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My dog made me cry today.

I took Maya to a very large dog park. I used to do this with Thomas from time to time in the first years after I adopted him, take him to a dog park very early in the morning when no one else was there, then let him off the leash just to see if he would come back to me. Nope. He'd trot away to the farthest corner, then huddle against the fence. I knew if he ever got away from me, he'd just take off. Not until I'd had him nearly three years, and I'd retired and had much more time to spend out in the hills with him did I finally trust him to be off leash. Sort of. One day on a hike, descending a steep hill as we made our way back to the truck, I simply unhooked his leash, and he stayed right behind me, picking his own way down. I was very, very proud of him that day, as he stopped and waited when I asked him to so that I could hook him back up. But he has always felt safest when he's connected to me, so that's the way we keep it most of the time.

I knew Maya would be a flight risk when I brought her home, and boy howdy, did I make sure to watch her every second, to check the gate every time the gardeners left, to tighten my grip on the leash when we left the house, to always be aware of where she was when a door opened anywhere in the house.

Not so anymore. A few months ago, I was walking her with Thomas, and as we neared the house, she shook the leash out of my hand. I tried not to panic as I watched her trot ahead up the street--and go straight up onto our porch. Whew. 'Okay,' I thought. 'She knows where home is now.' I tested this a few times, dropping the leash a few doors away, and she will always run right home.

But out in open spaces, yeah, that's a different story. Many's the time we've stood on a rise overlooking a long stretch of rolling hills, and she has leaned into that. I know if I unhooked her, she'd be in the wind, running for miles until she either denned up in the wild or a coyote had her for lunch. Scary, scary thoughts.

So today was somewhat of a test for her. Did I mention this is a very big dog park?

That black and white dot, center of the pic, is Miss Maya Angelou Murphy, off leash. As soon as we were in, I unhooked the leash, and off she trotted. Away, away, away, almost to the back fence. I didn't follow. I just waited. Finally, she stopped. Turned back. I walked to the middle of the park and stopped. She doesn't really know the come command. But she knows "Wait." So I gave her the hand signal and told her, "Maya, wait." And she did. She sat her sassy derriere down and waited for me to approach her. I petted her--something that she never used to let me do if it were outside the confines of her crate, but she has decided, in recent weeks, it's actually quite nice. So she got some pets and head rubbies, and then I said, "Let's go," and we walked around the expansive park some more, Maya sniffing and peeing and being a dog. Pretty fabulous. Of course, I had to stop for a while and wipe the tears off my face and blow my nose. This is huge progress for her. She's learning to trust, and I know, with everything she experienced in the past, humans have shown themselves absolutely untrustworthy. (I hear ya, girl.) But she's trying.

All this was after I had walked her through the kid part of the park, around the playground equipment, and then asked her to walk up this bridge with me:

It would require her to take a big step up, and I knew that the thing would probably move, but every time we hike, I ask her to do something difficult--climb up on a boulder or cross a small stream or duck under a fallen tree. She amazes me every time with her courage. So without hesitating, I asked her to follow me up and over, and damn if she didn't do just that. On the way back, we did it again, but this time we stopped in the middle for a photo op.

It's important to note here: For most of every day, Maya still stays in her crate, by her own choice. (The day is coming when I will close it off during the day and only allow her to den up at night, but not yet. She's not ready yet.) She doesn't interact with me or Thomas or Jenny the Cat. She listens to the household routine, emerging for potty breaks when asked to do so. She is still very shut down.

In fact, just this past month, she finally began taking treats from my hand. For eighteen months, she has gotten a treat for going outside--at least four times a day. But, just as Thomas did in the beginning, she would turn her head away as I offered her a treat, even if she had returned to her crate. In the first weeks after I brought her home, she wouldn't eat the treat--even if it was sitting under her nose--until I left the room. She still won't eat food from her dish or drink while I'm in the room. But miraculously, a few weeks ago, after I'd been sitting with her for a while, petting her, she finally took her favorite treat from my hand. Of course, I cried that day, too.

But these carefree mornings when I hook her up to a fifteen-foot leash and let her wander in safe, isolated places--these are healing for her. She gets to be a dog, but she is reminded that we're in this together. Someday, I hope, she will see our connection as a good thing.

Good girl, Maya. You are a very good girl.

