Dangerousness, trust and Callie

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I drove 35 minutes to the animal control center to get Callie.  Getting a dog at an animal control center was a first for me since I usually met returned dogs and their relinquishing owners in a parking lot or their homes.  ‘Returned dogs’ are dogs returned to the rescue for one reason or another after they’ve been adopted.  As it turned out, Callie’s whole situation was a first for me.

Catching dog icon.

She was just over a year old, not old enough to cause all the chaos of the last month or so.  All I knew going in was that her owner said she was dangerous and animal control had used a catch pole at the veterinarian’s office to take her ‘into custody.’  A catch pole is used to catch potentially dangerous animals, often feral animals.  It consists of a pole with a loop on the end, which goes over the dog’s head and tightens around their neck.  Callie was a house dog, used to a leash.  I couldn’t imagine why anyone would need a catch pole to take a house dog out of a vet’s office. I was shocked when I heard this and Lucky Lab Rescue’s coordinator, Cindy, was aghast.  It was pretty unheard of. 

Because of her advance billing as a dangerous, out-of-control dog, I asked my son to come with me, in case I needed two sets of hands.  We brought only a leash, some treats and a couple of poop bags.  I was hoping we’d be okay.

The woman who’d adopted Callie six months before was mom to four children.  Her 11-year-old daughter was the oldest and considered Callie her best friend.  Her other children included a crawling baby and two in the middle, one of whom had autism.  I’m sure there were lots of kids going in all directions and it’s sometimes hard to monitor the dog-child interactions.  I get that. 

What the mom first told the vet was that the baby crawled to Callie while she was eating her kibble and Callie growled then snapped.  She waited till the next day to bring Callie into the vet for her scheduled vaccinations and by then the story had changed to a report of a vicious dog who bit a small child.  The mom wanted to never see the dog again.

So the vet called animal control.  They brought a catch pole.  They considered euthanizing her, but Cindy’s pleading forestalled that. The dog who’d been cuddling and playing with an 11-year-old girl was dragged by the neck to a concrete cage and had had no human touch from then on.  Since no skin was broken during the alleged bite, she didn’t have to be quarantined. On the drive, I wondered what I would find.

Dangerous Dog Act 1991

After we arrived, the animal control officer (ACO) said Callie had been isolated for two days.  They shoved her food and water in her kennel but never interacted with her.  The sign on the door of her kennel read ‘Dangerous Dog.’  There was a Great Pyrenees dog, twice her size, in the next kennel with the same sign.  Great Pyrenees are wonderful dogs bred to guard.  The ACO told me that the dog’s family were told they were getting a Golden Retriever and when the Great Pyrenees guarded the family’s daughter from her playmate, they freaked out.  I wished I could take that dog home with me, too.

Callie was a 40-pound brown dog with floppy ears, probably a lab mix.  She was brown all over: nose, eyes, nails and fur.  She crouched in a corner and looked absolutely terrified and not dangerous at all.

I told the officer that I wanted to go in and put a leash on her so I could walk her to my car.  The officer said, “She’s dangerous.  She growls and she won’t let anyone near her.”  I thought, If I don’t offer her my trust, how can she give me hers?

My son told the ACO, “You don’t know my mom.”

I went in keeping my back to the wall, talking softly to her.  She stared at me, looked at the door, then came over, slinking low to the ground.  I waited to see what she’d do next.  She wedged herself between me and the wall with her eyes squeezed shut.

Callie when she first arrived

“What a good idea, Callie.  What a good girl,” I crooned to her.  I talked to her, sang to her and finally dropped the handle of the leash next to her. She nudged it with her nose. 

“Want to go for a ride?” I asked as I put the leash on her.

I told the officer that she was ready to leave with me.  “We can lend you a crate,” he offered.  “I don’t think she should be loose in the car.” 

“Thanks, but I think we’ll be okay.”  My son piped up, “If my mom says she’ll be okay, she will.”

We gathered her records and walked outside, where she promptly did her business.  She obviously knew what to do on a walk.  She jumped without hesitation into my car, ready to leave the animal control center in the rear-view mirror.  Her eyes were wide, she panted and only looked a mite less scared.  As I usually do with a new dog, I sang silly songs and talked to her.   It took most of the drive before she relaxed, just a little bit. My son turned around and offered her a treat several times.

