One of My Dogs

One of my dogs died yesterday. It wasn’t Fletcher, Folly, or even almost-16-year-old Ceiligh. And he hadn’t lived with us since early 2006. But he was still one of my dogs.

His name was Cooper and he was the first puppy that my husband, Mark, and I fostered for the SPCA/Humane Society of Prince George’s County (pgspca.org) in Maryland. He was just 2 months old when he came to us from the county animal shelter, and he immediately became a part of our family. He was sweet, playful, and eager to please…everything one looks for in a prospective canine companion.

It came as no surprise, therefore, that this precious retriever mix spent just a few short weeks in our care. He was adopted by a wonderful young couple who were thrilled to add him to their small family. Like many first children, their cat was less enthralled at the prospect of a four-legged sibling, but he eventually came around.

When you foster homeless animals, you become something of a way station on their road to a happily ever after. You know your part in their story will be a temporary one, but it’s impossible not to form an emotional bond. So their departure invariably leaves something of a void in your life, and you can’t help wondering about them and if their life is as good as you’d hoped it would be.

I was thrilled, therefore, when a year or so after adopting him, Cooper’s mom brought him to see me at a community dog event where I was working as a volunteer. Not only did I get some good quality doggy loving from—a much larger—Cooper, but I was given a small album chronicling life in his forever home. I felt like a proud grandmother.

Although I didn’t see Cooper again after that, I followed the course of his life through his mom’s posts on Facebook. I celebrated the arrival of two human siblings and felt pride in how Cooper took to his role as big brother. I smiled every time I saw a photo of the three of them enjoying special moments—like Cooper’s 12^th birthday—together. He was a dog well loved.

But every love story comes to an end, sooner or later. Last Wednesday, Cooper began having trouble breathing and was taken to a veterinary hospital, where he was diagnosed with aspiration pneumonia (the same affliction that led to my father’s death last year). The veterinarians tried four different antibiotics but Cooper’s health continued to decline. His mom spent Sunday night in the veterinary hospital by his side, willing him to rally. But on Monday it was obvious that the miracle his family was hoping for was not to be, and they gave him the ultimate gift of a peaceful passing, showing him love throughout.

When I heard the news, I cried as if Cooper were my own. Which, in a way, he was. No, he didn’t live with me, and in the eyes of the law he wasn’t mine. But in my “foster mom” heart, where perhaps it matters most, Cooper—like all the fosters who have passed through our door—was and always will be at least a little bit mine.



Posted with eternal gratitude to Cooper's adoptive family.

The Right Name

Dog of the Week: Ghillie

Six years ago this month, my husband and I welcomed an adorable, six-month-old, brindled Plott hound mix pup into our home. Although we knew--given her sweet, playful, happy personality--that she wouldn't be with us long, finding the "right" name was, as always, important to me.

At the time, we had two dogs with dance-related names: Tango, named for one of our favorite ballroom dances, and Ceiligh (pronounced Kaylee), named for an exuberant Celtic dance party. With her four distinctive white paws, our foster pup seemed to call for some sort of footwear-based moniker. But Boots, Slippers, and Socks seemed too ordinary for her exotic good looks. So she remained nameless for several days while I pondered and researched.

Finally, I hit upon the word ghillies, soft shoes worn by women in Irish dance. So Ghillie she became.

Less than a month after her arrival, Ghillie found her forever home, complete with a male golden retriever playmate, who she kept entertained (and in shape) with her fancy footwork.

I don't know if Ghillie kept her name...but I have no doubt that she's still dancing her way joyously through life!




 

Just another "extra"ordinary brown dog

A first glance, the 10-month-old puppy looked like just one more plain--albeit dark--brown dog: ordinary, nondescript, forgettable. But first glances can be deceiving.

Take the word "brown" for example. It can describe so many of life's treasures and pleasures: the crispy saltiness of pretzels; the rich creaminess of hot fudge sauce; the weathered texture of tree bark; the sparkle of smokey quartz; the glossy sheen of a chestnut mare's coat.

In the case of this deceptively unremarkable dog--named Devon by his foster family--brown is of the deep mahogany variety, shot through with unexpected golden highlights. And it sets off a pair of equally striking brown eyes.

I had ample opportunity to gaze into these eyes while caring for Devon last weekend because he spent a lot of time looking at me. And as I glanced into their amber depths, I discovered a very special dog indeed.

First and foremost, Devon is a dog who desperately wants to love and be loved, a dog who craves attention but doesn't have complete confidence in the dependability of the human species. He bestows doggy kisses with great enthusiam but also a touch of desperation...as if he is trying to convince both of us that he is worth my time and attention.

As sad as such insecurity makes me, it probably isn't surprising considering that Devon spent most of his short life in a backyard, not abused or legally neglected, but always relegated to the role of observer of--and never participant in--family activities.

Also not suprisingly, such human indifference has also led to separation anxiety. The day after Devon arrived, I put him in a large, lightweight, collapsable metal crate in my office for three hours while my husband and I went out. Upon our return, I discovered an empty crate with the door still latched, and Devon standing in the center of a pile of books, knick-knacks, and torn mini-blinds. Poor boy!