Dolly

 

Dolly

Who wants to adopt an old dog?

Well, no, I mean, not this cutie. She's already been adopted. But I mean, in general, how many people go looking for an older dog? My neighbor didn't. She went looking for a "younger" dog. As we know in the dog world, though, we don't always get the dog we want; we often get the dog we need.

Let me backtrack just a bit. My neighbor and her husband lost their beloved pug mix just a couple of months ago. I can attest to the fact that she was the sweetest girl, and much loved by her humans. But her loss left a void, so they decided to look for another dog. I volunteered to help, which ended up with the neighbor and I on a wild goose chase at first, driving all the way to Riverside County Animal Shelter, only to find it closed due to COVID restrictions. Arrrgh! We turned around and drove all the way home--well, almost.

As I navigated the freeway system, my neighbor called several other local shelters--all closed. "Well," I told her, "before I take you home, let's pop up to Cherry Valley and stop in at BARC. Maybe they have a little dog in the store right now."

BARC is Benevolent Animal Rescue Committee. They keep their small dogs on a large property in Cherry Valley and the big dogs on an even bigger place in Apple Valley. The rescue also runs a thrift shop in Cherry Valley, and the proceeds go to rescuing dogs and cats. I've dealt with these terrific volunteers before, and they're one of my favorite local rescues.

The thrift store (located at 39245 Vineland in Cherry Valley, right next to the feed store on the corner of Vineland and Beaumont Avenue) was open, so we wandered in, and my neighbor shared that she was looking for a small dog, "preferably young" and female. A volunteer pulled out her phone and began to show us photos of the small female dogs they had available.

Here's where the story gets goose-bumpy: My neighbor, a woman of strong faith, had already mentioned to me that (1) she had prayed for guidance and direction in making this decision and (2) she had already picked out a name for whatever dog she might adopt: Dolly. The photos on the volunteer's phone showed the dogs' pictures and their names.

"Stop," my neighbor said. "Can you go back? Was that dog's name Dolly?"

Yep. Goosebumps. Well, when you ask for a sign....

"Yes," the volunteer said, "but she's a senior. She was actually one of our rescues years ago, adopted by an older couple. But the husband passed away, and the wife is now in the hospital with serious medical issues. She can no longer care for this dog or her other two, so her daughter brought them back to us." Of the trio of dogs that were returned, Dolly was the only female.

Within the hour, my neighbor had filled out an application, the ranch had been alerted we were coming, and there we were, moments later, walking Dolly around and getting to know her.

"Well, Dolly, they say you're an old lady," I heard my neighbor say as she walked her new friend around the yard. "I'm an old lady, too, so that should work just fine."

In short order, Dolly was meeting her new dad, exploring her new home and yard, and receiving plenty of love and good food and treats.

Already potty trained and used to snuggling on the couch, Dolly fits right in with her new family. She is a mellow, sweet girl who will help her humans heal from the loss of their previous dog, and they will help her heal from the heartbreak of losing her family after all those years. Win. Win.

"I don't care if she lives two months or two years," my neighbor told me. "We'll deal with that when the time comes."

I will say Amen to that.

By the way, as of this writing, Dolly's two brothers are still available for adoption. Alex is eight and Pepper is eleven. Both are housebroken, well-behaved dogs. I'll just leave their two adorable photos below. If interested, just click on the link to BARC and fill out an application. A volunteer will call you.

Thomas, Five Years In

I’m happy to say that when I brought Sgt. Thomas Tibbs home in January of 2014, he did not look like the above photo. The shelter staff at Friends of Upland Animal Shelter had already been feeding him healthy food, treating him for mange and brushing him, so that by the time I brought him home, he had already undergone a metamorphosis into the incredibly beautiful dog that he is.

In fact, this is what his Merry Christmas photo looked like just before I adopted him:

If you’re a longtime blog follower of mine, you’ve read updates on how this once-feral dog has slowly been rehabilitated, learning to accept and trust humans (and cats). But I haven’t posted an update on Thom for a while, so I thought I’d let his fans know, he’s continuing to make progress—yes, even five years in.

