Sgt. Thomas Tibbs: One Year Later

Returning to me after chasing down a treat.

It's hard to believe an entire year has elapsed since my boy Thom came home to live with me and the girls. It's even harder to believe that the happy, prancing, dancing pup who races around the back yard in ecstatic figure eights when I come home from work is the same pathetic waif who could only be dragged out of his safe spot in the corner of the side yard on a leash and wouldn't even make eye contact with me for the first two weeks. Since I haven't posted an update on him since his first bath last July, I thought it might be high time to let his fans know that yes, the dog who was once afraid of his shadow is now starting to realize that this life—his wonderful, cushy dog's life—has quite a bit to offer.

Here are two points for illustration:

For an entire year, every time I have gone out to the back yard to work in the garden or pull weeds, I have invited Thomas to come with me (or more precisely, with "us," as Purrl is usually wherever I am, and Sugie will stroll out if it's mid-morning and quiet in the yard and nice weather and if it suits her highness's fancy). And for that entire year, Thomas has been content to remain curled in his corner in the side yard, out of sight but certainly not out of hearing as I usually sing loudly while I'm working in the back yard. But Sunday, miracle of miracles, as I crawled on my hands and knees between the rose bushes, pulling the tiny new shoots of plantain and Canada thistle up by the roots, I heard the now familiar and beloved sound of Thom flapping his ears. (He does this so often I had the vet check him. It's not a medical issue, just a habit.) I looked up to see him sitting, tall and content, in a sun spot a few feet away. "Tommy boy, good job! Hang out with us! We're weeding!" I said to him for at least the fiftieth time. This time, he did, nosing around until he found a sun spot in the dirt about six feet from where I was working. He stayed there for nearly an hour, listening to me sing snatches of song in between saying nice things about him.

Later that same evening, my son arrived, bringing dinner for us and a movie. Thomas had just finished his own dinner and was getting ready to trot inside the open back sliding door when he noticed the tall dark handsome man standing in the kitchen.

            "Woof," he said. (Thomas, not my son.)

            "Hey, Thomas. Woof!" said my son.

            "Wait—what?" I said, walking into the kitchen. "Did he just bark at you?"

Up until that moment, the only time I've ever heard Thomas bark is when he's sleeping.

            "Woof. Woof," Thom said again. This was not an anxious or aggressive bark, and it wasn't loud at all, just his way of saying, 'Hey, who's that in my house with my mom? Do you belong here?' I brought him in, Ezra gave him a treat, and he slept peacefully (no nightmares) on his bed for the duration of my son's visit.

And about those nightmares: He rarely has them now. Whew. Many times in the past year I have been awakened by his anxious pacing and whining after he's had a bad dream. In those times, I have calmed him by talking to him, then made myself comfortable on the couch until he can sleep again. When he wakes now, he is exuberantly happy. Morning is still absolutely his favorite time of day. Before he goes out, he flattens himself on the family room floor so I can spend a few minutes petting him and scratching behind his ears. Recently he discovered that sweet spot, just above his tail, and his eyes close in bliss when I scratch him there.

Over the past year, my mantra to Thom whenever he has withdrawn or recoiled from my touch has been this: "Don't worry, Thom. Someday you'll be a real dog. You just have to be loved enough." This is, of course, an homage to The Velveteen Rabbit. I think he's just about there. He still doesn't come up to me when I call him, but he does trot happily out of the side yard when I get home from work and call him. He now looks forward to his daily walks (instead of resisting them), and he loves riding in the back seat of the truck with the window down. Every night, I look forward to bedtime. The kitties get treats and then Thomas gets a treat... and a chew bone... and Bunny Tibbs...  and a back rub.

I am daily grateful to the volunteers at Upland Animal Shelter who never stopped believing in Thom's capacity to recover. They took a feral dog and worked with him for months until he was adoptable, and in doing so they not only gave him a chance at a great life, they also gave me a boon companion who makes me laugh and warms my heart every single day.

Saving Sgt. Tibbs

In June of 2013, animal control officers in San Bernardino County, California, evacuated 130 dogs from a dubiously named "sanctuary" in Apple Valley.  The owners of the property had left, abandoning the dogs.  You can read that story here, but it's a sad one, and I don't recommend it.

Initially, the dogs were taken to Devore shelter, which is notoriously a high-kill, low-compassion facility.  But dog rescue groups rallied around, pulling out adoptable dogs and those needing special foster care.  And, to their credit, administrators at Devore contacted other local shelters in an attempt to find housing for all the dogs.

Which is how three of the 130 ended up at Upland Animal Shelter.  At first, the dogs were so under-socialized that shelter staff members and volunteers couldn't touch them, much less handle or walk them.  But eventually, with time and patience and a lot of volunteer love, the dogs were taught to walk on a leash.  They also learned that humans can be kind.  Over time, two of the three made enough progress to be adopted.  That left Sgt. Tibbs.

In July, I happened to stroll through Upland shelter, looking at the adoptable dogs, and I came across Sgt. Tibbs.  When I first saw him, I wondered why such a beautiful young dog had not been snatched up by some family.  But when I approached his kennel, I could see why; he tucked his tail and ran to the corner, huddling there.  As an introvert myself, I happen to know that people don't flock to be your friend if you can't show yourself friendly in turn.   The dogs who get adopted first are tail waggers and hand lickers, those whose faces say, "I'm so glad you stopped by! Now please take me home!"  Sgt. Tibbs' face said, "Please don't hurt me.  Just leave me alone."  And I walked on.

