The Caninization of Jerry: Our Rescue Dog Becomes a Dog

Jerry, then.

Groundhog Day is the day we chose as the birthday for Jerry, our rescue dog who came into our lives as a malnourished, neglected pup in fall 2010.

Jerry, now.

Two years later, he seems more like a dog and less like an injured soul. We call it the caninization of Jerry.

Like any dog, when he hears the words “do you want to” or “go,” he cocks his head expectantly and waits with bright eyes to hear the rest of the question. He also gets excited when I bag up the recyclables because he knows that means a trip to town.

Jerry looks like a chocolate Lab, but in reality he's a Weimaraner/Chesapeake cross. And like any Weimaraner, Jerry loves to roll in smelly things, such as the swamp that’s near the gravel pit or anything dead on the road. One day he found a half-dead garter snake and finished it off, afterwards anointing himself with the remains. Later that day he slept and woofed, his paws twitching in imaginary chase, undoubtedly dreaming that he was slaying the Basilisk.

Like any country dog, he has faced perils and will continue to face them. Last fall as Jerry splashed in the creek, he stepped into a raccoon trap. (There were no physical injuries, thankfully, but he was pretty shaken up. So was I.) Another country peril is skunks. In the past skunks have come up to the patio door, so an encounter with a skunk isn’t a question of “if,” but “when.” Three bottles of skunk removal shampoo are waiting on a shelf in the mud room for that inevitable day.

Steps like these are
no problem for Jerry.

Jerry has come a long way in his caninization. When he first came to us he weighed 61 pounds. At his last veterinary checkup he weighed 73 pounds, which the vet said was “just perfect.” At our Bruno house he never climbed a staircase. Now he bounds up and down them with ease.

He won't do that again.
I hope. 

In the past two years Jerry has tangled with a porcupine, run headfirst into a tree, and swum after a beaver. And he's managed to come away an older, if not wiser, dog. As Jerry has progressed in his journey, so have I. 

I was at the kitchen table filling out paperwork for community college and job retraining, feeling wistful and uncertain about the future. I began singing Diana Ross’s 1970s hit “Do You Know Where You’re Going To.” Immediately, Jerry cocked his head and looked expectantly at me.

What a great way to live: not knowing what the future holds, but knowing it’s gotta be something good.

Has your pet made the journey from rescue dog to just plain dog? What have you heard along the way? I’d love to hear your story about your pet’s caninization. Please share it in a comment below!

The Day Everything Changed

To most people, the day everything changed is September 11 when terrorists attacked.

To our family, the day everything changed is September 8, when our dog Watch was run over last year.

Watch in August of 2010.

My writing changed. My voice became more authentic. Not that my previous voice was false, but after September 8 I was more willing to embrace uncomfortable topics.

I'd walk our dog Jerry down Shady Pine Road in Bruno and people would ask me if he was a new dog, people who I'd never guessed had known Watch.

"Watch was the soul of this house," my husband Mike said. "He was friendly and fearless."

Wyatt, age 4, and his new puppy Watch.

Mike discovered Watch on a back road of deserted vacation cabins, a road Mike was driving on to pass time before a doctor's appointment. The puppy followed him for about a quarter mile. Mike, having grown up in the country, was used to seeing strays and was planning to drive on.

"Dad, you gotta stop," implored four-year-old Wyatt.

Wyatt named the puppy Watch, after the dog in the Boxcar Children books he enjoyed. Watch was with us for nine years. Something changed with Mike. He brought home every stray he came across.

When we left the house on Shady Pine, there were things we didn't need or didn't want. But there was one thing Wyatt insisted on taking.

Watch.

If we didn't dig him up and take him with us, Wyatt said, we would have to come back every April 1, the day that we decided was Watch's birthday, to see his grave.

Watch, or more accurately his remains, is now re-buried on the farm in Dodge Center, near my Doberman Stoney and Mike's hunting dog Lady. I have no idea what will come of the house on Shady Pine Road. It may be bought for a song as a vacation property, or it may be bulldozed someday. Despite the recent upheaval we've experienced, having Watch with us again somehow takes us back to before the day everything changed.