Most notably, in the past year, he has finally given in and accepted Purrl as his buddy. She was a young cat, seven months old, when Thomas came to our home. Each night as I sat beside him, brushing him and singing to him, Purrl would creep to the doorway and glare at him. I’m not sure she’d ever seen a dog before. As time went on, she would belly crawl closer and closer to him. But if he so much as twitched an ear, she would shoot out of the room. At some point, though, she realized he posed no threat, so she set about to be his best friend. And boy, that girl kept working on it, rubbing up against him whenever he was captive on the leash, often trying to lie beside him in his bed, only to rebuffed again and again and again. Love is patient….

In May, when Sugar Plum died, Purrl was bereft. She has never been a talkative cat, but she cried daily at the door, wondering where Sug had gone and why she hadn’t returned. It was heartbreaking—for me and apparently for Thomas. If I left the house, I would often come home to find Purrl in Thom’s bed—and he had begun to stay and sleep beside her, whereas in the past he would have gotten up and trotted away to a different spot in the house. I am so proud of him for this, for taking on the role of the comforting big brother.

He even shares his favorite blanket with her.

Something else that has transpired in the past year is a game that Thom made up all by himself. When he first came home, he was difficult to catch. He had to be patiently cornered, and then he would drop his head and turn away from me while I tried to slip his collar and leash on. He still hates having his collar on. But finally, after all these years of daily walks, he almost sort of kind of a tiny bit looks forward to walking in the morning (most likely because he knows he gets a Kong toy full of treats afterward). So instead of getting anxious now when I get his leash, he has made a game out of it. He will trot away from me, but only a few feet. Then he looks back, wagging his tail, making sure I’m following.

“I’m gonna get you!” I tell him, and he’s off and galloping down the hall, sometimes spinning in a circle in the bedroom, dog bowing, his rump in the air like a mountain, flying the flag of his big beautiful tail. We play this game every day, but as he is still a bit camera shy, I’ve only been able to capture small bits of it. If you click on this link, you will find a very short video on YouTube of Thomas happily engaged in his game.

When he first came home, Thom was shut down, barely approachable, as sad as a dog could be. After some months, he had occasional moments in which he relaxed and wagged his tail, but he spent most days curled tightly in a ball, waiting for the “cloak of darkness,” as Shakespeare put it, to shield him from the world. He still prefers only to venture out at night, so taking him out midday is always a conversation that begins with, “If you want a cookie, you have to go outside and go potty….” But as long as he in the house (which he is all day every day), he is happy, for the most part.

And when he is anxious or fearful now, he comes to me. If he hears a car backfire or a firecracker—anything that sounds like a gunshot—he runs to me instead of trying to hide. When he does, I wrap my arms all the way around him and hold him, my face against his face, until he feels safe again. It works better than anything else I’ve found to calm him.

Does he still have issues? You’d better believe it. My cell phone is perpetually on “Do Not Disturb” mode as the tiniest “ting” of a text alert will send him flying out of his bed, trotting anxiously. Even the buzz of silent mode frightens him. If I have to print a document, I must first call down the hall, “Thomas, come here, buddy, I’m going to print,” at which point he sprints for the garage and stays there until several minutes after the printer has stopped making noise. Mind you, I can vacuum or run the garbage disposer or shred paper—none of those sounds bother him.

We still begin our daily walk before dawn, while it’s dark enough for him to feel comfortable, but even then things can get dicey if we see another human out walking. There are certain places here in the park he doesn’t like to go, because perhaps once—and it only takes once—he saw a human come out of a house or start a motorcycle or shout hello while gardening. If he doesn’t want to go, he sits down, and it takes a great deal of persuasion (and some perspiration) to get him to continue. Walking out in the hills, however, is another experience altogether. Since I’ve lived here, he has actually begun acting like a real dog if we’re on the trail—stopping to sniff and sometimes (Good boy, Thom!) peeing on a bush if it smells like coyote or another dog. He will walk miles with me out in the hills or in the mountains, even if that means crossing streams, and I am so grateful for this. I love having him with me when I hike.

As I write this, something is making Thomas anxious, but I have no idea what it is. For the past 30 minutes, he has been trotting down the hall, out to the kitchen, around the island, and back down the hall—non-stop, except when he comes to me for a few brief moments and lets me pet him to try to calm him. Maybe he heard a neighbor taking his trash cans to the curb. Or maybe my computer ‘pinged’ and I wasn’t even aware. Or perhaps he was sleeping and had a bad dream. (He still has nightmares on occasion, but nothing like what he had in his first year with me, when he would startle awake crying out or whimpering. Mostly now he emits soft sighs in his sleep, and I love hearing him if I wake in the night.) Guess I’d better go give him a hug.

