Rescuing Dogs: Part Three

Corgi and Basset Hound? I see a bit of German Shepherd in there, too. But those ears!

If you haven't yet read Part One and Two, you can find them by scrolling down past this post or clicking on the title or date (April 30, May 1) in the left sidebar.

The Living Free Animal Sanctuary in Idyllwild, California was founded in 1980 by Emily Jo Beard who "created a sanctuary where animals would be safely housed without being caged." The mission of the shelter is to "rescue, rehabilitate and find permanent homes for healthy cats and dogs that were scheduled for shelter euthanasia." For my Cali readers, if you haven't driven up to that beautiful mountain setting to visit Living Free, I strongly recommend doing so—even if you're the sort of sensitive person who becomes upset and/or saddened by visiting traditional animal shelters. Trust me, you'll find nothing of the sort at Living Free, just happy dogs in the kennels and happy cats in the cattery.

In my quest to find a companion who would fit well with me, Thomas, Purrl and Sugar Plum (see previous post), I scrolled through the profiles of the dogs currently available at Living Free and came upon the photo above of "Impala." (I have my suspicions about the name choice; I'll keep them to myself.) This is what his profile said:

Impala is a sweet, loving, happy dog that makes you feel good just to look at him. His soft brown eyes sparkle with intelligence and humor and he is always smiling. He loves people, wants to please and would be a wonderful family dog. He is very agile and can jump up on a chair despite the fact that his legs are very short.

Well, who doesn't want a dog who is "loving, happy" and "is always smiling"? And on my part, ever since little Harper (a Corgi/Sheltie mix) blessed my life (you will recognize her name if you've read The Dogs Who Saved Me), I've wondered if I might be blessed again with a Corgi mix. Add Basset Hound, and that's double blessings. I shot off an email to Edgar, the kennel manager, asking if Impala might still be available and received a response within a day confirming that he was and inviting me to come up the mountain and meet him.

The sanctuary opens daily (except Wednesdays) at 11:00. I was there the next day by 11:20—and by the time I signed in and got up to the kennels, another family had already spent time with Impala. "But they haven't filled out an application yet!" said the enthusiastic volunteer who brought Impala out to meet me, explaining that it was already his second introduction of the day. And did this dog match the description posted about him online? Oh yes, and then some. He was a happy, tail-wagging bundle of dog joy who loved being petted and meeting new people. "He's definitely a favorite," the volunteer told me as he scratched behind the little dog's ears and talked baby talk to him. I loved him at first sight. (The dog, not the volunteer, though he was very nice as well.)

When I asked if I could take Impala for a short walk, however, I was told that there was "some issue with his spine." The volunteer went on to explain that Impala was a "return." He'd been adopted previously at an adoption event, and though the family had kept him for several months, they were now returning him—injured. They couldn't afford his medical care, it seems. The online description of Impala was the one they'd used prior to his first adoption; he could no longer jump up on a chair, and he seemed to be in a considerable amount of pain.

"But the vet is coming on Wednesday and will give him a thorough examination at that time," the volunteer said. "We're giving him pain medication in the meantime, and it seems to be helping."

I decided not to bring Impala home, to wait and see what the vet said. It's not that I was unwilling to take on a dog with medical issues; I just didn't want to make an emotional decision ("But I love him! So it will all be okay!") that wouldn't work with my pack and our lifestyle. Any new dog would need to be able to walk with Thomas in the morning and the evening. I needed confirmation from the vet that this would be possible for this little dog who was short on legs and long on personality.

I did go home and immediately fill out and submit an application online. Then I had to wait three long agonizing days until Wednesday. I thought of him every day, looked at his picture, and hoped. On Wednesday afternoon, I called the direct number they'd given me for the kennel—and Edgar was busy. He returned my call a couple of hours later, but by then I was out walking Thomas. We finally connected the next day, and after a long, detailed conversation during which Edgar listened patiently to my concerns and explained with absolute honesty all of Impala's limitations, I decided not to adopt him. Edgar thanked me for weighing all the factors before making my decision—then told me there was another family who'd just been waiting for me to decline so that they could adopt him. Perfect.