Related Posts:
The Bruno Witch Project
When You Can't Help but Be Personal
Five Favorite Memories of Watch

There's a Free Softservewith Your Dog's Name on It

Tonight is Dogs' Night Out at Blast Softserve in Owatonna, Minnesota. If you live in southeast Minnesota, are in the mood for a road trip, or if you have a hankering to visit the hometown of Owl City, stop on by The Blast with your leashed dog from 5:30 to 6. Soft serve servings are doggy sized so as not to disrupt delicate digestive systems. The event is sponsored by the Owatonna People's Press.

Directions to The Blast are here. 

Dogs and Beavers and Water Don't Mix

Open swimming at the pond has been slapped shut by a couple of beaver tails.

And I'm lucky that my dog Jerry wasn't seriously injured or worse.

The pond on the 80 acres across the road has been low for the past several years, leaving the entrance to the beaver lodge high and dry and the structure uninhabited. After this year's snowy winter and rainy spring, the swelled pond called to more critters than swimming dogs. The exiled beavers returned.

My dog Watch wasn't a swimmer, so I'd never been to the pond when the beaver lodge was occupied. A few days ago I watched the top of a bony brown head skim through the water, followed by a ker-thunk of the surface. Jerry swam out to see what was causing the commotion, navigating the 350-yard circumference of the pond. I was thrilled to find an activity to burn up the Weimaraner's boundless energy. I took Jerry for two and three swims a day.

Sometimes the dog and the beaver would swim straight at each other, other times Jerry followed the beaver. When it dove underwater,  Jerry would swim to where the beaver disappeared. I watched with uneasy fascination. The action resembled this video. You can't help but hold your breath when you watch it.



Real beavers don't resemble this video. They're not benign, befuddled critters who chatter away with a lateral S. A real beaver is a three-foot-long rodent with nonstop-growing teeth.  Beavers have disemboweled or killed dogs in defense of their home or their young, I learned with a Google. Thus, open swim sessions are now closed.

With a territorial porcupine to the west, a bear's den to the north, and beavers to the south, the eighty acres across the road is shrinking.

But since beavers mate for life, who's to deny them their lifelong contentment.

Media sources: photo from The Wilderness Classroom, film clips from loubagel1982's and CalypsoDogs' YouTube channels.

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The Disneyfication of Wildlife

An Angel in the U.S. Post Office

For anyone who has lost a beloved dog, lost faith in the goodness of humanity, or for that matter doubts the usefulness of government employees, Nancy Rose Schilli’s post at Quintessence Creations will lift you up. There’s a catch, though: you’ll be sobbing uncontrollably by the time you get to the third paragraph.

And since it’s Follow Friday on Twitter, you’ll find Nancy @QuintessenceCre.

All Good Dogs Deserve Ice Cream

I just love this idea: a community event where dog owners get to socialize their pets, and good dogs get rewarded with a free dish of vanilla softserve. An ice cream social for dogs, with people as chaperones. If it's been a hot summer for people, just think of how hot it's been for our pets.

This particular Dogs' Night Out takes place at Blast Softserve in Owatonna, which is about 40 miles from Rochester in southeast Minnesota. The summer event is sponsored by the Owatonna People's Press and is held on the first Tuesday of the month from 5:30 to 6. (Including tonight.) Every well-behaved dog on leash gets a free doggy-sized dish of vanilla soft serve. If you and your dog will be in the area tonight, here's the map.

Does your city or town offer similar socializing opportunities for dogs and their owners?

Foster Home Found for Abandoned Puppies

As sure as God made little blue heelers, when you live in rural Minnesota, count on crossing paths with an abandoned puppy or two or three.

The fact that their savior was located 120 miles away in Chaska was something, however, I’d never counted on.

My husband Mike brought home three puppies that he found on the roadside when he was en route to Cloquet. There was no mother, no people, and no houses -- just empty vacation properties. The puppies were a whitish-yellowish mix of Golden retriever or Yellow Lab. A zaftig little girl and two smaller boys. We made a home for them in an empty 55-gallon fish tank. 

“We’re not going to keep them. We’re not going to name them,” Mike warned me and our 14-year-old son Wyatt.