Blankets

BFF Pet Rescue is a small rescue in Cherry Valley. With only a handful of volunteers, they accomplish super-human feats of heroism on a near-daily basis by going to local kill shelters, pulling dogs on the euthanasia list, comforting and socializing them, then getting them adopted. I follow them on Facebook, and I'm always encouraged and amazed by the enormity of the good work they do.

Last week, BFF put out a call on Facebook stating that they needed blankets for the dogs as nights are getting cooler and winter is approaching. (No doubt about that; it was 44 degrees when I stepped out the door to walk Sgt. Thomas Tibbs this morning.) I had an extra dog blanket or two, but I knew they needed, like, fifty. So I put a short post up on the Facebook page for Plantation on the Lake residents, asking for blankets and offering to pick them up. Plantation on the Lake is the senior community where I now reside, and let me tell you, these folks really, really love dogs. There are dogs all over the park, from Greyhounds to Yorkies and everything in between. I posted my request for blankets a few evenings ago, then I went to bed.

Twenty-four hours later, I was close to the fifty-blanket mark I'd been hoping for. People dropped off bags and boxes of blankets on my porch. A few commented their space numbers, and Thomas and I took a happy drive around the park, picking up blankets and also receiving a hug and a helping hand. (I was struggling with a huge box of blankets and a new resident happened to be walking by. "Do you need help with that?" she called. I had no idea who she was; we'd never met. Now I know her name is Carla and she is very kind.) In two days, we managed to fill the bed and passenger seat of Cloud (my truck) with blankets.

I know the photos are dark and not very good, but the wind chill factor was pretty severe yesterday evening and the temperature was dropping quickly as I left to go drop them off.

And what a warm welcome I received! I got another hug, dog lover to dog lover, and many thanks. The volunteer who met me and helped unload explained that their dryer runs all day every day, as they endeavor to make sure the dogs always have clean, dry bedding. Having all those extra blankets will help immensely.

Time spent on this project was less than an hour, total time for everything, including writing the post (60 seconds), picking up blankets (fifteen minutes), loading the truck (5 minutes), driving it to the rescue (10 minutes) and unloading (two minutes).

In a week that saw another mass shooting and another devastating wildfire here in SoCal, it helped to get my mind off all the tragedy for a few minutes. And I am so very blessed to live in a community that can be depended upon to step up whenever asked if there is a need. I mean, these are some seriously nice people. Then again, dog lovers usually are.

Merry...

Sgt. Thomas Tibbs hates Christmas. I'm sorry. He does. That is not my snowman in that photo, but that is definitely Thomas attempting to, once again, slink away while I'm trying to take a photo. This is one of the downsides (really there are so few! Maybe a handful at best! Okay, honestly, the list is long, but who cares?) of deciding that a feral dog is your best buddy. First of all, he's never learned "sit." Telling him that and doing that age-old motion of pulling up on the leash while pushing down on the dog's hindquarters scares him enough to put him in That's-it-I-mistrust-you-again mode. He knows "wait" as a command when I drop the leash, but... yeah, he's only going to hold that wait as long as I'm close enough to step on the leash if he starts walking. That cute snowman is on my next-door-neighbors' front lawn. Their house looks beautiful, so I positioned said feral dog first near the sleigh... but no, he wasn't having it... then by the snowman... again, he was quite insecure about it. So every time I tried to back up into the street and take the iconic "Look! It's Christmas! Here's my cute dog!" photo, he would slowly start idling toward our front porch next door. I don't blame him. I understand. He fears the snowman. He fears all the bright shiny tinkling twinkling moving singing Christmas decorations.

And that's so sad. Because I love them. So, full disclosure here, I've been tormenting my best buddy every night by making him take long walks around my neighborhood so I (selfishly) can look at the lights and tell him (quietly) "Thomas, that's so cute, though! Why you scared o' him?" Poor guy.