When I got home, I made careful introductions to my own two dogs and another foster, but everyone was pretty nonchalant. The other dogs didn’t consider her even a little bit menacing and I trusted their judgement.  I watched them greet each other in the way dogs do as I read her records, looking for a clue as to how a happy young dog who’d belonged to a family ended up being considered dangerous.

People can look at a dog and make a snap judgement.  To the 11-year-old daughter, Callie was a loving best friend.  To the animal control officer, she was a dangerous dog.  Right now, I was seeing tail wags and getting kisses.  We’d see where we went from here.  It was a matter of trust.

Two dogs, two loves, one family

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When Teddy walked off the rescue van and into my life, I thought that having just one dog was perfect.  He had been billed as a dog who was happy to be an only dog, happy to be someone’s one and only.  That suited me too.  His warm, intelligent brown eyes watched my every move with approval, he loved our walks together and just hanging out.  He would put his head in my lap when I sat down and lean against me when I stood.  He was the perfect combination of polite but devoted.

One dog, one person.  Exactly the right number.

Teddy leans into Chelsea. Guess who has his toy?

A few months later, I was back on Lucky Lab Rescue’s site.  It wouldn’t hurt to look, I reasoned, just to read about other dogs looking for homes.  Then I saw Chelsea, a beautiful golden girl with a pink nose.  I quickly shut my laptop closed and said no way. 

The next day I went back on the site and I did it again the day after that.  I clicked on the link and a few clicks later; I had agreed to adopt her.  What was my happy-to-be-an-only dog going to do now?

Chelsea was an impulse adoption. That’s pretty unusual for me.  I usually approach decisions by weighing the pros and cons and thinking, not feeling my way to a decision.  I was immediately torn.  On the one hand, this decision felt right, almost as if I was nudged toward it.  On the other hand, I worried this was a bad idea for Teddy.  In fact, I worried until the day we went to pick her up.

I was a fool to worry.

Chelsea walked off the rescue’s transport van – no, scratch that.  She pranced and sashayed off the van in a way that I would come to realize was all her.  When she met Teddy, her grin got wider.  I got a home with another dog in it, she seemed to say. 

She was certain that two dogs, one person was the perfect combination.

Something remarkable happened to Teddy.  He was immediately smitten.  His polite aloofness melted away.  Something I didn’t know was missing for him had appeared in his life. 

When we got home and Chelsea walked into our house, she acted like a happy, giggly princess surveying her realm.  She walked from room to room, noticing where the sofa was (so she could take a nap on it later), finding the dog water bowl and taking a few laps and last, nosing among Teddy’s dog toys and selecting one for herself.  Teddy followed her, eyes shining with pleasure. 

She sweetly, confidently and joyously took over.  She insisted on walking through doors first, she pushed in front of Teddy for treats and praise.  He didn’t mind one bit.  She took the warmest spot in the sun or the comfy one on the sofa.  He was pleased for her.  She pushed her head in my lap to be petted first, sometimes making him wait. He just grinned. 

Teddy and Chelsea – 2 dogs, 1 person

Remarkably, his anxiety also disappeared.  It wasn’t just that Chelsea was there when I went to work, he simply felt more secure as part of a mini-pack and trusted in her confidence as much as she did.

Research shows that dogs feel love. Along the way, I learned that love and family meant somewhat different things to Teddy and Chelsea.  Teddy wanted to love and be loved back.  Chelsea wanted to share her love with multitudes.  When we went for a walk or to a gathering, she surged to each new person grinning, touching and often giving kisses.  Teddy nurtured his love for “his” handful of people (Chelsea included!), making it deeper each day. Chelsea expanded her love each moment and when it reached its edge, helped it expand even more.

Teddy yearned for a one-to-one bond and made it clear that I was his “person.” Chelsea wanted to be part of a family.  She loved everyone in “her” family equally and with outsized exuberance.  Teddy loved routine and order.  Chelsea simply loved fun.