Jerry's Kids

Of course, we did name them. Jerry’s Kids, as our Weimaraner Jerry took them under his wing. A rescue dog with issues, Jerry was showing the puppies the care he hadn’t received as a pup. It was a lovely moment, but in retrospect not a wise moment. 

Despite abandoned puppies being infectiously cute, they can also be acutely infectious. 

As we put out calls to rescue agencies, we learned that canine parvovirus, a devastating intestinal disease, was rampant. Jerry is fully vaccinated, but apparently there’s a strain of parvo that can make its way past adult vaccines.

Because of a tight budget, keeping even one puppy was out of the question. At a Cloquet rescue agency, we were told to start in Pine County, where we live. Connie at the Pine County Guardian Angel Shelter explained that the shelter was a giant-breed rescue facility and not suited for puppies. She told us we'd be contacted by a woman named Jean, who volunteered at the Carver-Scott Humane Society, a sister agency to the Pine facility. The intricate network made me think of the Twilight Bark from 101 Dalmatians.

Moving Day

Jean called us on a Sunday. She was headed to Albert Lea with a puppy on a pre-adoption visit, and asked if we could drop off the puppies with her husband. Mike arranged to meet him at a strip mall about 20 miles away. The idea of someone driving over 100 miles at a moment's notice to pick up abandoned puppies from total strangers amazed me.

Pine County isn’t affluent. In rural areas like ours, it’s not unusual for pets to be euthanized with a bullet to the brain, a practice which I realize sounds barbaric. But when an owner is faced with a suffering animal, a veterinary clinic that’s closed or is fifty miles away, and a treatment bill beyond their affordability, it’s the most merciful alternative.

Jean explained that the puppies would be given a health check, microchipping and spaying or neutering. She would provide a foster home until they were adopted at a Pet Adoption Day at the PETCO store in Chaska. Adoption sales help CSHS raise revenue, as do donor contributions and an annual walk.  The agency receives no government funds.

Jean explained that she’s been volunteering for four years, and has fostered several hundred dogs and puppies. She said she’s driven to Wisconsin to place a puppy, and her sister-in-law drove halfway to Colorado to deliver a staghound to the man who was adopting it.

As I worked on a huge writing project, I tried not to get irritated by the whining and yapping. The big female puppy, who we eventually named Bertha, tried to climb out of the fish tank. There was a piece of plywood on top of the tank and Bertha knocked it to the floor. At the sound of the noise, Jerry barked loudly. The puppies cowered. I imagined the conversation: “All right you guys, knock it off!” “I didn’t do it! She did it!”

But when the puppies were gone, the house seemed eerily quiet. Even Jerry walked over to the fish tank to see where his charges were.

A Clean Bill of Health

On Tuesday night I called Jean. Thankfully, the puppies tested negative for parvo, but they did have worms and numerous tick bites. Jean is fostering them until they find homes at a Pet Adoption Day. There’s one coming up on May 7.

Minnesota has a huge network of animal rescue groups. Start at the humane society or rescue agency in your county. If that group can't help, they'll connect you to someone who can, like the Guardian Angel Animal Shelter in Pine City or Red Lake Rosie’s Rescue. 

While politics creates rural/metro divides, puppies help bridge them. As do the  volunteers who give of their hearts and weekends. You give hope to pet lovers and Minnesotans everywhere.

The Carver-Scott Humane Society's 2011 Walk Fur Love  is Sunday, May 22. Raffle prizes include a 40" LCD HD TV, $200 in gift certificates, and a Blu-Ray DVD player. You need not be present to win.


Related Posts:
Jerry's Kids
Can Dogs Have PTSD?
Ads and Sales and Puppydog Tails

Jerry's Kids

It's been a busy 24 hours, dogwise, at our house.

First, Mike found three abandoned puppies on the road near some deserted vacation property. Two scrawny little boys and one zaftig little girl. We're keeping them in an empty 50-gallon fish tank until we find them homes.

I placed one of the males down by Jerry, ready to snatch up the pup if the Weimaraner became hostile. Instead he went into Mrs. Dogfire mode, tending to the little guy. Intending to take some photos, I took Jerry out for a quick walk first. But the first porcupine of the spring cancelled the photo shoot.