The girls, on the other hand (Princess Purrl and Sugar Plum), are in love with Christmas every year. Mostly because of the wrapping. Also because of the ribbons. Definitely because of the fuzzy feathered catnip toys their Big Sister Nic brings them:

This is Purrl's favorite position in the morning, by the way: Bottom to heater. We've been waking to temps in the 30's, so I don't blame her. In this photo, she is jealously guarding this toy so Sug can't get it. Naughty....

On the upside for Thomas, though, I do have to say this has been a great year for him. Since I no longer leave the house to work, we've bonded even more, and we often take long walks out in the country where he feels much more comfortable than walking where there are terrifying things such as people and flags and Christmas decorations and ducks and other dogs and lawn ornaments.

What he likes most, though, is to ride in the extra cab of the truck, looking at everything from the place where he feels safest in the world. So yes, I'm still driving him around every afternoon when we go to fetch the mail. "Thomas, ride?" is all I have to say. He trots down the hall, out to the garage and jumps in the truck--if the door is open. If it's not, he dances, shifting his weight from one front foot to the other while shaking his head in delirious joy. Riiiiiiide!

And now he plays. He has created a game that he adores. I'm not sure how it started, but he will often run for the bedroom when he sees me getting the leash. (Yes, I know; he's the opposite of most dog-buddies.) It makes me laugh, and some weeks ago I told him, "I'm going to get you!" which made him laugh and wag his tail--and run away faster. So now it's a game. I pick up the leash and he gallops down the hall to the bedroom, spins around in a circle and does a dog bow. I follow, then I turn and run back down the hall and he chases me. I stop when I get to the kitchen, turn and say, "I'm going to get you!" and he tears down the hallway again, wagging his tail furiously. It's hilarious. And man, does it ever make me happy to see him happy.

Oh--there is that other game he plays. Possum. You know how most dogs get excited in the morning when their human gets up? It's time to go outside! Yes! Pee time! Hooray! Major sniffs and leg hiking and all that! Not Thomas. He waits for me to come and sit beside his bed and rub his back and scratch his ears and massage his head until he finally rolls over on his back and laughs and says, "I have the best life in the world!" as he wraps his front paws around my arm.

Yes, yes he does. The new year marks the end of his fourth year with me. He was living as a wild dog for at least five before he was rescued. So I tell him often: "You've gotta have at least five good ones, buddy, to make up for the five awful ones." We're working on it.

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).

Rescuing Dogs: Part One

Once upon a time, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs looked like this.

So this happened:

Not long after I moved in August—to this place with cleaner air, bluer skies, fluffier clouds and a thousand dog walking trails—I started exploring my neighborhood and looking for dog rescues and shelters with a mind to eventually (after I finish my current book project and I finally unpack that last box) doing volunteer work.

One nearby shelter I found has a website that gives basic information about events and donations but redirects to Petango.com to list dogs that are available for adoption. I scrolled through the profiles and stopped when I saw an Irish Wolfhound mix. The Grandson has been wanting an Irish Wolfhound since he was... I don't know, ten? Now he's twenty-two and finally living in a house with a yard, ready for his first very own dog. Huh, I thought. Maybe it's serendipity.... (It wasn't, as you'll see.)

So on a very cold (low 40's) December day with wind gusts dropping the temperature even more, I stopped in at the shelter to see what it was like and also take a look at the Wolfhound. I met a nice volunteer who spent some time answering my questions about who manages the shelter and how they get funding (entirely from donations, without help from municipalities, which may explain why adoption fees there range from $200-$400). Then I asked about seeing the dogs. She told me that they were "probably all inside" as it was so cold, and that I might want to come back another day. I made a small donation then left, somewhat confused.

A week later, when I returned, I understood what she meant. The dogs are kept in kennels that have dual access, inside and out, which is great for them. But it's difficult for potential adopters because we can only see them from the outside. And direct access to the kennel is prohibited. Visitors have to view the dogs from behind a low chain link fence that sits five feet or so away from the kennel. I asked a young woman who was volunteering to "show me the Irish Wolfhound," so she walked to his kennel (with me on the far side of the low fence, herself on the inside) and pointed into his cage. The dog remained sitting toward the back of his kennel, watching us. He wasn't timid or wary; he just wasn't very interested in either of us.

Then it was just... awkward. She didn't offer to bring the dog out, nor did she come to the fence where I was standing, but I had questions, so we engaged in a conversation that had to be shouted above the barking of the dogs in other kennels.