Dogs come to teach us, I think. Chelsea changed how I thought about love. She was emotion in a dog’s body – joy, exuberance, happiness, curiosity, hope, humor, pleasure, enthusiasm, eagerness and of course, love. She was bursting with it, even smiling when she was asleep. She looked for ways to give it away, share it with you and bask in it.

Was this why I decided to click that adoption link based on my feelings, not my thinking?

Origin clues, peacefulness and Teddy

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Teddy at 3 years

I’m watching the cold December sunrise. The days are short this month and sunrise means those precious hours of daylight have begun. Mostly, though, I’m thinking about my dog, Teddy, who delighted in the dawn.

I never knew why he loved sunrise so much. Maybe it spoke to him. Or maybe it was part of his past and part of the untold story of his early life.

Teddy loved the outdoors in the early morning and he’d watch and listen as the sun rose. He adored lying on the deck, absorbing the day as the sun came up. He would stretch his 94 pound body out on the planks with a small sigh. He would listen to the birds and small animals come awake. His ears would lift up and swivel to hear the cars on the road, the early joggers and walkers. Sometimes he would breathe in deeply the smells from the commercial bakery a few miles away, wafting to him in the early hours. He would inhale deeply with his nose and simply savor it.


Only when the sun was above the horizon did he ask to come back in. Most days, he would shut his eyes and lie on the deck in contentment for almost an hour, simply happy that he was alive. I might name it mindfulness or living in the moment. To him, it was simply bliss.

When it snowed, as it often does this time of year, he would stay outside even longer, the flakes piling on top of him, his black fur peeking through. Although I would open the slider and invite him inside every 10 minutes or so, he stayed put until he felt satiated. I worried that he looked like those pathetic dogs in commercials meant to solicit donations for abused animals. Maybe he did.


Sometimes when I posted his snow-covered pictures, I wondered if the animal cruelty squad would come knocking at my door.

Teddy on the deck in the falling snow

I’d had dogs before – a lab mix as a teen and a pointer when my children were growing up. Since they came from shelters, I guess you could call them rescues. But they arrived as puppies, with most of their lives ahead of them and very little mystery about their past. Teddy’s past was unknown to everyone but him.


Teddy was a young dog when he became part of my life. I was sure he would enjoy toys, dog biscuits and other treats so I bought plenty in anticipation of his arrival. I was told that he loved stinky soft treats so I also stocked up on lots of those. The first time I offered him a biscuit, he took it politely and then let it fall out of his mouth. It lay on the floor. He looked at it then looked at me. I offered again and he did the same thing. Later, seeing I was disappointed, he began taking the biscuits outside, not to eat but to bury them.


But he liked those soft smelly treats and ate them with gusto. Once, when I baked a piece of salmon, it slipped as I took it from the oven and dropped on the kitchen floor. Teddy looked at me and I looked back at him. “I guess it’s yours,” I told him. He didn’t let one morsel fall out of his mouth.


He was a 3-year-old dog when he arrived in New England on a transport van from Lucky Lab Rescue. He’d been found in southern Indiana as a stray, they told me, eating out of trash barrels with another black dog. What they knew for sure was that he was a large, gentle and polite boy but not much else.


There were a few small clues to his life story. On our walks, he would try to jump in the back of pick-up trucks and tug me down front paths to large, covered porches while ignoring other models of cars and houses unadorned by porches. I wondered, of course, why he was drawn like a magnet to trucks and porches, but he wasn’t saying. I had other clues too. He would sometimes try to smash through the ice film on the outside water bowl with his front paw if it had frozen overnight. How does he know how to do that? I pondered. Had he lived his life as an outside dog? He also knew how to sit, give his paw and come running to a whistle. Someone had taken the time to teach him.

I hoped that meant that somebody had loved him. If they hadn’t, I vowed I would love him enough for the rest of his life to make up for it. Whether he told me his secrets or not.

Laughter, pranks and Chelsea

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Chelsea had been part of our family for only a couple of weeks in December when Christmas arrived.  She watched presents being unwrapped, one by one.  When my son unwrapped a large, stuffed, mallard duck, she stopped and watched closely. When he squeezed it to make it squeak, her eyes began dancing.  He held it out to her.  She accepted it gently and raced around the house with it, stopping every now and then to shake it.  Once or twice she got close enough to her brother, Teddy, to whack him a little with the duck’s floppy head or tail.  She grinned and did again. And again.

