This made me wonder what people thought when they saw Ginger’s picture. Could they get past the appearance of pit bull to see the crazy-cool pup we loved so much? I tweaked her description again and again. Did high energy make her sound dangerous? Sure, she was excitable—prone to slurping on faces and jumping on clean clothes. But this was only because she was—as Juanita had put it—150% love.
Early on a warm July morning, I joined several other OPH fosters from PA and headed to a gathering for OPH volunteers at a brewery in Maryland. We weren’t going for the beer, but to learn more about OPH and what we could do to save more dogs. I was excited to meet some of the people I knew only via Facebook.
I discovered that most people look nothing like their Facebook profile pictures, but then again, don’t we all put our best faces forward on Facebook? Blond, charming, and passionate, OPH’s founder Jen explained the history of OPH—starting with driving south in the family minivan to bring a handful of dogs north until now, six years and six thousand dogs later. As she told of the conditions in the shelters, I blinked back tears. She introduced other members of the board and guest speakers including a couple whose local organization provided dogs for veterans with PTSD. They specifically sought out rescue dogs and had brought two former OPH puppies with them. I learned what signs to look for in the puppies I fostered that might indicate they would make a good service dog—people-oriented, treat-motivated, and smart.‡
Two women from Scott County, Virginia, one of the OPH partner shelters, were introduced. I went to school in southside Virginia a million years ago, so I remembered that part of the country as rural, blue-collar with field after field of tobacco. As a college student, I worked at a pub in Danville and waited on mill workers who called me “Yankee Girl” and never missed an opportunity to remind me that Danville was the last Confederate capital of the South. I can only imagine how the economy of that area has declined with the shuttering of textile mills in favor of foreign production and the decreasing demand for tobacco.
Rachel and Ashley didn’t look like the image I’d had in my mind of the employees in the desperate shelters that euthanized so many dogs. They were young, articulate, and Ivory-girl beautiful. The heartbreak they faced on a daily basis was clear as they stood before us and shared their story.
The tears I’d been holding back all morning flowed down my face. I glanced around at the room full of mostly women with big, dog-filled hearts and tear-streaked faces. OPH began partnering with the Scott County Humane Society shelter in mid-2015. The impact that we’d had on Scott County was astounding:
Euthanasia Reports and SCHS Rescues Since 2013
2013—355 dogs euthanized (68%), 42 dogs rescued
2014—245 dogs euthanized (65%), 38 dogs rescued
2015—66 dogs euthanized (18%), 197 dogs rescued
2016 (6 months)—euthanasia less than 3%, 95 dogs rescued
I’d had the privilege of fostering quite a few dogs from Scott County—the Pooh litter (Chick Pea, Jillie Bean, Boz, Homeboy/girl, Lug Nut, Marzle), Texas and Tennessee, Chism and Charm, Okieriete, and most recently, Fannie.
Clearly, rescuing dogs was not for the faint of heart. On my blog, I sometimes droned on about how hard it was on my own heart, but as I listened to these remarkable young women, I realized that they were far stronger than I’d ever be, and the little bit of bruising my heart took when I said goodbye to my foster dogs was nothing like what they’d endured as they witnessed who left through the front door of the shelter and who left through the back.
All the next week, I thought about the words I heard from Rachel and Ashley, and it made me less apologetic about my crazy house with the dog crates and the stained carpet and the baskets of dog toys and the baby gates. What we were doing was important. It was having an impact. It was making a difference.
“We’re never going to adopt a dog, now, are we?” asked Nick, as I told him about Scott County.
I didn’t know the answer to that question, so I said, “We have lots of dogs.”
“True,” he said, and left it at that.
Our next foster was a puppy named Little Lady. We renamed her Bambi because of her stick-like legs and fawn coloring. She even had white spots on her back near her tail. She was a greyhound mix and only six months old. Nick went with me to transport that night. When we pulled into the bowling alley parking lot, I jumped out of the car.
“You gonna go talk to your crazy dog people?” he asked.
“Yup,” I told him, “They’re my people.”