Over the next couple of days, I put Devon in a crate (a much sturdier one) for a half-hour or hour at a time...always with a treat, such as a frozen peanut butter-stuffed kong. Each time, he seemed less stressed. My sense is that while he may never love being crated, he'll accept it when necessary. And as his fear of abandonment decreases, he may not require crating at all, especially if he has a canine companion to keep him company. Even when he created chaos in my office, he didn't chew a single inappropriate item.

In spite of, or perhaps because of, his questionable past experience with people, Devon is incredibly eager to please. He's also smart. He already knows how to sit although the concept of "stay" seems foreign to him. He walks well on a leash and doesn't pull...unless he spots a squirrel or all other small mammal.

Mostly, he just wants to be near his people...an incredibly appealing quality in a dog.

Each night, as we climbed into bed together and drifted off to sleep, I bet our dreams were the same: for him to find a family who will see how special he is and will give him the love, care, and attention that all good dogs deserve.

To learn more about Devon and how you can make his dream come true, click here.

The Tale of a Tiny, Timid Tank

Tank can come across like a real tough guy (a sort of canine Jimmy Cagney)…especially when you first meet him. But in reality he’s anything but. The truth is, Tank is a timid, insecure guy who, believing that the best defense is an offense, takes refuge in a tough guy façade.

When I met this tiny Chihuahua/Chinese hairless crested for the first time yesterday, he charged at the storm door, barking furiously. I’m sure he was hoping I would just go away. When that didn’t happen and his foster mom let me in, he kept his distance, still barking at me periodically.

Fortunately, like most males, Tank loves food, so I spent some time just sitting on the floor, tossing treats to him until he gathered up the courage to take them directly from my hand. It helped that the resident Chihuahua, Hector, is a gregarious boy who interacted happily with me.

Once Tank had relaxed and was comfortable around me, we moved outside so I could take some pictures of him. The goal: to help him find a furever home of his own.

Tank is happy in his foster home, enjoys the company of his foster mom’s two small dogs, and obviously adores her, wagging his tail furiously when she talks to him. And she loves him! But her role is to rescue multiple dogs in need, and that means helping Tank achieve his own, personal “happily ever after.”

We don’t know anything about Tank’s background. He was picked up as a stray by Animal Control when he was about 2 years old and then spent some time at the Prince George’s County Animal Shelter before being taken in by the SPCA/Humane Society of Prince George’s County (PGSPCA). But his reactions to the world around him suggest that life hasn’t been easy. He ducks his head when someone reaches out to pet him, and sudden movements and sounds cause him to flinch and occasionally even snap. Just as Kermit the Frog sang that “it isn’t easy being green,” you get the sense that it isn’t easy being Tank.

And there’s just something about this unique little guy—including his infectious “smile”—that makes you want to provide him with a safe haven where he can feel protected and loved and come to believe that life can be good.

According to his foster mom, Tank’s ideal home would be a quiet one with a gentle, kind, dog-savvy individual who has experience with small breeds and the patience to work with him to build his self-confidence. Because of his reactivity to sudden movements and sounds, he can’t go to a home with young children, but he’d love the company of another small dog that he could bond with and learn from.

If you’re interested in learning more about Tank…go to http://www.petfinder.com/petdetail/17010671, email info@pgspca.org, or call 301-262-5625 and leave a message.

I Dig Dogs, and Dogs...Dig

Next stop, China! Well, not literally, although given the effort some dogs put into digging holes, we in North America could be forgiven for thinking that China is their ultimate goal. But if destination isn't the motivation, what is? Why, in short, do dogs dig?

According to experts, dogs dig for a variety of reasons ranging from predation to boredom to storing leftovers. Specifically, dogs dig because they are:

Hunting. Let’s face it, dogs are—or were—predators, and the ground is a treasure trove of bugs, mice, voles, and other prey just waiting to be unearthed.

Storing toys or food. In the wild, predators, including dogs, often bury animal remains they don't consume right away. This instinct to bury objects of value for later remains in some dogs.

Keeping comfortable. For some dogs, a hole is the perfect place to chill on a hot summer day or stay warm on cold winter afternoon.

Trying to escape. Faced with an irresistible temptation on the other side of a fence, a dog may dig his way to freedom...and the object of his desire.

Bored. A dog left home all day with no toys and nothing better to do may while away the time by digging a hole...because she can.

And sometimes dogs just like to dig. Soil provides a veritable cornucopia of wonderful (from a dog’s perspective) smells, as well as trash tidbits and smelly dead animals to chew or roll in. The smell of recently fertilized soil, in particular, can be irresistible to some dogs. Some breeds, like terriers and Labradors, are very prone to digging.