Chelsea playfully refusing to get up for Oscar, photo by Sue McLaughlin Cunningham

After that it was a regular thing for her to take a stuffed toy or rope toy and shake it near Teddy’s head.  Soon she found out that she could whack him with it not once but twice if she got close enough.  So she did.  She would grin her infectious grin and he would grin back.  When she thought they had both grinned enough, she would drop the toy and do something else.

One afternoon, Teddy was sleeping and she was roaming the house.  She found a rope toy and brought it over to where he lay on the rug.  She whacked him a few times on the ear, then dropped the toy and grinned.  He lifted his head to see what had happened and she strolled to a favorite spot on the steps, lay down and closed her eyes.  I swear, if she could have fake snored, she would have.

Reverend Ted Loder wrote, “Laughter is a holy thing. When you can laugh at yourself, you are free.” Chelsea agreed. I’ve seen dogs join in our laughter or act goofy to make others smile.  For Chelsea, laughter was an act of joy. She would begin with a prank and then dare us not to laugh joyfully along with her.

When Chelsea and her brother, Teddy, became part of Sue’s playgroup, she was in seventh heaven.  Her exuberant personality had a whole new place to shine and new dogs to entertain.  She romped, she chased and she spent time with every dog there.  But, she saved her special pranks for just a few.  Sue’s own dog Oscar, a German Shepherd, was smitten with Chelsea from day one.  She ran shoulder to shoulder with him and they would lay in the shade to cool off together.

More than once, Chelsea would stop playing and plunk down on the grass.  She would lay on her side, facing away from Oscar, unmoving.   Oscar would bark at her, telling her to get up and play.  She would lay there, eyes open, grinning.  After a little while, when he had almost given up, she would spring to her feet, ready to play again. He would be surprised and happily chase after her.

Her funniest joke was when she decided to redesign her harness.  While she was learning to walk without yanking me off my feet, I got one of those harnesses constructed so when she pulled, she was pulled to her side and back toward me.  I bought one in hot pink and was thrilled by how much more control I had during the walk. 

Chelsea in her “thong”

Chelsea was not as thrilled.  After one early morning walk, I let her go out onto the back deck without taking the harness entirely off.  I slipped inside to grab a cup of coffee and she disappeared from sight.  A few minutes later she returned, the harness was chewed in two pieces with the remaining piece riding low around her hips – not around her shoulders as it was designed.  “What did you do?” I squawked. “That was a $45 harness!” 

Then I stopped and stared.  She looked like she was wearing a hot pink thong.  She grinned her sassy grin and streaked past me and up the stairs.  I found her on my son’s bed, cuddled next to him, feeling protected, looking smug.  “Chelsea chewed up her harness,” I said.  “And now she’s wearing a thong.”  My son and I laughed and ended up taking pictures of Chelsea, which I posted online.  She never wore a harness again.

Short fosters, second chances and Teddy Boy

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Teddy Boy was my shortest foster.  I had him with me for a whopping two hours.

He was a happy-go-lucky boy and only 8 months old when he was adopted the first time.  He had an older “brother” dog and he loved his family.  We thought they loved him, too. All seemed well, until it wasn’t.

One day, Teddy Boy and the older dog suddenly didn’t get along.  He had been with his owners for a year and a half and this came out of the blue.  They freaked out and felt they couldn’t deal with it.  Things became very tense.  They kept the dogs separated and spent less time with Teddy.  He knew something was up and stopped eating much at dinner.  They felt they had to choose and that their first loyalty was to the older dog.

When they contacted the rescue, they planned to send Teddy to a local shelter immediately.  The adoption contract, however, said they had to return him to the rescue. 

It’s awful for any dog to be sent from family life to a shelter.  They don’t understand what happened or why.  They trade a warm bed for a concrete floor and daily affection for getting only their basic needs met.  The rescue didn’t want to see that happen to Teddy. 