When Bambi was unloaded, Nick clipped on her leash and tried to walk her, but she froze like a statue and refused to move. At home, I pulled her out of her crate and set her on the grass. She flattened herself against the ground, shaking. I peeled her off the ground and put her in a crate in the puppy room, deciding it was probably best to avoid Gracie’s regular less-than-warm greeting and Ginger’s overbearing enthusiasm.
The next day, I sat down outside Bambi’s crate, and she cautiously crept out. She leaned into me, pressing her long nose against my side, wagging her backside. She had only a stump for a tail. Was it docked or was she born like that? No one knew. When I picked up a leash, she scrambled back into her crate, so I sat back down and waited.
This time, after she again climbed into my lap, I picked her up, snapped the leash on, and carried her outside. When I set her down in the grass, she repeated the behavior of the night before, pressing herself against the grass as if trying to disappear. When she did move, it was to sprint for “cover” (a bush, the tree line, etc.). She was a speedier version of Hadley.
Realizing that peeing was out of the question, I carried her back inside and set her up in the puppy room with puppy pads and toys. She took each toy I handed her and piled it in the back of her crate. We hadn’t had a hoarder like that since Stitch.
Ginger and Gracie were curious about the new guest, but I kept them away. As the weekend wound down, Bambi improved only a little. Her big eyes wanted to trust and she eagerly climbed into our laps when we visited her in the puppy room. When I picked her up to take her in or out, she scrambled over my shoulders so that sometimes I was wearing her like a greyhound boa as we headed in or out.
“She’s pretty freaked out,” observed Ian.
Bambi wasn’t nearly as shut down as Hadley had been, at least Bambi welcomed our attentions—on her terms. All she needed was a little patience. We could be patient.
And then . . . I got an email about a dog dumped on the side of the highway in southern Virginia who looked like she could be pregnant. Could I take her? Silly question.
But what to do about the puppy in my puppy room? If this stray dog was pregnant, I’d need that space. Bambi seemed to be relaxing in the puppy room, bounding out of her crate when we entered, but still terrified to walk out of the room on a leash. I decided to move the crate to the kitchen. She could watch the action from her safe place and the puppy room would be free, just in case.
Nick didn’t argue when I told him about our new foster. He knew there were too many signs. I’d been wanting to foster a pregnant dog. I’d always wanted a Treeing Walker Coonhound. And if that wasn’t enough. Her name was Lucy.
“But what about Bambi?” was his only question.
“I can deal with it,” I said, as if I believed that.
The Lucy Train was coming in two days. She would be transported northward through a series of volunteer drivers from Wise County, VA, to Staunton, VA, and then from Staunton to Strasburg, VA, and then from Strasburg to Hagerstown, MD, where I would pick her up. She wasn’t coming from one of our regular shelters or regular transports, so this was all new to me. Everything was coordinated via Facebook. It seemed to me modern dog rescue couldn’t happen without Facebook.
Once installed in the kitchen, Bambi refused to leave her crate. Not wanting to push her and knowing she would eventually have to leave the small space to eat and drink and pee, I left her alone. I placed a bowl of water and some food just outside the cra
te, far enough away that she’d have to physically step out of the crate to reach them. I put a puppy pad nearby too. We kept Ginger out of the kitchen. She wanted so badly to play with the new puppy, but she made do with Gracie.
Bambi watched us from her crate. She accepted our touch when we crouched down and reached into her crate, but refused to follow us out.
“What if she pees in there?” asked Ian.
“I don’t think she will,” I told him. “She’ll come out soon.”
Thirty-six hours later, she had yet to leave the crate. I was amazed a dog could go that long without drinking or peeing. Finally, early on the morning that the Lucy Train was due to arrive, I saw her standing at the open entrance of the crate, looking longingly at the water dish. She leaned out of the crate toward the bowl, almost falling forward out of the crate before retreating back inside.
Next, she placed one paw gingerly outside the crate and touched the floor briefly before snatching her paw back inside again. She did this over and over as if testing the surface to be sure it would hold, and then she found her bravery and took the few steps to the water bowl. Her hind legs remained in the crate and she stretched her body to reach the bowl and drink. I wanted to rush to the crate and give her treats and congratulate her. Instead, I stayed on my side of the kitchen. This was her battle; she had to conquer this fear on her own if her confidence was to grow.