Now that Jerry is home from the vet, freshly de-quilled, I finally had a chance to take photos.

One of the little boys has found a friend in Jerry. 

Grandma Was Right:Dogs Like Carrots

Having a dog with anxiety issues, I was intrigued by a recipe called Calming Diet for Your Anxious Dog. You make it with cooked turkey, cooked barley, chamomile flowers made into tea, parsley, olive oil, and cooked carrots.

I could picture my grandma telling her mother, "See, I told you!"

This is one of my favorite stories of Grandma's. It takes place in southwest Detroit in the late 1940s. Grandma would cook carrots for her dog, Tiny, using a small pan only used for the dog's meals, and adding a touch of butter as the carrots cooked. One afternoon Grandma had to take the streetcar downtown, so she asked her mother to feed the dog. "Remember, she likes a little butter with her carrots," Grandma said.

When she got home, she saw that not only had Tiny left the carrots uneaten, but had spit them out on the floor. "Did you cook them in butter?," Grandma asked Baba.

"Butter!? For a dog!? I should say not," said Baba, a strict Slovak-born woman.

So Grandma gathered up the carrots, heated them in Tiny's pan, and cooked them with a pat of butter. Tiny gobbled up every last one and licked her dish clean.

"Nuh! Now I've seen everything," Baba said.

Grandma was right. "Eat your carrots" applies to dogs, too.

I wrote more about my grandma, Mary Pontell, in a guest blog for Brandon Lacy Campos at  My Feet Only Walk Forward. 

Can Dogs Have PTSD?

I'd give anything to find out what my dog Jerry experienced at the hands of his first owner. Because I'd bet anything that he's a rescue dog with post-traumatic stress disorder.

When Jerry doesn't see my husband in awhile, it seems like the dog forgets who Mike is—especially if Mike is emerging from a darkened room. Something triggers Jerry to bark. It only happens indoors. Outside, the two are buddies.

Sometimes you can tell it's a bark just to make noise. "Weimaraner, please," Mike will scoff.

Jerry hasn't barked at Mike for a few weeks. But something triggered it and he's doing it again. With his basso profundo bark, Jerry doesn't sound as if he would be afraid of anything. The other day he cowered as he barked. Maybe his first owner was a big burly guy like Mike who smoked cigarettes. If so, that's the only similarity the two men share.

Malnourished Puppies
The woman who rescued Jerry and his brother said she met the owner at a chicken swap. She basically shamed the guy into giving her the malnourished puppies. She kept one puppy and called him Scooby. She gave the other pup to her sister, who named him Chester. The sister placed an ad looking for homes for the rescue puppies, which is how our paths crossed. Chester eventually became Jerry.

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen.

I once attended a lecture about post-traumatic stress disorder. The speaker said that PTSD, like ADD, is a term that's often used incorrectly, and that specific criteria must exist for the disorder to be PTSD. As closely as I can remember, the criteria include:

• The traumatic event is triggered by something: a person, place, sound, smell, sight.
• The person's behavior adapts in response to memory of the event.
• The maladaptive behavior can't be a one-time event but must continue over a period of time.

We've had Jerry six months. When Mike brought him home, Jerry rushed to my side and pressed against my leg. Apparently men have been the abusers and women have been the rescuers in his life. Mike has had incredible patience to not take the barking personally. At times we've both considered whether we should find another home for Jerry. Luckily for the dog, we've never arrived at the same conclusion at the same time.

"We married him in church. We're stuck with him," Mike says with affectionate resignation.

We both agree, though, there's one condition that won't be allowed: biting. Luckily, Jerry hasn't bitten. Or had a housetraining accident either. For both we're extremely grateful.

Jerry's safe zone is the living room. He can see all the goings-on of the first floor because we have an open floor plan and the living room is raised one step above the dining room. He doesn't like loud noises or sudden movements, and the living room is relatively free of both. (Unlike the kitchen, where dishes regularly tumble from Mount Dishmore in the drainer.) As Jerry eats, he'll stretch waaay out to reach his dish on the dining-room floor, with his rear feet one step up in the living room. He calls to mind Lengthy, the 1960s children's book character by Syd Hoff.