And this is how dog adoption should go. In my mind, the process should be one of matchmaking. The specific personality and behaviors—both good and bad—of the dog should be matched carefully with the needs and lifestyle of the adopter so that when a dog finally does get placed, that home remains his or hers forever. Matching dogs to compatible humans can only be done with patience, communication and understanding. This is how Sgt. Thomas Tibbs came to bless my household, because of the terrific volunteers at Upland Shelter, and I have to applaud Edgar and all the staff and volunteers at Living Free for being equally dedicated to the well-being of each and every dog and cat they rescue and place for adoption.

So: No short-legged Corgi/Hound for me. But hang on... this story isn't over yet....

Rescuing Dogs: Part Two

If you haven't yet read Part One, you can find it by scrolling down past this post or clicking on the title or April 30 in the left sidebar.

Then this happened:

Twice in the past three years, I've tried adopting a second dog so that Sgt. Thomas Tibbs could observe and learn from an older, calmer, more experienced dog. Both bitches I tried this with bided their time until the perfect moment to strike and then went after Purrl. (No, they weren't "just playing chase," and yes, I grabbed them in time to save Purrl from any harm other than the trauma. And no worries; both dogs are living the good life in forever homes. Just not mine.)

But lately I've felt brave enough to try again, so not long after the Irish Wolfhound experience (see below), I visited another local shelter to look at the dogs available there. I looped around all the kennels three times and was eventually drawn to a medium sized (maybe 30 pounds) female they were calling a "terrier" mix. (She was really a hound-pit bull mix, but she was the perfect size and who cares?) She (Dog A) was in a cage with another dog (Dog C). Both were black and white and similarly marked, as if they'd come from the same litter, except that one (Dog C) was considerably taller. Dog A was more calm, and had made curious but respectful eye contact with me. When I inquired about her, the employee at the reception desk called a kennel assistant who came to help me. As we walked back to fetch the dog to take her outside to a play yard, the assistant—we'll call her Bea—asked me which kennel. When I told her, she said, "Oh, she's the feisty one! When you get her out in the yard, she's very protective of the other dog. Yeah, she can be really feisty." Hmm. That was not the behavior I'd seen.

Then I understood why she'd said that. When she approached the kennel, she immediately bent over double and began talking in a high-pitched voice to both dogs, pulling down a leash from the door and waving it around. The excitement level of Dog C went from zero to ten in about half a second. She began yelping and jumping up on the assistant (which wasn't discouraged) as the woman tried to manage getting a leash on Dog A (who remained calmly and quietly at the back of the kennel) while Dog C barked and dodged and spun beside her. It took several long minutes to extract Dog A, and by then she was panting heavily, unsure and anxious.

As we left the building and made the trek to the play yard, long-legged Bea strode along quickly, pulling Dog A with her, oblivious to the fact that the dog, obviously house-broken, kept trying to pause at every tiny patch of grass because she desperately needed to poop. Alas, the poor dog was literally dragged in a half-squat through the gates of the play yard where she was immediately able to finish her business.

On our walk to the yard, Bea had kept up a steady stream of information about the dog—she was fearful, she said, wary of people, and she repeated that she was "feisty" around the other dog. But when Dog A finally relieved herself, she approached me right away, wagging her tail and lowering her head. I patted her and told her to sit. She did.

"Huh," said Bea. "Well, I tried to play with her yesterday out here, but she had no idea what to do with the ball."

I picked up a tennis ball, showed it to the dog, and rolled it. She bounded after it, picking it up and returning with it in her mouth. It only took five or six repetitions to teach her the command "Drop." She was extremely smart and very athletic, leaping into the air to catch the ball on a high bounce.

During this time, Bea kept up a steady stream of chatter. Each time I tried to explain my particular concerns about introducing this dog to Thomas, she cut me off in mid-sentence—not to respond to me but to talk to Dog A. It went something like this:

"Since Thomas has severe anxiety issues—"

"Oh! Who's a good girl! You like that ball, don't you?!?"

"Sometimes he'll shut down completely if—"

"Oh, look at you! Look at you! Good girl!"

"So it's important that—"

"Go get it! Go get it! Drop it! Drop it! Good girl!"

I finally gave up, told Bea I'd have to think about it, and left, again anxious to get home and just cuddle up with Thomas and the cats.

While the experience was somewhat frustrating, I felt consoled to know that at the very least, Bea gained more accurate information about what Dog A had to offer, and I have no doubt that young, sweet, tail-wagging dog went to a home with kids who would throw that ball over and over for her.

Part Three in this series will post on Wednesday (if I can find time to finish it in between dog walks and naps).