Just before we left to meet the Lucy Train, Brady said, “Hey, look!” and there was Bambi, standing outside her crate. She was smiling; her stumpy tail wagged ferociously.
“Good for you!” I told her and she scooted back inside the crate. I refilled her water bowl and gave her a treat before heading out the door to drive to Hagerstown.
My trusty copilot§ and I were early when we arrived in Hagerstown to meet the Lucy Train, which was a good thing because it was running well ahead of schedule and Lucy and her chauffeur for the last leg of her trip were waiting in the parking lot of an Olive Garden restaurant. When I opened the back of our Pilot, she hopped right in, settled in the crate we’d brought and went to sleep. Obviously, she wouldn’t be a high-maintenance guest.
This poor pup had clearly had a rough life, to date. She was riddled with scars, the worst one being a permanent pink necklace from where a collar had embedded in her neck. Her skin was inflamed and hot and covered in bumps and oozy patches. The vet in Virginia had diagnosed a flea allergy dermatitis, but because of the possible pregnancy, hadn’t given her any drugs. The poor girl looked miserable.
When we arrived home, Bambi was a new dog, careening around the kitchen in her excitement at seeing us. Lucy greeted her and they did a few laps around the island before settling in to wrestle over the small stuffed pumpkin toy that was in Bambi’s transport bag. The party was much too big to keep Ginger away and she snuck through the gate at the next opportunity. It was quite the dog party. Obviously, Lucy would fit in just fine.
Thankfully, she didn’t appear to be pregnant. As exciting as that would have been, the last thing Lucy needed was puppies. Lucy was a happy, friendly, easygoing girl despite her rough past and her present misery. The resilience of dogs was, once again, something to behold.
Lucy’s dermatitis required us to keep a cone of shame on her head 24/7 so she wouldn’t chew herself bloody. I gave her an oatmeal bath and my sympathy, but there wasn’t much else I could do for her. We made an appointment with the vet a few days later to confirm that she wasn’t pregnant and hopefully get a prescription for some serious drugs to help her out.
Lucy, it turned out, was unflappable, taking the inconvenience of her cone in stride. When the cone got caught on a chair or the doorway, she simply backed up and tried again. As I worked in the kitchen, she stayed close in hopes that I might drop whatever I was cooking. The cone poked at my legs, incessantly. I wanted to grumble at her to stay out of the way, but that seemed cruel since she couldn’t help it.
She was a sweetheart with a hound smile and a playful nature, racing around the kitchen, banging into cabinets with her cone. Just like Gracie, she loved to shake the stuffed animals to kill them and then rolled on them once they were dead. Bambi and Ginger adored her and the kitchen was nonstop playtime. Occasionally Bambi grabbed the edges of Lucy’s cone and yanked. Lucy waited patiently for her to let go and if she didn’t, she just dragged her along for the ride. Ginger dodged the cone whenever possible, but otherwise was unfazed by Lucy’s enlarged head.
Bambi zipped around with greyhound speed and Lab curiosity. After five days of refusing to leave her crate, Bambi was never again happy to be relegated to it. When I put her in her crate for morning naps and at night for bed, she had to be lured in with a treat. She barked at anyone who passed by, wagging her whole body and banging the crate sides, inviting them for a playdate. Outside she leapt and jumped like the fawn we’d named her after—bucking her leash and tearing in circles.
Nick watched her sprint by with a potholder in her mouth and asked wistfully, “What happened to the quiet dog cowering in her crate?”
*Wiener dogs—I mean dachshunds! Can you imagine the trio they make?
†Boys who were technically men except I’d known them since they dressed up in Harry Potter costumes and cast spells, so they would always be boys to me.
‡I did think to myself as I heard this, all my puppies had been people-oriented and treat-motivated, the smart part, however, wasn’t always clear.
§The only kid without a driver’s license or a job that summer.
