Puddle of Ink

Much the way I did last week, I tapped the glass and caught Owen’s attention this morning, but this time he moseyed to the window inquisitively instead of turning away. And when I opened the kennel door and started to kneel down, he was in my arms before my knees had even touched the floor. Delighted, I turned to the officer behind me. “He … remembers.”

It was more a question than a statement; the change in his demeanor was hard to believe. Sure, he was still hand-shy and nervous of other people, but even so he was nothing like the frantic, untouchable dog I left behind last week.

Thinking about it all now, I’m kind of dazed, honestly. I wanted to believe he’d be saved, but never really dared to hope; even as I wrote the email reaching out to the rescue community, I was bracing for a letdown.

I thought someone here or there might be touched by his plight, but never imagined that his story would be sent from New York to California to Australia (the fact that someone in Australia really wouldn’t be able to do much for him is of course beside the point). Still, over one hundred responses flooded my inbox.

I figured he’d loosen up a little once he got out of the shelter, but never dreamed he’d remember me or brighten up before we even left this morning. I certainly never anticipated that the dog I could barely touch a week ago, the one who had to be dragged down the kennel aisle, today would refuse to leave my side and would drag me down the aisle instead.

But it all happened. And the dog who met me at the kennel door was such a far cry from the defeated, wary mess I left last week. Suddenly sure of his step, he led me quite confidently to the lobby, despite never having been in that part of the building before, and stood by the front door … how they seem to “know” boggles my mind sometimes.

Outside of the shelter, he surprised me again by climbing into my car without prompting and helping himself to the passenger seat. He curled up with his head draped over my arm contentedly as I drove, and he even tried to crawl into my lap a few times, though in the end he settled for sleeping in his own seat, as long as my hand was resting on his back.

It wasn’t until we arrived at the vet’s office that it became apparent that he still remembered the conclusion to his last car ride (one of the officers had recognized him on our way out and told me he had been dumped from a car at the end of a dead-end road over a month ago; it’s taken this long to catch him). The poor guy scrambled for the backseat as soon as the ignition switched off, and I opened the back door to find him trying to hide under the seats, whining pathetically as I insisted that he join me outside of the car.

Tonight, I’m afraid he feels as though he was, in fact, abandoned again, but I’m hopeful that all the TLC he’s going to be receiving now will help with that. And I’ve been promised a visit once he’s feeling better, so there is that at least. He’ll see me again.

"No lap???"

"Pleeeeease?"

"Fine. But I don't like you anymore."

"Lap! Finally."

I suspect that sheer relief will provide both of us with a good night’s sleep tonight.

(Or in my case, sheer exhaustion from writing two of the world’s longest blog posts known to man, back-to-back … ahem … ).

Friends joke sometimes that I speak “dog” better than I speak “human” … and some days, it’s not that far from the truth. Being homeschooled admittedly didn’t afford too many social opportunities, and as a teenager I spent five days out of the week at the county shelter, where I wrangled the rowdy youngsters into more respectable behavior, dog-whispered the abuse cases long before Cesar Millan ever made it cool, and advocated for the “tough sells” who would have otherwise been euthanized immediately. The mange-riddled, the seniors, the injured—all were held over while I tended to them and ultimately found them placement outside of the shelter.

Over time, the staff there took on the role of the family that I didn’t even know I was looking for, and I suppose it makes sense then that it is there that I would return to go “home” for the holidays last week. Too, I suppose I went back looking for relief from my own thoughts, needing to give comfort as much as I needed to receive it, and to step outside of my mind for a little while. And in doing so, I found Owen. He was the heartbreak I didn’t need, the hope I didn’t have, and yet somehow I fell in love with the story—and the potential—behind his frightened, runny eyes.

It started in front of the one kennel that had caught my eye. I tapped the glass beside the laminated “Euthanasia Only” sign, and the form huddled on the other side raised its head, glanced at me through infected eyes, and looked away again.

“What’s his story?” I asked, because sometimes I just can’t resist torturing myself. The officer shrugged and said she didn’t know, other than he was marked as a bite risk and would be put down once his stray hold was over. Another officer beside us knew where I was going with my questions, and offered to take him out for me.

She emerged from the kennel with the dog cowering at the end of the leash behind her. Half-leading, half-dragging him (by turns apologizing to and coaxing him all the way), she placed him in a nearby pen and I closed the gate behind us. He shrank away from her paper towel when she offered to wipe his eyes, and he looked away miserably as she removed the too-small collar digging into his neck. Once released, he approached us only with the bribery of treats, and when I held out my hand, he just flinched before retreating into the safety of a nearby corner. From there he watched me with his head tilted—puzzled, intrigued, but bound by his fear—as I spoke to him.

We sat like that for a while, each of us in our own separate corners of the pen, regarding the other without much thought to the bustling of the shelter around us. And somehow, when faced with the prospect of re-entering a noisy kennel that scared him even more than the sight of my hand did, he found a burst of courage and scrabbled all four paws into my lap, where he cowered away from the idea of returning to the cage. My heart broke all over again as he trembled.

“You’re okay, honey,” I said, scratching his back. He froze at the touch, but then leaned into it almost in spite of himself, and looked back to regard my hand with a bewildered expression, as if he’d never known a hand to do this before. And maybe he hadn’t.

He was carried back to his kennel, safely wrapped in what might have been the only pair of arms that hadn’t hurt him before, and when I returned to say goodbye an hour later, he ventured to the kennel door, daring to wag the tail still tucked between his legs. He timidly licked my hand and then sat back and looked at me quizzically, as if he couldn’t quite figure out what it was that I wanted.

What I wanted was to save him, and I told him as much.

Tomorrow, exactly a week later, I’ll be picking him up from the shelter and driving him to the vet for his new foster mom. I’m no longer the only one who sees his potential, nor am I the only one rooting for his recovery now. He has a whole team of folks on his side waiting to put him back together again, physically and otherwise. I am, of course, thrilled to be the one first seeing him off.

Internets, meet Owen (name courtesy of Dingo, btw, even though she doesn’t know it yet).

The view that first reeled me in.

Goopy eyes are safer than paper towels.

Taking off the collar ... If he doesn't look at us, we won't hurt him, right?

Worn out, and happy for his new blanket.

The eyes just kill me.

Updates, of course, to follow.