I mentioned I'd seen the Wolfhound online and that it seemed he'd been with them a long time. She shrugged, said, "Not really," and explained that he'd been adopted and was gone for awhile but had just been returned. I had to ask why he'd been returned, and she allowed as how he "went after" the smaller dog in the family. To my question regarding whether he'd actually harmed the other dog or just growled, she shrugged again and said, "I don't know. He gets along well with other big dogs here. Maybe he just doesn't like little dogs." She gazed off into the distance.

Pulling out my phone, I asked if she would bring him out long enough for me to take his picture. She leaned against the door to the kennel—next to the leash that was hanging there—and told me there was a picture of him on their website. (That's the one I'd seen—a glamour shot of him in a bow tie, taken from a distance, which didn't offer a close-up of his face or any perspective on how tall he was.)

I offered to post a photo on my Facebook page that might help him find a forever home, since I have a lot of dog-loving friends.

She replied defensively that he was "well taken care of" there at the shelter, that he received "good food" and got to "run in the yard" every day.

Then she said I wouldn't be allowed to photograph him unless I spoke to someone in the main office and signed a "media release" form. She excused herself to go help someone else "for a minute" and never returned, leaving me standing there, trying to get a sense of the big dog who still sat quietly ten feet away.

I considered going to the main office, asking if another volunteer could help me, but by then all the sense of fun and adventure had gone out of the experience, and I just wanted to go home and hug Sgt. ThomasTibbs. So I did.

If you're wondering, it does appear at this time as if the Irish Wolfhound has been adopted. Best wishes to him and his new family.

*****UPDATE UPDATE UPDATE*****

Not long after I posted this, a story appeared in the local newspaper about this very dog (now named Sherlock). And I quote: "Sherlock is now the newest member of the San Bernardino Police Department's community affairs team. Sherlock has quickly stepped up in his new role and served as a source of comfort to North Park Elementary students after a recent on-campus shooting." Lt. Vicki Cervantes had gone to the shelter in search of a dog and met the (alleged) Irish Wolfhound/Lab mix. When she took Sherlock to her office, he was so well-mannered and such a gentleman that he became a member of her team. She said they never expected to use him so quickly after adopting him, but the need arose with the shooting, so she took him to comfort the kids, later telling a reporter, "His demeanor was just so amazing with these kids during this tragic event. They all just fell in love with him and he put smiles on all their faces."

Cool, huh? Three cheers for dogs with jobs! Especially this sweet guy!

The DNA is in! (Part 1)

This is my boy. My beautiful, beautiful boy (yes, I sing it to him, thank you, John Lennon), Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. Look at those brown eyes! And his gorgeous mane! Oh to have pretty hair like he does!

It's hard to believe it's been almost three years since I adopted him. But what a mess he was.... This is what he looked like when he was first rounded up in Apple Valley, along with 130 other dogs:

That's not "fluffy from a bath" as my grandson thought when he saw this photo posted on Facebook. That's "missing half his hair" due to mange. This picture is hard for me to look at. Let's look at him two months later:

By the time he was transferred to Upland Animal Shelter two months later, he was already beginning to recover from the mange. He had not, however, begun to recover from all the bad things that had happened to him, and he was very frightened. The great folks at Upland, though, began to work with him, and slowly over time, they taught him how to walk on a leash and how to trust enough to accept a treat from the hand of a kind human. They spruced him up, took his glamour shot, and crossed their fingers that someone would fall in love with him.

Someone did. This is how he looked, still at Upland Shelter, in December of 2013. I didn't see this photo until after I'd adopted him a month later. One of the volunteers sent it to me. Isn't he darling?  And this is my boy now:

His coat is soft and healthy, his eyes are clear, and those ears are as floppy as a good dog's ears get, especially when we're walking in the morning.

So, the question is, what breed is he? When he was originally impounded, San Bernardino Animal Control labeled him "German Shepherd and Golden Retriever." There's that GS face... and his golden hair looks like that of a retriever. But in fact, he is not a Golden. Not at all. Nope. No Golden Retriever in this boy whatsoever, I discovered after recently doing a doggie DNA test on him. I was shocked and amazed. But then I read the accompanying information on what breeds he did represent, and several things about his personality and behavior came clear to me. I will explain those traits in Part 2 of this post. For now, if you'd like to try guessing for yourself (and perhaps win a copy of my memoir, The Dogs Who Saved Me), click here to go to the Facebook page for Dogs and give it your best shot!

