5 TRANSITIONS
In most places on an early December morning, damp gray air, intermittent drizzles of rain, and temperatures in the low sixties, would be considered mild weather. But we were in Palm Springs, land of palm trees, mid-century buildings, bright colors, and celebrities of old. Palm Springs—where the average December temperature is supposed to be seventy degrees, with clear blue skies, and abundant sunshine. That’s why people spent winters there. But because I’d planned with a tight time schedule, it was raining (the universe thing again). And we had been awake since 5:00 A.M. So I was complaining. A lot.
Fortunately for Chris, though, I was complaining only in my head (though my face was probably giving it all away; it always does). After all, Chris had awoken and driven us both out to Palm Springs that morning, and it wasn’t his father we were helping. He was there to support and help me. When we dealt with our respective families, we preferred to do it together.
My Thanksgiving weekend joy and sense of calm had dissipated quickly. I stood in the middle of my father’s mostly empty home, waiting for the movers to arrive, pack up the rest of his belongings, and take them on to my brother Jay’s home in Missouri. I had promised I would see that it was all taken care of—assured my father he could just leave with his three dogs and all he and Jay could load into a rented U-Haul; I would get the rest of it sent to him when the house sold. I wanted to make the move easier for my father, as I could see he was struggling trying to make it all happen. He was seventy-seven years old, not the easiest time to be making such a life change.
But who leaves Palm Springs, California, and moves to Missouri in the early winter? That decision was probably another clue that Dad was stressed and not thinking things through. Too late to worry about that, though. He had been in Missouri for almost a month, and the house had sold much more quickly than we had anticipated. So, there I stood, coffee cup in hand, looking around a nearly empty house, wondering if I should take some personal item just to have something because, well—because who knew?
I had been away at college when my maternal grandmother died and consequently had no mementos of her—what my grandfather didn’t keep went to my older sister and my mother, in that order. When my grandfather himself died I was a new lawyer, living in Riverside, not far away but far enough, apparently; he left me a small cash gift, listed twelfth in his will, well after my mother and siblings, the Catholic Church, a neighbor, and, as I remember it, any random stranger walking by. (A part of me knows he did this based on his perceptions of need, and no doubt because he thought I was “fine”—as everyone knew me to be, always. The other part of me is hurt. But I’m totally over it. Totally.) I don’t even know who got his personal items; I have only a few photos given to me by my mother as a peace offering much, much later, when she also gave me a ring of my grandmother’s. My dad’s parents died when he was two years old, so even he didn’t have any mementos of them.
Like I said, loosely knit. I had to grab on to whatever thread I could—a few memories of my dad.
I texted my dad and asked if I could keep the tin bar signs: COSMO LOUNGE: WHERE SMART PEOPLE MEET, ROYAL KNIGHT DISTILLED DRY GIN, and AIRPORT 90 PROOF STRAIGHT WHISKEY, along with a metal reproduction of Elvis’s Girl Happy movie poster. My dad worships Elvis, and during the seventies my parents had a red and black bar and game room, complete with shag carpet, a pool table and juke box, the customary neon bar signs, an animated Hamm’s beer sign, and other alcohol-related décor. This was in the last house my parents and siblings (the original two) and I all lived in together before my parents’ second divorce—the one that took—when I was fourteen. Bar signs and an Elvis sign seemed fitting enough mementos. Although, as I thought about it, those mementos in the house I was then standing in were more than likely from his life with his fourth wife, who had left him and their dogs the day after his seventy-fifth birthday. These were not likely from my childhood at all. But they were my dad’s. Good enough. Beggars can’t be choosers, and all that.
I continued to pace in the near empty house. Here was another plan gone awry.
The movers could only come on that particular day: December 6. Naturally, this was the same day we had been told that Poppy and the rest of the beagles would be arriving from China. I was to come pick her up that evening—of course both things had to happen on the same day. Of course they did.
I had taken the day off work. My plan was to be up at 5:00 A.M., drive forty-five miles east to my dad’s house, be done with the movers by noon, drive back home, take a nap, then head sixty-five miles west to Los Angeles to be at the designated rescue house by five that evening. The Southern California traffic gods would really need to be on my side for this one, but that wasn’t likely to happen. The morning drizzle was supposed to turn to rain with a chance of thunder and lightning by evening. Any sort of inclement weather sent those same traffic gods into monastic retreat where they couldn’t be reached and certainly not be bothered with the idiocy that is California drivers in the rain. This was probably one more reason I should have bowed out from fostering Poppy. But I did not. I could not.
When we had returned from the Rescue Ranch/Feces Farm the Sunday after Thanksgiving, Chris and I talked more about adopting Roe. We agreed, of course, to that much, but he still thought my fostering Poppy was a bad idea.
“You won’t be able to let her go,” he had said.
“I will. I’ll have to. We can’t have three dogs.”
“Why put yourself through that? You’re a foster failure. You’ll be smitten in two seconds and want to keep her.”
“But I can’t keep her, and I really want to foster. I know it will be hard, but it helps save a life.”
