CHAPTER ELEVEN

Come On, Get Up, It’s a New Day!

Dogs . . . leave paw prints on our lives and our souls, which are as unique as fingerprints in every way.

—ASHLY LORENZANA

IT WOULD HAVE BEEN LOGICAL, I suppose, to close this book with the last chapter about the death of a dog. But it would also be highly unfair to all the dogs whose stories have been shared here and to all of their human companions who shared their experiences, wisdom, and advice, to end this book that way. Because, for all the pain at the end of the road, the journey itself is what matters most, and in that journey there is great love, empathy, joy, and caring, even at the sad, and sometimes bittersweet, end. To discourage people from adopting dogs because of the sadness that ensues when they reach the end of their lives would deprive humans and dogs alike of a truly sublime and rewarding relationship that can last years and bring great happiness and comfort.

I make no apologies for being a strong advocate for adopting a rescue dog. However, I try to avoid that swamp of ill-feeling between those who support adopting rescues versus breeders and other advocates of purebred dogs. In the dog world there is a lot of friction between the two camps, but my personal approach is to each his or her own. I know many wonderful dogs who came from breeders, and wonderful people who live with purebred dogs, and that’s fine. I have no doubt that the bonds are just as strong, the love just as great, and the journey just as joyful. Rather, my advocacy for adopting a rescue or shelter dog comes from a more practical and broad perspective: With hundreds of thousands of deserving dogs (and perhaps far more than that) looking for a forever home in the United States alone, and continual proof that dogs who are given a second chance at life make wonderful companions, it would be hard for me personally to justify getting a dog any other way. And, as I’ve noted elsewhere in this book, it makes the experience of living with a dog all the more poignant and rewarding when you know that dog has beaten very, very long and seemingly impossible odds to get the chance to be wrapped in your arms, or run through Christmas snow or freshly cut grass, or jump exuberantly into a lake or pond.

For me, watching Albie slowly come to feel safe in our home, and to declare himself home when he took his leap of faith to jump onto our bed to sleep after weeks of sleeping under the coffee table in the living room, was sublime. Knowing we helped save his life, and Salina’s, has given added meaning to the whole experience and made every moment we share together (well, almost every moment!) a special gift, for them and for us. Rare is the time when I look at Albie curled up in one of his favorite sleeping spots and don’t think of where he’s been and the long, hard road he had to travel to reach us and to find his home. Perhaps because Salina was such a young puppy when we adopted her, and we know she never suffered, the feeling is less intense when I think of her, but I love her, too. She went directly from the home where she was born into the hands of caring rescuers and then literally into my arms on Greg Mahle’s truck. But she, too, could easily have become one of the countless dogs born into this world never to have a name or to know love or kindness. But for a quick-thinking and compassionate young man in rural Louisiana named C. J. Nash, Salina and her littermates could easily have ended up at the local pound to have their lives extinguished just days after they were born. It was C. J. who reached out to a local rescuer rather than bring the puppies to the local pound as his father had asked.

As young Teagan Sparhawk put it to me, “If you get a dog from a breeder, it’s just a random dog. It’s not in danger. The dogs in the Bahamas [where Teagan’s rescue work is focused] are dying. There they treat the dogs as pests instead of pets.”

And that, in a nutshell, is the case for a rescue dog.

• • •

TOO OFTEN, MYTHS and misconceptions about rescue or shelter dogs scare people away. When my wife, Judy, first suggested a rescue dog, I harbored some of them, as noted earlier. But several veterinarians I’ve spoken with are quick to dispel the myths that rescue dogs are generally less healthy, less behaviorally predictable, or somehow damaged beyond repair.

“Over the years my clients have become much more savvy about rescue dogs,” Barbara Hopey told me. Barbara is a retired veterinarian from eastern Massachusetts who still owns a veterinary clinic. “We see a lot of them now. People will pay fifteen hundred dollars [or more] for a pure breed and the dog comes in sick [to its first appointment].” And purebred dogs can be genetically predisposed to certain ailments. Bulldogs are prone to pneumonia, for example, and golden retrievers to hip dysplasia and some types of cancer. New research suggests that more than sixty percent of goldens, one of the most popular breeds in the country, will die of cancer—not just be diagnosed with cancer, but die from it.

Many people think buying from a breeder is the best way to ensure they are getting a healthy dog with a good temperament. “There’s no guarantee if you go through a breeder,” Barb added. “So many are puppy-mill dogs. If you are buying a dog long-distance it’s likely from a puppy mill. I’ve seen good, reputable breeders do all kinds of checks but there are no guarantees. The puppy’s parents may be OFA-certified [certified by the Orthopedic Foundation for Animals that their hips are healthy, because hip dysplasia can lead to chronic pain and other problems] but that doesn’t mean their puppies are okay.