Teddy Boy was a beautiful dog.  He was a rangy 70 pounds with creamy, short fur and freckles across his face. He was tall, with long legs and was both graceful and fast.   He was also a lucky boy.  The rescue convinced the owners to stand by their word and release him back to them.  Instead of going to a shelter, Teddy went to a beautiful dog boarding facility nearby.

I went to pick him up a few days later.  The place was 90 minutes away from me in a very pretty rural setting.  As soon as I walked in, several of the people who worked there rushed over to tell me what a wonderful dog he was.

“He gets along with every single dog, even the picky ones,” I was told.

“His tail never stops wagging.  Even when he eats, his tail is wagging,” another said.

One young woman had come in on her day off to ask if she could adopt him.  “I bring my German Shepherd to work,” she told me.  “He loves Teddy and so do I.”

In the few days that Teddy was in the boarding facility, he had already been adopted.  In fact, several families fell in love with his online picture.  Instead of bringing him home to my house to foster, I was meeting his new family two towns away in a local park. 

I walked him out and around the parking area where I could smell the piney smell of the surrounding evergreens.  He zig zagged and pulled a bit. He hopped readily into my car and we loaded up his stuff.  He had a lot of things from his previous owners – a bed, a bag of toys, leftover kibble and treats.  He sniffed and, satisfied that he recognized it, settled down in my car.

The drive was short and along pretty roads.  In about 20 minutes, we came to the turnoff to the park.  His new family arrived quickly after us.  They were thrilled to meet him.  They exclaimed over how beautiful he was and let him take the lead in greeting them, as experienced dog owners do.  They had recently lost a dog, they told me, and felt they needed a new dog to make their family complete.

The father asked if he could walk Teddy and did, with his two little girls by his side.  Again, Teddy zig zagged and pulled a bit on his leash.  The 7 year-old said, “Me next! I want to walk him.” 

“No! I want to go first,” the 4 year-old daughter exclaimed. 

Without hesitation, the father handed her the leash.  And Teddy did a remarkable thing.  He looked over his shoulder at the little girl, seeing who was holding his leash. When they set out, he walked slowly and gently.  He adjusted his pace to hers.  He walked in straight line in whatever direction she chose.  She beamed.

They signed the new adoption contract and loaded up Teddy’s stuff into the back of their SUV.  He jumped in the back seat, between the two little girls.  All three of them looked happy, Teddy most of all.

Shutdown, trust and Brandy- Part Two

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Brandy laying close to Teddy

I stood, leash in hand, watching Brandy eat her kibble. She kept one eye on me and her body was ready to spring away the instant I moved toward her.  But keeping me in her sights was an improvement.  The first night I brought her home with me, she tried to hide in an upstairs bedroom at dinnertime.  I’d closed all the doors, however, and she was stuck in the dead end hall.  Quivering.

I told her, “You are eating with the pack, little girl.”  I fed Teddy and Josie first, then put down her bowl.  She watched them for a moment, then slowly began to eat.  Josie, as usual, scarfed her food at a breakneck pace and watched Brandy carefully to make sure she didn’t leave anything.  That didn’t bother Brandy. It was having me nearby made her worried.

Just as I’d hoped, she loved my two dogs. Teddy, who adored routine and was pretty unflappable, patiently showed her the ropes and lay next to her when she was scared.  Josie tossed toys at her and then stole them back.  Brandy’s whole body relaxed when she was with them.

I realized quickly that she lived in a state of nonstop vigilance and fear.  Any new noise made her startle and freeze.  When Teddy looked out the window and barked at the mailman, she raced to the other side of the room.  When my son came over, she watched him from the other side of a doorway.  But outdoors with only the dogs, she was happy to chase a squirrel or watch the birds.  It was people who gave her pause.

Josie and Brandy watching the world

I also got in touch with her former foster through the Lucky Lab Rescue facebook page for fosters.  It had been two years but she remembered Brandy well. She posted that Brandy had a hard time trusting humans and would run if she saw a towel or even a toy swinging in the air.  She wondered if she had been beaten or abused.  She ended by saying, “I don’t know what makes some dogs bounce back after abuse while others don’t.  Sadly, the physical wounds are always easier to heal than the wounds to one’s soul.”