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.

The Mysterious Disappearance of Bunny Tibbs

Bunny Tibbs--the clean version

When Sgt. Thomas Tibbs came home to be my forever buddy, he was a sorry mess.  He'd had surgery that same day, he was still a bit drugged up, and he was coming into a strange new place.  These circumstances would stress any dog, but since Thom was so shut down already, I knew he might really have a tough time feeling safe. So on his first night home, I gifted him with Bunny, a soft brown Easter bunny my son had given me some years ago.  That night, I showed Thomas his bed, patting it gently as I led him to it, and I introduced him to Bunny.

"Bunny will stay with you, Thomas," I told him, and I laid Bunny on his bed as well.

I should mention here that for these first weeks, Thomas has been sleeping in my warm, well-insulated garage, with access to the back yard.  He is in the house more and more now, and eventually he will be sleeping inside, but we are still working through a few issues, one of which is his inclination to come alive at night.  During the day, he is still very shut down, but when darkness falls he becomes much more animated, investigating his yard and sometimes getting into a bit of mischief.  I attribute this to his extended stay at the shelter; to him, his environment was only quiet and therefore only felt safe at night.

For the first few days, while he was still recovering from surgery, I would wake Thom early in the morning, feed him and spend some time with him before heading off to work.  After a week or so, I came out one morning to find he was up and about, and he'd been exploring the yard.  A few days later, he spent the night chewing up an old dog bed, and I awoke to find bits of white stuffing spread all over the back yard.  No worries; it was the old bed, not the brand new one I'd just bought for him.  A few days later I awoke to a huge mess on the back patio; Thom had grabbed two bags of bird seed that had been sitting out there and dragged them across the yard, spilling seed everywhere.  I cleaned up what I could, but for days afterward my sparrows, finches and doves had a smorgasbord upon which to feast.

I'd been buying various Nyla bones and rawhide chews for Thom all along, as I knew he was anxious and needed an outlet, and due to his surgery, we wouldn't be going on any long walks right away. But he had seemed more interested in chewing other things such as his brand new brush.

Then he started excavating.  Every night he would dig one new hole in the yard.  Again, I recognize this behavior as one that emerges from his anxiety, and I know over time that anxiety will diminish, so it doesn't really bother me.  By the time I have the garden planted in late spring, he'll be staying in the house at night, so for now, he can turn over all the soil he wants.

Through all of his chewing and somewhat destructive behavior, he had never touched Bunny, and I sometimes wondered why, given what he was finding to chew on in the yard and the fact that he'd reduced a large dog bed to piles of fluff.

Then one morning I woke to find Bunny lying in the middle of the backyard.  I picked her up, turning her over and over, but could not find a tear or mark on her.  Huh, I thought, carrying her in and dropping her on Thom's bed.

That afternoon when I returned home from work, Bunny was missing.  I searched the yard, walking every inch of the perimeter.  She was nowhere to be found.  Thomas, of course, did not reply when I asked him repeatedly where she'd gone.  Finally, after my third thorough search of the yard, I noticed that the soil in one of the compost boxes looked uneven.  I ran a hoe through the rich earth--and a soggy ear flopped into the light.  I pulled it--and unearthed a very filthy Bunny.  I laughed as I carried her to the garage and threw her into the washing machine.  That night as I tucked Thomas in bed, I handed him his warm, soft Bunny right out of the dryer.

Of course she was missing when I woke up in the morning.  This time, she was nowhere to be found.

I called my son (whose favorite programs are true crime documentaries) and my best friend Donna, whose advice in helping Thomas recover has been invaluable.  Both were suspicious of Lady Boxer, the dog who lives behind us and sometimes jumps over the fence to "visit" (as in, eating Thom's food and drinking his water when her idiot owners leave her all alone for a weekend).  I wasn't so sure, but after a week went by with no sign of Bunny, I drove around the block and knocked on the door.  I was prepared to appear foolish ("Um, would you mind checking your back yard for my dog's stuffed rabbit?") in order to retrieve Thom's toy.  Yes, I love him that much.  Fortunately, they weren't home.