During Christmas week, though, I went back to the shelter.  I couldn't believe Sgt. Tibbs was still there.  As I stood outside his kennel, one of the volunteers came by to tell me his story.

"We've worked with him a lot," she told me.  "Now he walks on a leash.  But he doesn't make eye contact, and he's still very shut down, very afraid."  (More on the work of these great volunteers can be found here, and there's a photo of Sgt. Tibbs there as well.  He's the one on the left.)

Every day for a week (with the exception of New Year's Day, when the shelter was closed), I spent part of each afternoon with Sgt. Tibbs, just standing outside his kennel.  By the third day, he stopped running to the back when I approached.  On the fifth day, he made eye contact, just briefly, then looked away.  On the seventh day, another volunteer approached, and we discussed his personality again.  I told her I was concerned about how he would be with my cats.

"Let's cat test him!" she said, and moments later she had a leash on him.  We headed to the front, where he was taken into the office to meet the resident tabby there.  He did not alert.  He simply sniffed the cat, his tail tucked firmly between his legs, then walked away.

So the next day, which was yesterday, I returned to the shelter to adopt him.

I asked the volunteers (who've been calling him "Tibbs") how he got his name, and one volunteer confessed she had named him after the dog in 101 Dalmatians who looks like this:

(Most of the images I found for him online show him with a cat, so maybe that's a promising sign from the Universe.)

I don't think the real Sgt. Tibbs looks quite like that, and I don't know that "Tibbs" will work for me as I have no emotional investment in it.  But I want to honor the volunteers who spent so much time with this dog to bring about a happy outcome for him, so I'm not going to change it.  I'll just augment it a bit.  I have two beloved friends named "Tom," so his name henceforward will be Sgt. Thomas Tibbs.  Eventually, I'll call him Tom or Tommy.

As I write this, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs is at a nearby veterinary hospital having that minor surgery that he should have had years ago.  (He's six.)  This afternoon, I'll bring him home.  He still has a long way to go in terms of hanging out with me and the cats while I write books or grade papers, but we'll start (when he's recovered from the surgery) with daily walks and getting brushed.  I'll keep you posted on our progress.  Wish me luck!

And to all of you out there who do the very difficult work of volunteering to go into shelters every day and walk dogs or brush them or socialize them in other ways, may the Universe rain down blessings on you and those you love.

Addendum

Just wanted to add a quick note as an addendum to recent posts:

(Hate to sound like the doting mother, but seriously, doesn't Sugie look, well, just like Sugie in this photo? All ears sideways and wild-eyed, like she's about to attack something?? Glad it wasn't my hand... this time....)

So I stopped by Upland Animal Shelter (cat hell) yesterday. Two serendipitous events occurred. The first:

When I entered the smaller cat room, I was surprised to find it crowded with women. 'Wow,' I thought, 'lots of folks looking at cats today.' But then I realized these weren't potential adopters, they were volunteers. Three of the women had Down's Syndrome. The fourth looked up from a cage and smiled.

"Are you all volunteers?" I asked.

"Yes," she told me. "We come here every Thursday, just to interact with the cats." Is that cool or what?? More angels!! I thanked them all and four kind faces lit up. I watched for awhile as they carefully brushed and stroked the cats, then put each one gently back in its cage. Wow. What a blessing.

Then I headed off to the big cat room. There was a black kitten curled in a ball whose gender I could not determine, so I went to the front desk.

"Can I help you?" asked Mr. Jackass. I ignored him as if he were invisible. A woman swiveled around in her chair. I hadn't seen her before.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied pleasantly, and asked if she could check the gender of a kitten for me.

"Of course!" she replied, just as pleasantly, and off we went to the cat room. Little Miss Thing turned out to be a girl, and as I held her, the nice officer and I got to talking about black cats. She confirmed what others had said, that black cats are very difficult to place, and often 'grow up' in the shelter.

"I have one at home right now that I'm fostering," she told me. She went on to explain that a batch of kittens had been brought to the shelter in such bad shape she didn't think one of them would make it through the night. They were dehydrated, anemic from the fleas that covered them, full of worms, and starving. She took the worst one home--he had an infected eye filled with pus (shades of Homer Cooper!!)--and started caring for him, picking the fleas off, giving him fluids, treating his eye... and loving him.

"You should see him now!" she boasted. "But I'll have to bring him back, and he'll probably just sit here, because he's black...." Hmmm....

Anyway, this lady was great, and she clearly cared for the cats, so we'll have to conclude that she is an angel who has volunteered to work in hell. Now that's impressive!!

Of course, at the end of the day I ended up back in cat heaven, spending a luxurious half hour in the sunny yard with "Elmore," "Chesterfield," and several other furry children whose names I didn't know. (Angel was busy inside, sweeping out each and every cat apartment, so I couldn't ask him.)

I still haven't made a decision about who's coming home with me, but I appreciate all the response I've had to the blog and your comments. Love you, animal lovers!!