I had raised a child with intense anxiety and this was familiar territory.  I felt for Brandy.  It was exhausting to anticipate the worst.  I knew routine was my friend.  I realized small steps were going to do the trick.  Most of all, my secret weapon was the power of the pack.

“Come here, pretty girl,” I would call her while holding a leash.  Brandy liked leashes – they meant happy things.  I would tie her leash to one of my dogs, usually Teddy, so that she couldn’t hide and was never alone.  They lay side by side where the sun hit the carpet or walked together to the water bowl.  They got treats together and praise together. We were making progress.

Shutdown, trust and Brandy – Part One

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When I pulled up in front of the large, gray house, I had no idea what to expect.  Lucky Lab Rescue had asked to me go get Brandy because her owners didn’t want to keep her. They said she was still terrified of them and hid from them most of the time.  She was still afraid to eat when they were in the same room.  This was fearfulness to the moon and back.

And they’d had her for two freaking years. 

Brandy before I fostered her

In rescue, there is the 3-3-3 rule.  Three days to de-stress, three weeks to settle in and three months to build trust.  Something had gone seriously wrong here.  I had no idea what.

I knocked on their blue front door and went in to meet Brandy and her owners, a married couple who had never had a dog before they adopted her, and their college aged son.  Brandy was nowhere to be seen.  I was told she was hiding in the son’s bedroom upstairs, not because of me, but because it was what she did every day.  My own dogs would have run to greet a new person, I thought, maybe given a perfunctory bark or two.  There would be lots of sniffing, tail wagging and curiosity to see who had walked into their home.  But here, nothing. No sign of a dog at all.

I asked a few polite questions and then just listened.  Brandy was beautiful, they told me.  But “she acts a like scared, hurt, insane creature 99% of the time.”  She shakes coming down the stairs to go for a walk and sometimes pees out of fear, they added.  She hides in our son’s bedroom (who was home on a break) most of the time.  We put out her food at night before we go to bed and she comes down to eat while we are asleep. 

She acts like we are always just about to harm her, they told me. “At the two-year mark,” the woman said, “we don’t have much hope for change.”

“Will she come with me?” I asked. “I have two dogs at home who are calm and love other dogs. That might be what she needs right now.”  They looked at each other and nodded.  I told them a couple of stories about Teddy and Josie and how they loved the dogs we had fostered.  How they tag teamed, with Teddy being calm and showing other dogs the ropes, while Josie played and pushed them to get into trouble with her.

They asked if I could train Brandy and then return her.  “No,” I explained. “You said you were returning her, letting her go.  She will come stay with me for a while and then go to another home. Is that what you still want?”  They nodded, tearful, but seemed to accept it.

Someone went to get Brandy’s paperwork and food, while the son went upstairs with her leash. 

As she came down the stairs I stood quietly, not looking at her.  When a dog is scared, they often tuck their tail under, but Brandy’s tail was docked.  She stood docilely, trembling slightly.  She didn’t seem ready to bolt, but resigned, a little defeated.

We all walked outside and I was handed her leash.  I opened my car door, expecting to have to wait a bit or maybe coax her to get in.  But she surprised me and jumped right into the back seat, where she sniffed the dog smells my two dogs had left.  She didn’t look at me.  She didn’t look at her owners.  I ran the seat belt through the loop in her leash and shut the door.

When we got to my house, Brandy immediately tried to find a place to hide.  But only from me, not my dogs.  She started playing with them within 20 minutes.  Small steps, I told myself. Let’s see if the 3-3-3 rule will work this time.

Super-friendliness, intention and Gwen

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After I’d fostered just a couple of dogs, my own dogs thought that I was fostering for their benefit and happiness. Every dog so far was interesting, showed how much she or he liked the two of them and fit themselves into their pack as fast as possible. When they heard my car pull into the driveway one July afternoon with Gwen in the back seat, Teddy and Josie immediately thought she would make life better.  They turned out to be right.

I followed a set of steps to make sure first introductions went well.  First, the new dog, in this case Gwen, walked on a leash around my front yard.  Then I brought her into my fenced back yard, letting go of the leash so it trailed behind her.  She explored the yard for a few minutes on her own, sniffing the ground and air.  Stretching her legs from the car ride. Listening to my own two dogs, Teddy and Josie, whine and yip in impatience to come out and meet her.