"Jerry, you're a pip," Mike will say.

Mental Health Help for Dogs
According to VetInfo, rescue dogs can indeed have PTSD. They can also suffer from anxiety and depression. A change in environment can be a trigger. We'll be moving later this summer, and will have to be watchful. Jerry has been rescued from neglect but not from a dark memory that only he knows.

Have you noticed signs of PTSD in your rescue dog? How have you helped your pet cope?

Post the Purple Paw on your Facebook page and help the Animal Rescue Site raise money to feed animals in rescue shelters. Thank you Amy Cooper for passing it on to your followers. 
Flickr image of Lengthy by flymissy. 

God Knows I Love My Dogs

"Did I dig WHAT hole?"

I found a lovely song called “God and Dog” by Wendy Francisco and posted on Blue Collar Daughter’s blog. Listen to it and try not to think about all of the dogs in your life.

You know about Watch and Jerry but not about my others.

Stoney was a Doberman with uncropped ears and a propensity to dig.

"I chew, therefore I am."

Crunch, a Rottweiler/Australian Cattle Dog cross, once ate a box of raw chocolate Malt-o-Meal.

"Get this kid off of me."

Tipper was a Black Lab/German Shorthair cross. When we lived in Minneapolis, she played a key role in rescuing a woman next door being held at gunpoint.

Dogs love us unconditionally. They wait patiently while we’re at the computer. Jerry has waited long enough. Enjoy your weekend and your dogs!

"Am I the Cutest Canine Or What?"

Round 5 of the Star Tribune's Cutest Canine Contest begins at 10 am CT today, and Jerry's among the entrants. I entered my favorite photo of him; it's my favorite because of the spirit in his eyes that wasn't always there, and because he's chewing something that he's supposed to. Not a book, not my bifocals, not a sofa cushion.

Jerry turned one year old this month. My husband Mike and I are unsure of his exact date of birth, so we chose Groundhog Day. He saw his shadow that day, which meant six more weeks of laying on the couch.

Round 5 voting begins at 10am Friday and ends 9am Saturday. There are plenty of cuties, so I don't have any unrealistic expectations. But Jerry has sparked a connection with many of my readers, so you never know. If you'd like to vote for him, here's where you can do it. The voting system is kind of clunky, and you need to log in or create an account if you don't have one already. You also have to hit "save" after you vote.

Round 4 ends at 9am today. Watch made that round. If you search for the name "Watch," you'll get six entries. His photo is the sixth entry on the second page.

There's a #FF and or blog follow in it for you. Maybe even a guest blog. Jerry and I both thank you!

Jerry's First Christmas

On Christmas Eve our family left the woods of northern Pine County and ventured down to southeastern Minnesota. Mike's parents live there in a hundred-year-old farmhouse on the edge of the prairie. It was the first extended road trip for our rescue dog Jerry, the first road trip that lasted longer than a trip to the vet's. The eight-hour round trip made me realize how far Jerry has come in the past three months.

When I first started taking Jerry for on-leash walks, he was afraid to walk past my husband Mike's Dodge Ram pickup. Yesterday Jerry clambered right in and lay quietly beside me, bright-eyed and alert.

It's been such a long time since Mike and I traveled with a growing puppy, we not only forgot to bring Jerry's dog food for the day, we forgot his breakfast in the flurry of morning activity. We stopped at a McDonald's to order two hamburgers for Jerry, augmented by French fries that my son Wyatt and I offered him.

At one time Jerry cowered when anyone approached him. Yesterday he basked in the hugs, hand-fed kibble, and turkey scraps which he accepted delicately with a soft mouth.

As I related the story of how Jerry entered our lives to Mike's cousin Carmen, I realized, Jerry is doing well. Though he tries our patience at times with his chewing, he's a sweet dog. And despite whatever abuse or neglect he experienced early in his life, Jerry has never had a housetraining accident: not even after drinking the two bowls of water Aunt Evvie brought him, undoubtedly needed after the salty McDonald's fries.

When we finally said our goodbyes, we left through the front door of the farmhouse and headed to the truck, which was parked at the side of the house. Jerry, though, made a beeline for the side door of the farmhouse, ready to continue the visit.