It makes the experience of living with a dog all the more poignant and rewarding when you know that dog has beaten very long and seemingly impossible odds to get the chance to be wrapped in your arms, or run through snow or freshly cut grass, or jump exuberantly into a lake or pond.

“In our practice we see more sickness with bred dogs than rescue dogs,” Barb added. Other vets I’ve spoken with have had the same experience, though there are still others who disagree. Perhaps it’s just the ratio of rescue versus bred dogs in their patient populations that leads to these differing views. But the point is that there’s no clear evidence that bred dogs are healthier or have fewer behavioral issues than rescue dogs.

In her New York Times bestselling book Inside of a Dog: What Dogs See, Smell, and Know, canine cognition expert Alexandra Horowitz makes no bones about it. She argues that mixed breeds tend to be physically healthier dogs and of more even temperament. The best breed, she says, is a mixed breed.

• • •

ONE OF BARB HOPEY’S MANY DOGS, most of which are rescues, is Noelle. Like Noah, Andrea Stewart and Linda Zalkeskie’s rescue dog, Noelle was found in Melrose Park in Houston, and her story parallels Noah’s in many ways. Erin Bouton, a local rescue volunteer, found her lying on the street in January 2015 and thought she was dead. When she approached she was shocked to see Noelle was still breathing. Erin took Noelle to a nearby animal hospital and contacted Kathy Wetmore of Houston Shaggy Dog Rescue, who also helped save Noah and found him a home with Andrea and Linda.

As she often does in such situations, Kathy wrote about Noelle on her Facebook page, and that post, another by a second volunteer, and Barb Hopey’s response help illuminate the urgency with which so much rescue work is done and the heart that goes into it from one end of the rescue chain to the other.

“We were able to bring in another dog from Melrose Park yesterday,” wrote Kathy Wetmore. “Erin picked her up and took her to the Aldine Animal Hospital for us. Sadly it may have been too late for this girl. She is in critical condition at the vet’s and they are trying to stabilize her. She bled out during the night and is close to dying. Praying they can pull her through. She was in the exact same location as Noah was found and Erin said there are about five more dogs they are trying to rescue in similar condition from that location. It’s just so sad these dogs have been thrown out and neglected for so long and no one that lives in the area cares because they just pass them by. I am heading to Aldine this morning and will update on her condition later. We are calling her Noelle . . . thank you, Erin, for getting her off the street.”

Shortly after Erin took Noelle to Aldine Animal Hospital, another local volunteer posted a picture of Noelle lying broken and nearly lifeless on the street, looking almost like a large baby bird that had fallen from its nest, the way her front legs were curled up and her head was lying flat on the pavement.

“This picture is worth more than a thousand words, especially when it comes to animal cruelty and neglect,” she wrote. “This is Noelle. She was found (picked up yesterday) in a park KNOWN for dumped dogs, discarded with ropes or chains around their necks, sometimes already dead, severe mange, starvation . . . the list goes on and on. This girl—and a few others lately—have been found with motor oil all over the body; an uneducated or ‘old school’ way of an attempt to cure mange. This dog is anemic, has swollen legs, emaciated and has demodex mange . . . Melrose Park is ACROSS THE STREET FROM HARRIS COUNTY ANIMAL SHELTER! This has been in the media, they have been told numerous times about this issue, yet the City of Houston does nothing. Houston, we have a serious problem! Please share her story, ‘like’ the Shaggy Dog Rescue [Facebook] page to follow her (hopeful) improvement, donate to this or your favorite shelter or rescue, advocate, volunteer . . . whatever you feel is in your heart to do to stop this madness.”

Barb saw that post the same day it went up and she decided to do everything she could to help Noelle. With no intention of adopting her, she donated to help cover the costs of her hospitalization and, as Noelle started to improve, her spay and heartworm treatment as well. Over the next several months Noelle made a complete recovery. Kathy told Barb she thought Noelle should come to live with Barb and she agreed.

On June 24, 2015, six months after being left for dead, Noelle arrived in New England. Today, Noelle lives with Barb and many canine companions in Massachusetts and is, in Barb’s words, “a cherished family member.” For Noelle, like Noah and so many others, it’s a new day.

• • •

AS IS SURELY abundantly clear by now, it’s the knowledge that you’ve saved a dog from a desperate situation, from neglect or abuse or certain death, that magnifies and deepens and sweetens the relationship that’s forged between the adopter and the dog. But it’s hardly a one-way street, as so many people I spoke with would attest. A rescue dog will repay your love and kindness over and over again.