When I opened the back sliding door, they rushed out.  Gwen did something unexpected.  She half jumped in the air, then made a perfect play bow.  She had not one hesitating moment.  There was no slow-warming up period.  She greeted both of them as immediate friends.  I thought, ‘Her bio said she was dog friendly.  That’s sure an understatement!” 

Gwen had a kind of magical attitude.  She expected other dogs to like her and she expected to like them.  It worked like the charm – her charm – that it was. In her doggy way, Gwen set intentions.  Many dogs are friendly or enjoy what comes their way.  But they can be alert for little red flags. 

Not Gwen when it came to friendships with other dogs.  She’d approach with something more than confidence, more than openness.  She simply knew the other dog would like her and she was never wrong.  Not that first day, not at the dog park or meeting other dogs on walks.

She was simply terrible on a leash.  She never pulled but couldn’t seem to get the hang of walking in a straight line.  She’d weave to my left side then zoom to my right.  I’d coax her to my left side, giving her  a treat when she stayed in the dog-space.  She’d look at me and I’d be sure she was making progress.  Then something – often I would have no idea what – would interest her on my right and she’d sashay in that direction.  She never pulled hard.  She simply couldn’t get the hang of walking in a straight line.

When we’d walk by another dog on a walk, her meandering seemed to have a purpose.  Gwen would drift over in their direction, grinning her sweetest smile.  Most dogs would beam their smiles back.  For the occasional dog who had a tepid response, Gwen would turn up her friendliness wattage and win them over.  They’d grin back after a second or two.  Worked every time. 

It was Gwen’s world, the one where she loved other dogs and they loved her back. Her magic, her intentions, ruled without fail.

Names, coming home and Teddy

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I first saw Teddy online.  He was featured in a photo outdoors, his black coat contrasting with bright green summer grass.  He was handsome, I thought, and gave off an aura of acceptance. He had been found wandering with another dog in a Midwest state, eating out of dumpsters and trash cans, just focused on surviving.  When he was approached by someone intent on rescuing him, he proved to be gentle and allowing. 

Teddy was my first rescue dog.  I saw his picture and felt that tug of connection right away.  I had recently moved into my house, knowing it wouldn’t feel like a real home unless there was a dog in it.  I saw him in my mind’s eye, a medium size dog, maybe a Labrador retriever, with a happy go lucky personality.  It’s hard to tell some things from a small picture on a web page.

On his gotcha day, I drove to a neighboring state alone in my small Toyota Corolla.  The transport van was late, having hit traffic and other delays. One puppy after another was brought out from the van and put in the arms of very happy adopters.  When Teddy came out, I saw this tall, very large and lanky, rough-coated black dog who greeted me with a polite aloofness.  I was told how well behaved he was and how patient he was.  Most of the van had been filled with un-housebroken puppies, who fussed, slept and had many accidents all along the way. 

He politely waited for me to hand over the paperwork, accept his things and then he tugged me away.  After a short walk to stretch his legs, he jumped right in my car nearly filling the back seat.  Somehow he knew he was putting that part of his life behind him.

We arrived at my home well after dark, toured the house and back yard and waited for my son to come home after his shift ended at 11 pm. My son arrived while Teddy was exploring the house, sniffing, listening and checking every corner.  We took him out to the deck and the three of us sat there in the summer dark for a while.  Teddy went to explore the back yard his black coat disappearing in the night. He didn’t reappear.  “I think I left the gate open,” my son exclaimed and we both raced to find our new dog.  My heart pounding, I thought how a black dog can easily disappear into the night and not know how to find his way home. Then I heard my son say, “Come here, Mom.  You have to see this.”

And there in the driveway, was Teddy.  He was sitting patiently next to my small car, waiting to get in again.  After only a few hours and one car ride, he had decided this was his car and his family.  He wasn’t leaving.

He came from the rescue with the name Saint, which he never thought was his.  I think his Midwest foster thought it described his personality and in many ways it did.  He was gentle, patient and loving.  He was willing to try what we asked him, whether it was a simple thing like sitting or a new thing like “leave it.”  He listened intently to everything, learning our voices and absorbing our intentions. He was fierce in his concentration.