First fast-food fries, first long road trip, first Christmas, first visit with extended family. Every day is filled with mundane moments that in some small way are exciting firsts. To you lovely readers who have stumbled upon this little blog,  I wish for you a year filled with those moments.

5 Favorite Memories of Watch

I’ve been avoiding writing about my dog Watch.
Sometimes you feel you shouldn’t talk about the loss of someone you love, even the someone is a dog. But I’d like to share this with you, my readers, because you barely had the chance to know him. And the time that our family had with him was a gift.
Here are my five favorite memories of Watch.


His first 24 hours with us  My husband Mike and son Wyatt found Watch abandoned on a back road nine years ago. Wyatt named the puppy after the Alden children's pet in The Boxcar Children stories. We fed Watch, bathed him, removed no fewer than three dozen ticks, and flea-dipped him. He slept for most of the first three days. It only took one "Watch, NO!" for him to learn that he was to go outside, not in the living room, for bathroom breaks. And that dining room tables aren’t for jumping up on.


Tooting his own horn Watch found an old bicycle horn on the ground, picked it up in his mouth and ran around the yard with it, biting down the bulb, honking as he ran. That was one of the reasons he earned…


The name “Doofus” Watch is the only dog I know who came to two different names: “Watch” and “Doofus.”


Clunking heads We have a small house, so two people can often see the same thing when standing at the front door and the back patio door. One day, with Watch at the patio door and Tipper at the front door, both saw the same squirrel. We let them out. They converged. And we could hear the "clunk" of heads from inside the house.


His love of the chain saw Watch loved to go with Mike on his jaunts to the woods to cut firewood. Hunting dogs get excited when their master picks up his shotgun. Watch would get excited when Mike picked up his chain saw. One Sunday afternoon Watch was asleep on the floor as I was listening to A Prairie Home Companion. Sound effects guru Tom Keith imitated a chain saw, and the sound was so authentic Watch jerked his head up, rarin' to go to the woods.

Though he tries my patience at times, I love Jerry. And loving a new dog doesn’t negate the existence of the old one. As the mother of one child, I know what women with several children mean when they say “I love all my children equally.”

Chew on this: a memo to Jerry

To: Jerry     
From: Your Owner     
RE: Chewing
Dear Jerry:
Chew on this.
Not on the snowboot that is now an opened-toe snowboot. Such footwear is impractical for Minnesota winters.
Snowboots help you enjoy scenes such as the one you see here.
Chew on that.
That is all.
Y.O.

Dog x blog = time challenge squared

The earliest sliver of morning is my best time for blogging. It’s also the time when Jerry wants to go out, which shaves down the sliver even further.

I don’t take him walking when it’s still dark. You never know what’s out there when something goes crashing through the woods. A deer can charge you when spooked. And more than one neighbor has reported seeing a bear nearby. As Jerry and I started up the driveway after an early evening walk yesterday, we both heard a growl of some kind from across the road. We didn’t stick around to find out what it was.

Jerry will remain on leash for a few more weeks until he gets a feel for the land and is able to respond to simple commands. That means lots of walks. In addition to blogging and parenting and farming and lest I forget, making a living.

It's an adjustment, fitting a dog into the algebra of our daily life.  Yes, time management will be a challenge. As the newest family member, Jerry will have to adjust, too; he'll be fed Purina once the bag of Natural Choice that was sent home with him is gone. But I can see the advantages already: namely a practical application for the algebraic conundrum that has confounded me:

How many pounds of fifty cents a pound dog food and how many pounds of $1.25 a pound dog food does it take to create a 40-pound bag of dog food at eighty-nine cents a pound?

Jerry, the Grateful Dog

We didn't set out to find a dog that looked like Watch. But dawg, if Jerry doesn't resemble him.

Jerry is one of two Weimaraner/Chesapeake puppies who was rescued from a neglectful setting by two sisters. The name "Jerry" was chosen by Wyatt and Mike, the latter of whom idolized Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead. (Sharp-eyed Deadheads will note the collar.)

Day by day, inch by inch, Jerry's growing more comfortable and is beginning to fill out. And still calls answering our "Puppy Wanted" ad are coming in. I wish I could take them all!