When Brett Fuqua, Heather’s husband, died suddenly in 2010, Heather kept fostering dogs in her Louisiana home to keep herself busy. But her rescue dogs, both adopted and fostered, did more than keep her busy; they gave her, she told me, “a reason to get up and get out of the house.

“You need to take care of them and train them,” said Heather. “I’ve had full-grown Labs that were severely underweight, and to see them get healthy and being loved and showing them that they can trust again gives you a sense of deep accomplishment. This was an important part of helping me through the grief. The process of getting these death row dogs back to health is so meaningful. You see these dogs dumped on the street or at the pound and know these are the ones that need love.

“You can go down any dirt road here and see dogs that are hungry,” added Heather. “Then you see them do a one-eighty and you know you’ve saved a soul. That’s what makes rescue dogs the best.”

• • •

THERE CONTINUE TO BE many small moments in our lives with Albie and Salina that, with the passage of time, I tend to take for granted but which are really quite precious, even in their repetition. Some are the smallest of moments, but I know I will miss them when the dogs are no longer here to create them day after day.

What is almost always the worst moment of my day is immediately followed by the best. I could easily sleep until at least eight every morning (I am not a morning person), but sometime between five-thirty and six-fifteen a.m. I hear it: either Albie or Salina, whoever has been aced out of sleeping in our bed that night (and they rarely both sleep in our bed together), walking toward the bedroom, nails click-clacking on the wood floor, a sound that always rouses the other. Then there are the morning shakes to get the cobwebs out, which always makes their dog tags jangle.

For a moment I hope against hope they will just go back to sleep. But I know better. I crack one eye open and there are two faces inches from mine telling me it’s time to get up and let them out, time to have breakfast, time to start the new day. If I don’t start moving right away, which is always, there is usually a low grumble from Albie. Then they’ll both start pawing me gently. Sometimes Albie will sit up by the side of the bed, put both paws on my arm, and stare at me intently.

That first moment of awareness, the realization that my sleep will be interrupted for the umpteenth morning in a row, is the worst moment. Looking into their eyes and knowing they need me to get the new day rolling is the best.

And why do I do it over and over and over again, even when I know that in a few minutes I’ll be outside so they can do their business and it’s below zero and the wind is whipping snow in my face? Because every morning Albie and Salina bring me the eggs—those eggs Woody Allen talked about in Annie Hall. Because they need me to do certain things for them they can’t do for themselves, like open the door and fill their bowls with breakfast. Because I feel good knowing they are both lucky to be alive, that we have given them a chance to indulge their doggy-ness, that they feel safe and secure in our home. And because they make me feel needed in the most fundamental way. They have made me a nurturer again.

Life, of course, is a long string of moments—some good, some bad, some happy and some sad, some exciting and some dull—most of which we never savor as they rush by until, before we know it, those moments become days, the days become weeks, then months, and then years. The years, too, accumulate, and before we know it we’ve passed our halfway point ten or twenty years ago, but are still feeling there’s so much left to do, to experience, to stop and enjoy. Time is the most inexorable of forces, the inescapable leveler of the human experience, and the great humbler of our ambitions as we race to squeeze more out of whatever time we have. Dogs, however, seem to exist outside of time even though we watch them age. For that reason they provide some respite from the unavoidable and somewhat melancholy reality that even as our lives get longer with each passing day, our time grows shorter. All things must pass, yes, but that’s what makes the moments precious . . . they are, ultimately, an ever-dwindling commodity and, therefore, all the more valuable with each passing day.

It’s not solely those early morning moments when Albie and Salina stare at me expectantly that I treasure. I also love watching them chase balls and unseen forest creatures and compete for possession of a simple stick. I love the enthusiasm with which they greet me every time I walk through the door.

I love watching them eat crunchy treats, too: the way they chew with their mouths open to one side reminds me of the legendary actor Jimmy Cagney talking with a cigar in his mouth. And I love watching Salina take her position lying at the top of the stairs that lead from our kitchen to a game room above the garage so she can survey her domain below. She looks so regal up there.

I love watching Albie, all eighty pounds of him, curl up in a dog bed made for a puppy a quarter his size. Albie even has different ways of lying down, some of which, to me, seem especially sweet and which evoke a more powerful, protective instinct in me. When he’s curled into a tight ball his eyes usually have a more worried look (I could be projecting, but who knows?), one that seems to cry out for me to provide some physical and verbal comfort. Those moments have special resonance because they remind me of his vulnerability and dependence. Other times, when he’s gotten too amped up tussling with Salina, for example, and I separate them, he lies uneasily on the floor like the Sphinx—head erect and alert, panting hard, and trying, it seems, to compose himself even though you can tell it’s taking every ounce of his willpower not to pounce on her again. I have to smile as I watch him apparently trying to decide whether to stay where he is and please us, or pile on Salina again, which would be much more fun.

