy” every two hours all day along with “clean puppy pen” and “play with puppy.” The schedule was two pages long. It reminded me of when we went away and left the grandparents in charge when our kids were young. I’d drawn up menus and directions and lists upon lists of activities. Looking back, I’m pretty certain they ignored my lists, but I needed to write the lists for me, not them. I hoped the kids wouldn’t ignore my lists, but figured they would learn how to take care of a puppy.
On the way out of town, we dropped off Gingersnap at boarding. It would only be for the weekend, I promised her. They wouldn’t mind her barking as much as my teenagers would. Plus, I wouldn’t lie awake thinking that she’d slipped a leash or gotten out a door or frustrated her caretakers with her endless energy and barking.
*This led to Nick shopping for black, ladies tennis shoes at Walmart and then making a mad dash to the rehearsal site to deliver them.
†Harvard Health Blog, October 29, 2015.
‡And before you think that there is a festival all about me—let me explain. Each May we travel to our beloved Shenandoah Valley, Virginia, to attend a fabulous Wine and Craft Festival in Front Royal. Sometimes other couples join us, sometimes it is just us. My little brother named it
Carapalooza because it almost always falls on my birthday weekend.
§Gracie would be one of those dogs.
¶Who would keep her name and were now Hamilton fans!
EIGHTEEN
Breed Racism
Despite three days of rain, we had a fabulous weekend of fun, wine, and family in my favorite place on earth. As we walked around Front Royal on our last morning in search of somewhere to eat lunch, I tried to picture us living there. My grand plan is to move to the Shenandoah Valley after all the kids are finished college—when we are broke, but still young enough to hike and play. Now I tried to picture our life there with dogs in tow. I briefly wondered if adopters would drive all the way to Front Royal to adopt a dog from me. Maybe we could create custom winery tours as a bonus for adopters. I didn’t share any of these thoughts with Nick for fear he would think that the dogs were taking over our lives.
As we were driving home, my cell phone rang with an unfamiliar number. I answered tentatively.
“Is this Cara Achterberg? This is the dog warden.”
My heart began racing. When I was growing up, the dog catcher was pretty much the worst bad guy out there—driving around looking for loose dogs to catch. I wrote stories in elementary school about escaping the dog catcher. Once, my brother and I found a stray hound dog. We dug an underground kennel for it near a stream to keep him safe from the dog catcher (and so our parents wouldn’t know). The dog hung around a few days and then disappeared. I was certain that the dog catcher got him.
The woman on the phone didn’t sound like the kind of person who locked up innocent dogs. She sounded perfectly nice. She informed me that she was sitting in my driveway. I could hear Gracie barking at her in the background, verifying that fact. I hoped the kids had followed the directions on the puppy chart. If they had, Maria should be having naptime in the puppy pen right at that moment.
“Will you be home soon?” the dog warden asked.
I looked at the clock on the dash. “I probably won’t be home for a while,” I told her. Nick gave me a questioning look. We’d be home in less than thirty minutes, but I didn’t know how long she would hang around and I definitely wasn’t ready for my first kennel inspection.
The warden said she would try to come back later in the week.
“What are you so afraid of?” asked Nick after I hung up.
“I don’t know. She just scares me.” We pulled into the boarding kennel to pick up Gingersnap, who went ballistic in the tiny kennel office when she spotted me. Wow, it felt good to be loved at that level (and she’d only known me a week!). Gingersnap was MUCH more enthusiastic about our return than the kids.
When we pulled in the driveway, I looked at my phone. “Chris will be here in ten minutes,” I told Nick.
“Who?” asked Nick as he hauled a case of wine into the house.
My answer was drowned out by the squealing of Maria, not at the sight of me, but at the sight of Gingersnap. They rolled and tumbled while I filled Nick in on our newest foster who was about to arrive.
“But we still have Gingersnap and Maria,” he protested.
I pretended I hadn’t heard him as I carried my suitcase up the stairs. I’ve found that in situations like this, it’s always better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. And besides, Maria was leaving soon, and Gingersnap would need a playmate.
Sure enough, ten minutes after we arrived home, Chris pulled up the driveway with Fannie. Fannie was a beautiful white-and-tan hound dog who came in on transport Friday while we were at Carapalooza. She was picked up by a volunteer, cleaned up, and taken to an OPH adoption event that weekend before being dropped off with Chris on Sunday to hold for me until Monday when we got home. My network of enablers is very dependable.
Fannie was sweet and cautious, and not quite sure how to handle the exuberance of Maria and Gingersnap or the snarling welcome from Gracie. But she adjusted within the first hour and assumed her role in the pack—watcher. She watched Gingersnap and Maria wrestle and quietly took the toy they forgot about.
Maria was scheduled to go home in a few days to become Lafayette’s neighbor. I loved that she would be near her brother, and they would grow up together. Fannie was such a doll baby that I knew she’d be adopted quickly, and she was.* Which left Ginger; we’d all taken to calling her Ginger, except Nick who often called her, Snapper. She still had no applications, but she was an excellent running buddy. I decided we’d stick with just Ginger for a while. She was more than enough dog for me.