Related Posts:
Ads and Sales and Puppydog Tails
When You Can't Help but Be Personal

Ads and Sales and Puppydog Tails

My husband Mike and I recently placed an ad in the Evergreen, the weekly shopper for northern Pine and Carlton Counties. We wanted a puppy. One that needed us as much as we needed him. Like Jane and Michael in the movie version of Mary Poppins, we knew exactly what we wanted. (Except we didn't sing our ad.) 

We had waited for a dog to cross our path the way Watch had done nine years ago. We had visited dogs at the local shelters. But none of them seemed right. I wondered if we'd ever find the right one, or would we recognize it upon finding it.

When Mike took the ad copy and payment up to the newspaper office, he noticed a flyer in the window. 

The timing, the serendipity, couldn't be ignored. Long story short, we took the puppy shown on top.

With all of our attention focused on easing a rescue animal into his new home—a task that won't occur overnight—we forgot to cancel the ad. On Saturday three different people called with puppies. We thanked each person for calling, and let them know the position was filled. Thanks also go to Tonia and Tammy, two caring sisters who rescued and provided foster homes for the puppies.

Are you looking for a dog like the one I described? Perhaps a Great Dane, a Lab/Shepherd/Newfoundland mix? Just leave a reply here and I'll be happy to connect you to the people who called. You won't have to place an ad. You won't even have to sing. 


  

When you can't help but be personal

Note: I am republishing posts which had photos lost during the exporting process. This post was originally published on September 12, 2010. Since then Wyatt wrote a personal narrative about the experience for school. The paper received an "A."


When you write a professional blog, experts advise not to get too personal.


On September 8 my dog Watch was struck by a vehicle late at night in front of my house. I couldn't write about it and not be anguished. Nor could I ignore it. 


Mike and I still don't know what happened. Watch had gone running full bore many times before, but had always stopped short at the driveway. The only times he didn't stop were when he chased an unknown animal behind the house. Maybe this time the intruder tried to escape by crossing the road. 


I heard the collision, and still do. Mike raced out and saw the distraught driver, the stopped vehicle, and Watch. Wyatt, thankfully, was sound asleep. And thankfully, Watch went quickly.


There was much recrimination. Of self, of others. No shortage of if-onlys, why-did-I-have-tos, why-didn't-I's, what-ifs. 


The next day I couldn't understand why the air was so quiet. Then I realized. In the twenty years Mike and I have been married, we've always had one dog, often two, and sometimes three. This was the first time we had no dogs in the house. 


I cleared the counter of dishes that weren't washed the night before. I picked up a plate with a few spoonfuls of food on it and thought, "Watchie can clean this up."


Going to bed that night, I stepped carefully so I wouldn't step on him in the dark.

After nine years you get used to someone being around, even if that someone is a dog. 


Mike and I have had three other dogs, Stoney, Crunch, and Tipper. Each had to be euthanized because age or illness had compromised their quality of life. Each was a difficult decision, but a decision nonetheless. Each was a safely performed procedure in a veterinarian's office, not a brutally capricious fate on a gravel road. There was time to prepare, to say goodbye.


Some will say, "It's just an animal." Years ago Grandma was heartsick when her dog Tiny died. My Slovak-born great-grandmother chided her, "Why are you crying? A dog hasn't got a soul."


Others will know exactly what I'm talking about. Mike told a guy at work about Watch. The coworker admitted he had built a coffin for his own dog when it passed.


As professionals, we try not to let personal crises overtake our lives. But sometimes we have no choice in the matter. That's when we realize there's no schedule so rigid that it can't be bent, no meeting so important that it will stop the great world from spinning if it's rescheduled.


Sometimes it's okay to say, "I hurt, and need time to feel better."

Because you come back feeling stronger.

I look forward to telling you more about Watch, and have started a photo album about him. I will add more photos as I find them. To all, thank you for your support and encouragement.

To My Readers

There are some moments that are too raw to be blogged, Facebooked, or tweeted.


The death of a dear family pet is one.


I wanted to let my readers know why I won't have a new blog post for the next few days. Thank you for understanding.