Free to a Good Home
You do a good deed when you adopt a dog who needs a home. I looked in
the newspaper. Two adult dogs were listed as free to a good home. I went
to see one. She trembled and whimpered uncontrollably, wet herself, exposed
her belly, and yapped incessantly. Whether by nature or by nurture I
didn't know, but this was a ruined dog. The second situation sounded
so sad over the phone --- the dog was unable to accept a newborn, and
the owner's voice broke when she told me --- that I didn't trust myself
to go to the house. I was afraid I'd leave with a dog I didn't want.
Meanwhile,
we pursued the puppy angle, too. This was a happier project. We visited
a beautiful pair of American Eskimos. The female proudly showed us eight
ridiculously cute little marshmallows with legs. We almost fell for this
litter, but first we wanted to check that one place where you can get
an adult dog who really wants to be your dog.
When we told the nice woman with the puppies what we had in mind, she
said, "If you find one at the pound, take him. He needs you more
than we do."
So that was how we came to be there on that rainy Saturday in May. A
brief interval of sun had raised a prickly heat. The dogs looked miserable.
We went around a second time, slowly. The little dog with burrs looked
up, and this time her eyes widened. We read her look as clearly as if
she had spoken out loud in English.
"I know you! You were here before! Are you looking at me???"
The Burr Dog
She stood up and shook herself. She had nice straight legs and a well
proportioned, sturdy-looking frame. She pressed up against the bars and
sat. She licked my fingers, and again a comprehending spirit shone from
her eyes. We called the attendant who had shown us in.
The burr dog was deliriously friendly. She hauled on the leash and
jumped all over us, but she was sweet and self-possessed.
When I was growing up, my father used to travel in the far north of
Canada. He was charmed by the arctic foxes that waited near the back
door of the mess hall. He brought home a picture he had taken of a little
vixen who came closer than the other foxes because she needed food so
badly for her pups. When our little white dog dropped her curly tail,
I remembered the picture and told Craig about it. We decided the burr
dog would be the Wily Arctic Fox. Wily.
Here's a useful ploy to know about: the animal shelter staff were responsive
to a reference from a reputable veterinarian. We were able to bypass
the delay for neutering and take our dog away immediately by getting
our vet to speak directly to our adoption agent. Richard affirmed that
we were responsible owners with a good home to offer a dog, and he promised
to spay Wily immediately.
Cinderella's transformation had begun. Alice the Groom Lady played the
part of fairy godmother. Off went the burr-knotted coat, into the tub
went the dog from the pound, and out came a fragrant new dog of pure
white velvet. Shaved to a fraction of an inch, her fur was so dense that
you could not see her skin. Wily was suddenly beautiful.
We dropped her off at Richard's office, which seemed blessedly cool.
I looked back as we left. I couldn't see the bottom three feet of the
scene that was taking place behind the counter. I only saw five white
coats in a close circle, laughing down at two little white paws, a black
nose and a pink tongue.
You can get a good dog at the pound
It is another rainy Saturday in May. How did it all turn out? Did I
get what I thought I was getting? You bet. I got a beautiful young American
Eskimo dog. Any surprises? Well, yes, she's a little bigger than I thought
she'd be. She grew three inches and put on ten pounds. Debate has raged
all her life: American Eskimo or Samoyed? She was, in retrospect, probably
not more than eight months old. If you’ve ever had a dog of unknown
pedigree, you know that half the fun is trying to guess what the dog
really is.
Any surprise defects in temperament? No. She is what I knew she was:
a sweet, self-confident dog. She only surprised me with her inexhaustible
playfulness, which was not evident at the pound (no wonder). Behavior
problems? I expected her to be poorly trained, and she certainly was.
She was never destructive, and she was housebroken. But taking her out
on a leash was more like flying a model airplane than walking a dog.
She had plainly never heard of "sit" or "come," and
she considered any food in leaping reach fair game. We went to dog school.
The fairy tale continues. The American Kennel Club recognized the American
Eskimo dog in our first year of dog training. We applied for an ILP listing
which would qualify us, not for conformation show, but for participation
in obedience trials. My unregistered specimen of an unrecognized breed
finished a respectable career with four titles.
Once Wily made friends with a golden retriever in our class. I arranged
a play date.
"Wily is so beautiful," the other owner said, as the dogs
romped happily away. "You must have paid a fortune for her."
You can get a good dog at the pound.