Two weeks later, we had friends over for dinner and drinks. Food was fabulous, wine was flowing, kids were enjoying themselves.† Ginger greeted them in her you-are-the-most-exciting-guests-we’ve-ever-had way. She eventually settled down and observed us from her perch on my favorite lounge chair. Ginger knew getting on the furniture was by invitation only. I raised my eyebrows at her, but let it slide because she rarely left evidence thanks to her low-shedding coat.‡
It was all going swimmingly until someone commented that Ginger was a pit bull. I don’t think it was meant as a slight, but I took it as one. I said, “She’s listed as Lab mix on the website.”
“I’d bet that dog is 90% pit bull,” my guest replied.
I didn’t think too much of it, but then I did. So what if she’s a pit bull? Is that really a bad thing?
All the next day while I gardened, I thought about my own feelings about pit bulls. Not Gingersnap, but pit bulls. I didn’t know anything about pit bulls. Not really. I knew they were bred for fighting and being a Philadelphia Eagles fan, I’d followed the Michael Vick story like everyone else. When we toured a few shelters before we decided to foster, I was astounded at the number of pit bulls. I didn’t want one, but it wasn’t because of some personal experience, it was simply their bad rap and the fact that they didn’t have long, floppy ears.§
Ginger was the first pit bull I’d come to know and love. She reminded me of my beloved Lucy, who was a foxhound and not the least bit pit. Ginger adored me as Lucy had. She was intense and smart, like Lucy was. And she always had a big smile for me, just like Lucy did.
I decided I should learn more about pit bulls, so I looked them up. What I learned saddened me. Of the many, many dogs euthanized each year, the breed most often euthanized is pit bull.¶ Some put the figure at 40% of the dogs euthanized.# This broke my heart. It seemed like a canine form of racism. Dogs unwanted, feared, misunderstood, and euthanized simply because of the way they looked.
I learned there is Breed Specific Legislation (BSL), laws that make it a crime to own a pit bull. What? This was a real thing? As I read, I realized I’d lived up here in la-la land much too long imagining a rainbow world of dog-loving people. I was relieved to know that Ginger and I weren’t breaking any laws in York County, still, forty-two of the fifty states have BSLs. Even without a BSL in place, though, some landlords refuse to rent to families who own pit bulls, and some insurance companies deny or cancel home owners’ coverage for pit bull owners. No wonder pit bulls so often end up in shelters.
As I was doing all this research, Ginger sat beside me adoring me with her eyes and occasionally licking my leg when she couldn’t resist any longer. I couldn’t imagine a dog as smart and sweet as Ginger being euthanized.
Just the day before, Addie was explaining to me how Ginger was the best foster dog we’d had and that we should adopt her. She was laying out for me all the reasons, and I was hard-pressed to refute them. At the time, I was sitting at my desk and Ginger was lying nearby, stretched out on her stomach. Addie was sitting in the other chair in my office about ten feet from me. Ginger lifted her head, cocking it to the side as she listened to Addie’s plea. Then she began slithering toward her like a snake, pulling herself with her front paws and dragging her body. When she reached Addie, she lay her head on Addie’s foot. Her groveling gratefulness was apparent.
At a neighbor’s party, I overheard a man talking about an incident in the news recently in which a pit bull had mauled its owner. He categoric
ally blamed the breed for the incident and said no one should ever trust a pit bull. I didn’t know the guy, and normally I hold my tongue in these situations, having learned the hard way it’s a waste of breath to try to change the mind of person blindly committed to a belief. Particularly a person who has already had several beers. But I thought of Ginger and I couldn’t be quiet. Before I’d unknowingly fostered Lily, the rottweiler, no one would have changed my mind about that breed either. So much of our own prejudices about dogs, and probably people, are rooted in a single experience (or a story repeated by a drunk guy at a party). And sometimes, those experiences color future experiences—we see and hear what we expect. It takes a personal experience to change a mind. I was certain anyone who encountered the enormous heart of little Gingersnap would walk away changed.
I was sorely tempted to drive back down the street and grab Ginger, but didn’t. Instead, I inserted myself in the discussion by asking the guy for more details about the incident he’d been referencing.
“Did they give you any background on the dog? Or the owner? Had it been trained to fight? Was the owner abusive? Were there any other dogs involved?”
He didn’t have any answers, he just shrugged and said, “It was on the news,” as if that made it so.
We talked more and I shared my belief that dogs become what their owners make them. They aren’t born mean. Just like people aren’t. We teach them to hate and fear and not trust. That’s our doing. I told them the only dog that had ever bitten me was my own dog and she was a hound. Does that mean hounds are dangerous? No, but dogs and people can be dangerous given the right circumstances. Maybe it was the red wine, but I was on a roll, so I told him about the book I’d just read by Jim Gorant about Michael Vick’s dogs. Fifty-one pit bulls were rescued from that operation, but only one was destroyed because it was too aggressive. The rest went on to find forever families and have the lives they were meant to live. And none of them mauled their owners, despite being bred and trained to fight. As I learned with Lily, it’s not the dog that has the problem, it’s the people.
Another Good Dog Page 20