Albie and Salina aren’t what is known as a bonded pair; they don’t stick to each other like glue and don’t seem outwardly dependent on one another. They don’t sleep next to one another for comfort. They don’t go looking for each other in the house. When they play, as I’ve said, it tends to get pretty rough at times, though mostly it’s Salina outrunning Albie back and forth across the yard in a game of catch me if you can. And when he does get her cornered—against a fence or behind some bushes—you’d be forgiven for thinking they’re fighting. Albie growls and barks and sometimes takes her down by the scruff of the neck, his larger, more powerful body atop hers as she struggles to right herself, escape, and start the chase all over again. It might seem like Albie is the instigator because he seems more aggressive, but she typically gets it started and eggs him on, even after multiple takedowns.

But when we go somewhere by car with them, on our long drives to South Carolina, for example, they spend their time in the backseat lying down with her head resting gently on top of his, both with their eyes closed, a scene so sweet and lovely you’d never imagine they are ever any other way with each other. Salina, ever the mischief-maker, the little princess, has a different persona in the car—she seems more docile, more uncertain, and more dependent on Albie for comfort. In the car he seems very much the older brother and she the kid sister. How they know not to mix it up in the car, I have no idea; we didn’t have to train them on how to travel safely and quietly in the car, they just did it from the start.

Of course, there are many moments that repeat themselves every day or week that I could do without. The insane barking whenever the UPS man or the FedEx deliverywoman approaches the front door, or one of the flocks of wild turkeys that live in our neighborhood decides to graze on our lawn. It’s enough to drive you absolutely crazy. There’s Salina’s favorite habit of denuding trunks of hemlocks and other shrubs of the branches she can reach, and there are holes dug in the garden in pursuit of small creatures unseen but apparently easily smelled by a dog’s hypersensitive nose. And, of course, every day I have to pick up poop piles. Does anyone enjoy that?

• • •

IN MY EXPERIENCE, losing a human loved one focuses you on the very small details that made them unique. The way my father hung his pants from the top drawer of his dresser, for example, or the way he used to do his taxes on the dining room table using a large sheet of examining room paper from his office for the meticulous calculations he made in a neat hand by pencil, or the unique way he whistled every time he came home to announce his arrival, a two-note whistle I can re-create today from hearing it many thousands of times during my childhood. The way my mom always tore a piece of gum in half before giving it to us. I suspect it will be the same with Albie when he’s gone—the way he circled very precisely before doing his business, the exact way he tilted his head when I asked him a question, the look in his eyes when thunder and lightning were exciting his nervous system and scaring him, and, of course, those early morning gazes from a distance of a few inches.

With that in mind, as I spoke to people who had a rescue dog in their lives, I was curious to know if there were moments, even ones that seemed pedestrian, that recurred in their lives with their dogs that they especially savored, moments like my early morning gaze into the expectant eyes of Albie and Salina. Because when they are gone those are the moments we will miss the most, the ones that in their absence will remind us of how much their presence filled our lives.

“At nine thirty p.m. Duncan is ready for bed,” Doreen Dawson told me. “He gets annoyed if we aren’t ready and lets us know by snorting. In the morning he waits for the first toe to hit the floor and as soon as it does he’s ready for the day! He sticks to me like glue and I love his little cues about going to sleep and getting up in the morning.”

For Joanne Sebring, the human who belongs to three-legged Trace and three other rescue dogs, her sublime moment is in the evening when, after a busy day, she finally plops herself down on the couch. All four dogs join her, two on either side.

Anneliese Taylor and her family have three special moments every day with eleven-year-old Tucker. Every morning Tucker, no matter what else is happening in their busy household with two young children, insists on a belly rub. “He’ll get us to stop whatever it is we are doing, roll over, and wait for us to rub his belly,” Anneliese told me. “In the evening, when it’s story time for the kids, he goes and gets his stuffed animal and brings it into [four-year-old] Logan’s room, lies down, and waits for the stories to begin,” she added. “If there’s no story that night you can see the disappointment on his face.” When story time is over (or if it’s been skipped) Tucker always has dessert with Anneliese’s husband, Jeff. He gets a Yoghünd, a yogurt-based treat formulated especially for dogs, while Jeff has something sweet made for human consumption. Tucker is getting on in years, so the little rituals they enjoy and cherish today will no doubt be among the vivid memories of Tucker they will have when his time comes. (Shortly after these words were written in October 2016 Tucker was diagnosed with cancer, but was doing well at last word.)