When I introduced him to people or talked about him to coworkers, they asked, “Why, is he called Saint?  Is he a Saint Bernard?”   I would explain that someone thought it described his personality, but it sounded lame, even to me. 

My son and I each came up with a short list of names we liked and thought would fit him.  I looked online for popular boy names while he pulled from names he liked in movies and favorite books.  We took him outside, sat him on the deck and tried out a succession of names.  I called him over saying, “Riley” but he just looked at me.  I even made smacking noises but he ignored those.  My son tried a different name, then another. Our black dog sat there politely, wagging just the end of his tail, waiting to see what we would do next.  Then I tried my favorite name, which I’d saved until last.  “Teddy!” I called.  He pricked his ears, and came over looking at me steadily.  “That’s the one, “I half shouted.  My son tried it too.  “Teddy!” he called and the dog padded over to him.  We’d picked a name, or rather, Teddy had picked his own name.  

We tried it a few more times, just to be sure.  Or rather, for us to be sure, because he had made his own decision and didn’t waver a bit. This was his home, that was his name and all was well.

Boundless energy, routine and Maude

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Maude came off the transport and never stopped moving.  At least that’s what I heard.  Another foster parent picked her up and kept her for a few hours until I could retrieve her.  When I went to get her, there were four dogs in the yard, her own two and two more waiting to be fostered.  I looked them over carefully, trying to see who matched Maude’s online picture.  “Which one is she?” I asked.  Once I was told, “She’s the one in nonstop motion,” it was a no-brainer to pick her out of the melee, er, pack.

On the walk to my car, everything was exciting to Maude.  She yanked the leash toward a butterfly, froze to listen to a car engine nearby and zigzagged so much she covered three times the distance we would have if she’d walked in a straight line. She sniffed out every cranny in my car, even finding a dried up dog treat.  She bounded from window to window, never staying next to one for long.

Inside my house, Maude zoomed from one spot to the next.  She put shoes, pillows, throws, paper bags, the corner of the dog bed and toilet paper in her mouth.  When she was told “no,” she would let me take the item but immediately zoomed off to try out something else.  She found the dog toy box and emptied the toys all over the house, splashed the dog water around before drinking it and then play-barked at my dogs a few times.  Anything that came into her mind to do, she tried it out. 

I pulled out the description I had received of Maude.  Medium energy, uh no.  Loves other dogs, yes, when she stops long enough, she does.  Needs a little help to get to her forever home? Yep, Maude needed to slow down long enough to learn the basics.  It also said she was easy to love and that one was very, very true.

My own two dogs, Teddy and Josie, simply love routine and basic rules.  In the morning, breakfast always comes after a trip outdoors.  Dinner time is pretty close to 6 pm and there’s a dog biscuit just before bedtime.  They wait patiently while the kibble plinks into the bowl and sit quietly before their treats.  It’s okay to bark (a little) at the postal carrier but not the children walking by.  Dog toys can be tossed around and shredded but never shoes.

Maude was new to routine and rules but watched closely the first few days.  She was smart and wanted to master the routine, not be led along by it.  Within a week, she was the first to tell me it was dinner time or time to get ready for bed.  “You are such a smarty tail,” I would tell her.  She would beam and wag her tail happily.  She quickly learned to leave shoes, slippers and pillows alone.  She began to love hearing “good girl” and shoved in front of the other dogs to be sure I saw her sit for treats.

Most dogs understand – far better than people do – that life keeps happening even when we’d like it to slow down or stop for a while.  We have a few choices: we can try to control everything, accept what comes to us or move ourselves to a place where we are in the flow.  Maude chose none of these.  She plunged headlong into every new moment, bringing her boundless energy with her.  But she learned to find pleasure in the structure of a routine that shapes the day and that following rules can bring praise, ear scratching and treats.

Someone else fell in love with that online picture of Maude.  I brought her to the young couple’s house to meet them.  She zoomed around in her trademark fashion, but sat when asked and wagged happily at hearing “good girl.”  While I talked about her smarts and her good manners, Maude lay down and waited patiently.  “Balance is everything,” I thought to myself. “And Maude knows it.”