His face had remained skeptical, but he stayed quiet. At this point he’d been with me long enough to know that my plans were likely to fall apart, but neither of us could guess which way they would fall. I suppose that’s why I kept planning, despite the overall uselessness of such behavior. The expression “a goal without a plan is just a dream” resonated with me, so I planned—even though it seemed that for me a goal with a plan was a nightmare.
Not seeing any choice, I had taken the day off work to handle the end of my father’s California life and the beginning of Poppy’s California life. Because such was my life.
The movers arrived right at 7:00 A.M. and quickly got to work. Chris and I showed them around the house, pointed out what needed packing, and then I sat on the lone recliner in the near-empty living room while Chris sat on a barstool, waiting.
“It was a good idea to leave Roe and Percival at home for the morning,” I said.
“Yeah, hard to imagine them having to sit here on leashes with strangers coming and going, and it’s not exactly dog-walking weather,” he said.
“Hopefully we get out of here in time for us all to nap. What time are you planning to leave for Paso?”
“As soon as I can. The earlier the better.” His voice echoed in the empty, tile-floored living room.
This made sense. That was the other thing we had decided—that I was going alone to LA to pick up Poppy. Roe and Percival, understandably, wouldn’t be allowed at the home where the new dogs were arriving, and it seemed unfair to leave them in the car. Chris could hardly be expected to drive sixty miles from Riverside to LA to pick up one dog, then back to Riverside to pick up two other dogs, then back up 260 miles to Paso Robles—especially not on a day that started with a forty-mile drive into Palm Springs at 5:00 A.M. Instead, after our Palm Springs duties were over, Chris would take Roe and Percival north to Paso Robles and I would head west to Los Angeles to pick up Poppy. We figured two weeks for Poppy and me alone in Riverside would be a good adjustment period and not too overwhelming for her. I was worried she wouldn’t have the guidance of either Roe or Percival during that time, but the logistics were difficult to work out. I needed to be in Riverside and Chris needed to be in Paso Robles. He’d only come down south to help with my father’s move, not to help me pick up a foster dog he didn’t think I should be fostering.
One of the movers came into the living room, “We can’t pack these.” He handed me a small, heavy box. I opened it.
“Okay, right.” I handed the box of bullets to Chris. The look of the boxes struck me as oddly incongruous. Bright yellow and orange swirls and cheerful fonts didn’t seem to go with “this is ammunition for killing.” Am I the only one that sees this? Is irony right and truly dead?
The mover returned with two more boxes of bullets. “Sorry, we just can’t.”
I was not aware of this rule and wondered if there were also guns left behind. My father, true to his Southern roots, was an avid gun collector. My brother and I were both taught to shoot at an early age and proper gun safety along with it, but I still didn’t like guns. I didn’t even like holding the ammunition. Which was unfortunate because the movers brought me another four boxes.
“Is the safe empty?” he asked.
He was by now wondering the same thing I was—had dad at least taken the guns out of the large gun safe in his closet? Because if the movers couldn’t transport ammunition, I felt quite certain they couldn’t move guns. He would not have left them behind. He would have to have taken the guns. Because I don’t want to take guns with me.
“Yes, it’s empty.” I said. And it better be, because I have no idea how to open it.
I looked at Chris and he shrugged. Not a lot we could do, as I didn’t want to be driving home with a car full of guns. And I darn sure didn’t want to be taking them with me to pick up a nervous little beagle. Jay, my brother, surely would have taken the guns. He had once worked in a gun shop; he would know the rules, laws, culture… whatever it was that applied. Though I could see how he and my dad might have found it funny to leave the guns for me to deal with if transporting them was illegal. I was the straitlaced one in the family—the one least likely to cause trouble or break the law (because I was “fine”—I couldn’t be “fine” and also in jail). That and the fact that guns made me uncomfortable would be an irresistible comedic setup from my dad and brother’s points of view.
But surely, they took the guns. They probably couldn’t see driving halfway across the country without guns in any event.
Chris put the pretty little bullet boxes in his car, along with the vintage metal bar signs Dad had texted we could keep.
Two minutes after the movers left, my dad’s dogsitter came by with a box of things she had thought he would want. She had removed them from the house so no one would steal them. The box had silverware, an “as seen on TV” food chopper, some mail, shelf lining, and a handful of keys to who only knew what. I did not think this was anything anyone would steal, but I thanked her nonetheless. I put all that in Chris’s car too.
“What are we going to do with this?” Chris said.
“No idea. But be gentle. That may be my inheritance.”
We drove away from the empty house in the rain.
Usually I can sleep in a car easily. Not that morning. Once back at home in Riverside, I again unsuccessfully tried to nap but gave up. I freshened up a bit, but there was no reason to do much more than that just to stand in the rain with a dozen smelly, wet beagles. There was no reason to continue pacing either, since there was no telling if the sixty-mile drive would take one hour or three. I looked around the house for the things I’d need for Poppy.