The next morning, there was Bunny, lying on the lawn as if she'd never left, covered with dirt but still wholly intact, not a scratch on her.

Of course, I stupidly, foolishly, picked her up and threw her in the washing machine again.  And of course, she immediately went missing the next day.

Poor Thomas.  He's having a tough time teaching his human to leave his toys alone.

I may not be as quick to learn as Thom, but I do eventually figure things out. He buries Bunny during the day so she will be safe from clean-freak humans, obnoxious cats who think they own the yard and pushy Boxer bi-- er, females who come over uninvited.  At night, when he's anxious, he digs Bunny up and chews on her--nicely.  There is a freshly dug hole in the yard, I'm sure, for every rawhide chew I've given him, as I quickly stopped seeing any evidence that he ever chewed them.

OK, Thom-boy, I get it now.  I promise I will never take your Bunny again.

Sgt. Thomas Tibbs: Update

Two days in....

Friends have asked how Thomas is doing, so here is a short post just to document his progress.  Note: If you haven't read the previous post here, you might want to scroll down to that one first before reading on.

Two weeks ago when I brought him home (directly from the animal hospital after his neuter surgery) he was loopy, still under the influence of drugs and definitely not happy.  (Getting a forty-pound dog into the extra cab of a truck on my own without hurting his sore bottom was quite a feat.  I think some angels in the form of the dog-loving spirits of my dad and brother were there to help out.)

Needless to say, he was uncomfortable for the first few days.  More critical, though, was his fear of everything.  Just putting his collar on traumatized him.  He would turn his head as far away from me as he could, his tail tucked so far between his legs it simply disappeared.

During the day, he wanted to stay in the yard, and so I let him.  He would go to the far side yard and huddle into the corner between the house and the block wall, remaining there until I came to get him with the leash to lead him to food and water and a chance to pee, which he would do quickly, always seeking to get back to his safe spot.

After five days, we did a short walk around the neighborhood.  Again, Thomas was terrified of every person, bike, vehicle or sound we encountered.  He panted anxiously, and as soon as we turned for home, he began pulling on the leash to get back to safety again.

Each night from the first I would end my day by sitting beside him, talking or singing to him, brushing his coat and slowly massaging his back.  Eventually he began to relax, and he stopped flinching every time I touched him.  But he never wagged his tail, would not even try to take a treat from my hand, no matter how tempting.

Last weekend I met some of my neighbors while we were walking.  Linda and Pete have a Shih tzu named Gizmo, and I asked if they would mind if Thomas got to know him.  They were patient and supportive when I described the life Thomas once lived, and we talked about dog rescue for a while.  As we did, Thomas stopped trying to pull away and simply stood beside me, leaning into my leg.  "Looks like he's starting to trust you," Pete remarked.  I smiled.

I've been coming home for lunch every day to check on Thomas and bring him out of his corner for water and treats.  On Wednesday, he heard me calling his name and trotted out on his own.  I nearly cried.  Evidence in the yard showed that he had finally made himself comfortable.

Several nights ago when we returned from our walk, instead of running for his corner when I unclipped the leash, he trotted over to the spot where I brush him.  (It's also near the cupboard where his treats are stored.)  I grabbed the brush (and a highly expensive organic all natural peanut butter treat--but he's worth it), and we spent some time together relaxing.

Two mornings ago, after eating his breakfast, instead of retreating to his safe corner, he ran around the backyard just as happy dogs do.  That time, I did cry.

I have yet to see him wag his tail.  He still won't take a treat from my hand, will not even walk forward to get it.  But he no longer turns his head away from me, watching me expectantly when I'm in the yard with him.  Today we drove to a park and took a long walk around in the grass, meeting other people with dogs and sniffing all the trees.

And yes, the cats are learning to accept him.  Fearless Purrl is leading the way, just as I knew she would, sometimes coming out to creep around on the patio while I am brushing Thomas.  While Sugie is not happy about sharing her home and yard with a smelly dog, she has not once fled to hide under the bed.  In fact this morning, knowing Thomas was in the yard (though in his corner), she crept out into the backyard and enjoyed a nice, relaxed roll in the grass--nothing short of a miracle to me.  Looks like those angels are still hanging around, helping out.

Two weeks in....