“My favorite time of day is in the morning before we get up,” Debbie DeWolfe of Ashland, Massachusetts, told me about her rescue dog Bess, a small black Lab from New Orleans that came north in 2012. “Bess belly-crawls right up to me, sticks her nose under my arm, and just snuggles for a minute before rolling over for her morning belly rub. Never ceases to make me start the day with a smile!

“While I will never know Bess’s backstory of her first seven months before she was picked up as a malnourished stray,” Debbie added, “I do know she is safe now and I will always protect her, and I’m pretty sure she’s got my back, too.”

For Adrienne Finney, keeper of the Guilford Gang, the days are filled with wonderful moments captured in thousands of pictures. The dogs have the run of the magnificent Vermont farm where they live almost all day, every day. As I said, it’s doggy heaven. Because they get so much exercise, they are usually tired by the time Adrienne finally sits down to watch a little TV in the evening.

“I don’t watch a lot of TV, but when I do the dogs are all in the room with me,” Adrienne told me. “Some are sitting in chairs, or with me on the floor, and others are scattered all around me just lying there. I can sense their peace and comfort. We’re just a big puppy pile here. I love these moments when they are just with me and all is quiet and I can really experience them by reaching out and petting them and they don’t even raise their heads because they’re so tired. It’s so calm and comfortable.”

“My favorite time of day is when I am going up to bed and Bart is just coming in from his walk,” Amy Lovett told me. “When he sees me going upstairs he gets so happy because he’s allowed in the bed. He turns himself around on the bed, puts his head on my ankles, and lets out a big sigh, as if to say, We’re done for the day. Let’s go to sleep. At night, once the kids are in bed it’s just the two of us; or the three of us, if you count my husband! Knowing he’s there is relaxing. It could have been the hardest day at work, but he tells me it’s done and not to worry. We can pick it up tomorrow.

“I also love coming home to Bart,” Amy said. “He’s always at the door when I come home, so it’s Bart and the kids all coming at me together.”

• • •

THE GREETING UPON COMING HOME was a recurring moment most folks identified as special in their lives with their dogs. Andrea Stewart told me that when she walks in the door in the evening after work, Linda is often there sitting in her favorite chair. Before she knows it, Noah bursts forth at her “like the creature from Alien,” but all giddy and excited. And, as we saw earlier, Noah treasures every piece of attention Linda gives him, even having his nails clipped and his teeth brushed, which many dogs can hardly tolerate. Such ordinary, pedestrian moments in our lives, but such special ones, too.

The importance of holding on to the memories of the small moments and appreciating them while they last was driven home for me by Elissa Altman of Newtown, Connecticut. Living in a community that has experienced a shocking, indescribable loss where dozens of parents, teachers, first responders, and everyone else are living with overwhelming memories of the moments large and small that comprised the lives of those who were lost probably makes you all the more attentive to how fleeting precious moments can be.

“I work at home,” Elissa told me, “and Susan works in the city. Unless I was in the throes of writing a book, I stopped work about five p.m. or five thirty p.m. I’d pour a glass of wine and sit on the front stoop with Addie on one side of me and Petey on the other. When she got old Addie could barely jog, but both of them would jump to their feet to greet Susan when she came home from work. The first day without Addie, Petey was still excited, but it was very different. I miss that.”

• • •

THE MORE ORDINARY these moments with our loved ones (human, canine, or otherwise), the more we will miss them and cherish them when they cease to exist. And each one is like one of those eggs in Woody Allen’s monologue. Despite years of picking up poop in plastic bags, cleaning up the accidents in the house, and the dirt and the mud and an occasional small animal dragged into the house, despite the frozen early morning walks in February, the seemingly endless trips to the vet, the expressed anal glands, the torn-up gardens and occasionally chewed-up bedspreads, despite the barking and the whining, the begging at the dinner table, and the shed fur that clings to clothes and carpets and car seats, notwithstanding the sometimes sleepless nights, the injuries, and the eventual grief, we continue to search for these dogs, save them from dire fates, bring them to live with us as family members in our homes, and love them until death do us part.

As for Albie and me, we’re still walking the woods on autumn afternoons and watching the seasons change together. Sometimes our relationships with our dogs are totally crazy and absurd, but I guess we keep going through it because, for all the early mornings and sleepless nights, poop piles and muddy paws, most of us need the love, the affirmation, and all the joy they bring us. In other words, we need the eggs.