TWENTY-ONE
Falling Down on the Job
I’d fallen off plenty of horses in my time and rarely incurred an injury, but now falling hurt more. In fact, I was actively looking for someone to take my horse, True, on a long-term lease, as he was much too eager to land me on my butt. Seeing him in the pasture, doing nothing except irritating my two older mares and dumping the water trough out of boredom, plagued me with guilt. It was time to find him a job, and so that week I signed a contract to lease him to a young woman who was excited at the prospect of my big, gorgeous, playful boy moving into her field. To my mind, he was going to a foster home. He’d be back someday and hopefully by then; he’d have gotten out all his bucks. No more falling off horses—if only I could say the same about dog-induced falls.
In the eighteen months we’d been fostering dogs, I’d fallen down a lot. I’m not talking in terms of the direction-following screwups or the emotional breakdowns, there were plenty of those. I’m talking about actually hitting the dirt, physically.
Carla was the first foster dog to knock me over. She darted in front of me while we were running, taking me out like a football player making a clean block. Luckily (for me) she broke my fall. I only suffered a few scratches.
Then Frank pulled me over twice. When he slipped into the chicken pen as I was closing the gate, I chased after him and stupidly grabbed his collar while he was in full flight. You can imagine the rest. A skinned elbow and bruised knee were penance for my bad decision.
The second time Frank got me, I was walking down our steep hill in smooth-soled shoes and my feet slid out from under me. I’m not sure he had anything to do with that fall other than happening to be on the other end of the leash when I clumsily lost my footing. The result of that fall was only a few grass stains.
Tennessee took me out while running. Something behind us startled him and he panicked, slamming into me from behind and sending me sprawling. I ended up with two skinned knees and one skinned palm on that one.
After that I had a long run of not falling over, nearly a year, and then Whoopi yanked me over time and again when her bloodhound nose picked up a scent and I couldn’t keep up. I did a lovely belly flop on the grass, skidded across the driveway landing on my elbow, and more than once went waterless-skiing down our hill, before turning over Whoopi-walking duties to Ian.
But on a clear and uncharacteristically cool Monday night in July, I hit the ground again, only this time I didn’t get up. I was walking Bambi and Lucy at the sam
e time in wet grass, in the dark, in sandals, down the hill. So, you can already see all the mistakes I made going into this. The two of them both lunged forward at the same time. I think Bambi was only excited, as she was a puppy, and I believe Lucy, who was not a puppy but had a puppy-spirit, simply joined in the fun.
They bounded forward suddenly and I slipped on the wet grass. I landed sprawled with my leg bent underneath me in a painful position. I didn’t let go of the leashes and my screaming brought both dogs back to kiss an apology all over my teary face. Nick came and grabbed the dogs.
As I lay there waiting for him to return to help me, I was overcome with multiple thoughts. The first thought was probably not one that would be appropriate to share here, but suffice it to say, I was just SO MAD. Not at the dogs, but me. How could I have survived so long on this planet and not have learned a little common sense? What made me think I was invincible? Basically, how stupid could I be? And then I thought—this just cannot be happening. I cannot be hurt. I have no time for this.
Sadly, I couldn’t will away my pain, though I tried. Instead of going for medical help, I insisted on waiting it out a bit. I popped a handful of ibuprofen and then took the pain meds left from Brady’s recent wisdom teeth removal, and finally slept with my knee wrapped in ice and elevated on a pillow.
In the morning my knee seemed doubled jointed. I was pretty sure if I tried I could bend it both ways. So off to the local ortho clinic we went. I came home with a stack of prescriptions, sporting a stylish brace, and praying that when I went for my MRI later in the week the doc would say, “Why no, your meniscus is not torn. In fact, here, let me give you this pill that will make you all better by tomorrow.”*
With the brace on, I was semi-stable, but it was the perfect excuse to get someone else to walk a dog for a change. The other positive of the knee debacle was that upon seeing my X-rays, the doc said, “You have beautiful knees.” He wasn’t hitting on me, but he was impressed that my knees had no arthritic changes or obvious wear and tear on the bone structure. This was AWESOME news. Both of my parents had recently had knee replacements. People, mostly nonrunners, were always telling me that running would ruin my knees, but see? Despite genetics and a long-term running habit, I was bucking the odds. I had beautiful knees.
Another Good Dog Page 22