From the human point of view, digging can be a less-than-positive trait, and one that leads to a variety of creative attempts to limit the behavior. A former colleague of mine, for example, grew up with a beagle that dug under the fence so often that the family had a three-foot-deep, concrete-filled trench installed around the perimeter of the yard. And my husband’s parents would put a brick in every hole their dog dug the yard. I wonder what later owners of the home thought when they unearthed random bricks when doing yard work.

Our dog Ceiligh has invented her own digging-related game, which she also "taught" to our most recent foster, Ghillie (seen in the photos below). It involves digging a hole, dropping a ball or toy into it, then digging the object out again, repeating the process over...and over...and over again.

So much for our attempts to grow grass this year.

In Theory

I should have known better. There's a reason I don't go to the shelter regularly to assess potential dogs for the foster program of the SPCA/Humane Society of Prince George's County. It saddens me to see all the animals that end up there--usually through no fault of their own--knowing that many won't make it out. Plus, given the dog-aggressive tendencies of our dog Tango (which means the establishment of complex schedules when there's a foster dog in the house), I'm trying to limit our fostering role. So avoiding the biggest source of temptation seems only prudent.

But a few weeks ago, I threw caution to the wind and volunteered to help choose some dogs for our program. Following a case of Parvo, a serious and highly contagious canine disease, the shelter had instituted containment measures that included limiting the number of dogs any visitor could have contact with to one. More volunteers on site meant more dogs we could evaluate "up close and personal."

Which was all well and good...in theory, at least. Armed with a list of dogs whose time at the shelter was running out, we found several that were good matches for our available foster homes. But...while there, a 6-month-old brindled puppy caught my eye. To be honest, she was hard to miss. She wiggled and wriggled and play-bowed as I paused in front of her kennel, determined to interact with me.

Although I couldn't touch her (I'd already handled my one dog), I knew she was special. Convinced that other shelter visitors would be as captivated as I was, I was certain she'd be adopted quickly. Therefore, I reasoned, there was no harm--at least in theory--in asking shelter staff to let us know if anything happened to jeopardize her future.

But fate has a way of reminding us that nothing in life is certain, and last week the SPCA/HS adoption coordinator received a call that the puppy's application had fallen through and that her holding time at the shelter was running out. Would we take her into our foster program?

Well, it's bad enough to know intellectually that nameless and faceless dogs and cats die in shelters across the country on a regular basis. But it's absolutely unbearable to know that the life of an animal you interacted with, spoke sweet nothings to, and expressed interest in might be snuffed out. I just couldn't let that happen.

So the sweet brindled puppy is now a guest in our home, where she will stay until the right "forever" family turns up. Given her four white feet, I named her Ghillie--the word for Irish dance shoes worn by women in shows such as Riverdance. My husband had suggested Boots, but even though I grew up with a dog with that name, somehow--in an era of dogs named Abby, Sandy, Phoebe, and Jocelyn--that just seemed too pedestrian for a canine of Ghillie's distinctive looks. So Ghillie she is.

And once again, I'm shuttling dogs from inside to outside and one room to another so that Tango's and Ghillie's paths don't intersect. And I'm feeding in shifts (with Ceiligh eating either with Tango or Ghillie). And my life is a bit more complicated, but also greatly enriched. And not just in theory.

Seeing through the Eyes of a Rescued Dog

Since fostering rescued dogs has been a fairly significant activity in my life over the past few years, I thought I'd share the following reflections based on my experience with one of these wonderful dogs...reflections that were originally posted as part of the blog of the SPCA/Humane Society of Prince George's County:

Sometimes we forget that the ordinary, everyday world can be an exciting, surprising, and even scary place…when seen through the eyes of a dog just rescued from the concrete confines of the shelter. Objects, environments, and situations that we ignore or take in stride can cause very different reactions in a recently “liberated” canine.

Take Kourtney, one of our recent foster dogs, for example. When she arrived at our home, she was afraid to even come inside, much less go up or down stairs. A couple of days later, having mastered the stairs, she noticed a life-sized statue of a small puppy standing near the wall in our den. She crouched down, belly to the floor, stared, and began to growl. I had to turn the statue on its side and hold it in my lap before she would approach to sniff it. We repeated the process several times before Kourtney was completely convinced that this very still dog who showed no appropriate greeting behavior wasn’t a threat.

One night while I waited for what seemed forever for her to “go potty,” in the backyard, Kourtney spotted a cicada as it flew clumsily onto a low-hanging trumpet vine branch. She watched it intently for a moment and then made her move, knocking it to the ground and pouncing on it with apparent glee.

And the next day was the day of the pinecone. While on a walk, Kourtney suddenly froze in that position that suggests uncertainty about whether to advance or retreat. I couldn’t figure out what had spooked her, but then noticed a pine cone lying in the dirt. She stared, circled it, and stared some more. Tentatively, she touched it with her nose, only to jump back in surprise at the sensation. She circled some more, touched it again, then gingerly picked it up and carried it proudly for a few moments as we walked before dropping it as if it were of no further interest.

Kourtney’s stay with us was characterized by such small but momentous discoveries…discoveries that I feel blessed to have share with her. Ahhh, to see through the eyes of a rescued dog.