Dog-less

Michael Baugh CPDT-KA, CDBC

I promised myself I’d never buy a dog again and I intend to keep that promise. I wonder if you’ll join me in that commitment. There are lots good reasons that have nothing at all to do with full-bred dogs. They don’t have anything to do with money either.

I bought a golden retriever 11 and a half years ago. Juno died last week. And she was probably the best dog I will ever have. The cancer that eventually took her most certainly had a genetic cause. Too many goldens die from the same disease to deny that. But genetics isn’t the problem either. I’d have another golden. I just wouldn’t buy one.

Juno was my only dog. Once she got into her senior years I promised her I wouldn’t trouble her with a puppy and I kept that promise. Now that she’s gone I find myself dog-less. It’s an odd state. The house echoes with her absence. I sometimes think I see her from the corner of my eye. But it’s just the cat who seems equally perplexed. It’s a quiet time for tears and old pictures. But on the edge of things there’s the hint of another dog, the next dog, the one who will never take Juno’s place in my heart, but may someday take the one at the foot of our bed. I don’t know her. But I promise I won’t buy her.

If you’re a dog person, people are always clamoring at your door to take in the dog with the sad story. If you’re a dog professional or even a dog writer, it’s twice again as bad. Juno had been gone less than 48 hours when I got the first email: two Labrador retrievers whose owner was moving away. Then it was a spaniel, a stray. And the clamoring in my head is just as bad. I admit, Tim and I went to the Houston SPCA this weekend to visit the dogs there. They were all good dogs and I can’t stop thinking about them. If I’d had a few dozen people with me we could have emptied the place. None of them are for sale.

I’d have paid anything for one more week with Juno (I did pay a lot in the final weeks and months). But at the end the price in pain was too high for her and nothing could stop it. We said goodbye on the cool wood floor where she loved to sleep. The vet carried her body to his car and she was gone. There’s no shame in telling you the sobbing cut me at the knees, sorrow drawn from the deep well of a happy life with a true friend.

Cancer took Juno from me and there was no choice in it. But so many other dogs live on without a home or a person in the world who cares. That wasn’t their choice either. It’s a strange thing. Some we love so much that even the thought of losing them catches in our throat. Others we cast aside without a thought. We offer them no love at all.

So in a few weeks or a few months one of those dogs will come home with me, one who was sent away and forgotton. She’ll soak up the love and attention someone else decided she didn’t deserve. And, yes, she may be a golden. I’ll suffer the risk of cancer again. And certainly there will be expenses: vet bills, food, supplies and even an adoption fee. That’s okay. It’s not about the money. It’s about a dog I don’t even know yet, one who may not even have a name.

I won’t buy her. But she’ll be mine just the same. And I’ll be hers. And no, my home won’t be her first. It will be her last. That’s a promise too.

Stewie, A Small Tribute

 

Michael Baugh, CPDT-KA, CDBC

Looks aren’t everything, but they count.  And, for the record, size does matter.

Stewie is cute, and Stewie is small.  If he were a beast of lesser aesthetic value or greater mass, he’d be in trouble, maybe dead, or worse.

Stewie the day he was found

He’d just dodged death when I met him.  Death might have been a Dodge, in fact, or a Chrysler.  Whatever it was, it had passed, and Stewie had made it across the street.  It was raining.  Stewie was pathetic, and helpless, and adorable.  What happened to you little guy, I said.  He looked up, wide-Chihuahua-eyed, soaked and trembling the length of his Dachshund body.  I’ll take you home.

He was good at first, good in a magical way, good in a too-good-to-be-true way.  He was cute too, and small, so small.  He took a bath that first night, ate a meal, and burrowed under the covers to pass the night with me.  What a find.

The jumping isn’t a big deal really.  It’s the claws, just shy of being garden rakes that are a big deal.  Trimming them is a big deal too, a big, ugly, dramatic deal.  The little puddle in the bathroom wasn’t a big deal either.  The pile in the entry way was (both times), and much bigger than you’d expect from such a dog, so cute and small.  Chewing a bone anywhere near our other dog is a big deal, too, a big nasty deal.  These are all problems you can manage with crate training.  The crate is a big deal, an ear-splitting, crying, like from the gates of hell big deal.  Baby gate?  Climbed it.  Pooped again.  What a find.

Another thunderstorm rolls in, and Stewie burrows under the pillows on the sofa next to me.  He shakes, and I stroke his back.  He’s so cute, so small.  What happened to you? I can only guess.  No one taught him how to survive humans, unseemly and uncaring, despite our clever large brains.  Eventually, the cuteness wore off.  The problems were too big.  He ended up on the street, wet and terrified in a storm, inches from death.  That’s how I imagine it.

Then, he found me, slunk into my car, burrowed beneath my covers and into my heart.  I wonder for a moment about the others, the under-bite dogs with dark faces, the ones not-so-small, the mud-pawed jumpers and the shedders.  What happens to them?  Who saves them from the storm?  Who teaches them that some of us are okay, clever but still kind?

Originally posted in October 2010. 2022 updates: Stewie’s behavior issues were resolved within his first year. He is now a delightful old dog, still so full of life. Though he appeared, at first, to be a Chihuahua – Dachshund mix, he is actually 50/50 Chihuahua – Cocker Spaniel.