This was a good distraction, I thought. I could focus on the dog and not on the fact that my dad no longer lived nearby. The moving van had pulled away and that was that. Roe had been a distraction from the loss of Daphne, and now Poppy would be a distraction from the loss of my dad. Well, loss of proximity anyway. I mean, he was still alive. (Note to self: check with therapist on all this distraction. Is this unhealthy avoidance? Second note to self: find a therapist.)
But this wasn’t a distraction. This was a dog. A traumatized dog who needed my help, my attention, my focus.
I had to focus.
I grabbed a leash, one of Percival’s harnesses, a blanket, and some treats, trying to cover the basics, worried our new Poppy might be stuck in the car for hours on end. With a quick kiss to Chris, Roe, and Percival (maybe not in that order), I headed out at 2:30 in the afternoon, hoping to arrive by the designated 5:00 P.M. start time.
My emotions, like my thoughts, were all over the place, pinging and dashing and darting faster than the raindrops on my windshield. My dad is officially gone from California. Daphne died. I wasn’t there with her when she died. I let her down. I am on my way to pick up a new, frightened dog. It’s too soon. I already have another new dog who now will be with Chris for two weeks. I am so tired. I’m cold. My dad is gone. Chris and Percival and Roe are going back to Paso Robles. I shouldn’t be getting this other dog. How will my dad do in Missouri? I can’t picture him in Missouri. I am excited to see these newly rescued dogs though. If only it wasn’t so cold. If only I wasn’t so tired. I miss Daphne.
The drive, and my brain leaps and swirls, reminded me of driving Daphne from Paso Robles to Orange County for one of her chemo treatments while having a conference call about the merger of my law firm. I couldn’t focus then either.
Driving to LA with no idea what to expect. Maybe this is all too much. Maybe this is an unhealthy response to Daphne’s unexpected death. Or to my dad leaving. Or maybe this is exactly what I need. Or none of the above. Maybe it’s just nuts.
And none of that mattered. I had made a commitment, and now I was on my way to pick up a beagle who was likely just being unloaded from an airplane after a long, stressful flight from China. I had to pull it together. It was fair to say the dog would have had a more difficult day than I by the time we finally met.
An hour and a half later—one full hour early—I arrived at the address I had been given for the great beagle pickup. I stepped through the front gate and a young, bearded man carrying a box nodded to me and then jerked his head in what I took was a motion for me to head to the backyard. I made my way around the house, through the side gate, and into the backyard.
The rain had drenched the lawn area where the dogs would be brought in and released, so the staff and volunteers were working to set up the garage-turned-event-space into a welcoming, celebratory room for the dogs’ much-anticipated arrival and ceremonial cage release. Public relations don’t get much better than videos showing the rescue and release of these dogs. A rainbow-colored banner strung across the back wall read “Ringo’s Rockin’ Rescue,” which I learned later was because someone had sponsored the cost of this rescue and named it after his beloved late dog Ringo. There were tall narrow banners on either side of the rainbow one, both with the BFP logo; one read “Rescue. Rehab. Repeat.” and featured Chi Chi, a golden retriever rescued from the Chinese dog meat trade. Chi Chi had lost the bottom half of all four legs (they had been tied together too tightly for too long), but she had been a joyful soul, able to walk with the help of prosthetics and vigorous therapy. She had passed away recently from cancer, leaving her adopters bereft. I had never met her, but I knew her story. She was beloved not just among the BFP adopters and fosters but also by the larger dog-adoring world. She had been given the American Humane Hero Dog Award for her work as a therapy dog and her example of perseverance and courage.
The second banner read “Rescue. Protect. Love.” (Cool concepts, right? And maybe a summary of my day.) I was pretty certain the dog featured was Rocket, one of the early rescues when BFP first started. Yep. That was what this was all about. Rescue. Protect. Love. That’s a good reminder. That’s what I was doing here.
I stood around wondering how to make myself useful. I chatted with a few staff people (all different since the days when we adopted Percival; BFP had been a much smaller organization back then) and helped string some twinkle lights down the pathway the dogs would be coming down. That’s when I noticed through the windows that there seemed to be several people in the house itself. Maybe I was supposed to go inside? Maybe the guy had jerked his head toward the house and not the backyard? Just like that, the worries were back. Nothing about this felt right. The weather was depressing. I was out of place, useless, in the way. And we already had two dogs. I shouldn’t have volunteered. I shouldn’t be here.
Give me twenty-three unknown dogs on a Thanksgiving weekend over even a half-dozen humans (known or unknown) anytime. Chris has a running joke about producing a reality television show called Terrorizing Teresa, that would involve sending me to places and events known for their crowds of people—Times Square on New Year’s Eve, Vegas on Halloween, Carnival in Rio, Burning Man somewhere in the desert, those sorts of things. He’s kidding, of course, but such is my discomfort with groups of people, especially if there are no rules, no assigned seats, no “program.” And here was a situation where I could not determine the program nor create a plan.
The back door to the house opened and as two people stepped out, I could see that there were indeed several people milling about inside the warm and cozy house. I was supposed to have gone through the front door like a human, not around the back like a stray animal.
I made my way inside and found coffee, snacks, and excited people talking. There was a registration table near the front door where I should have checked in and received the fosters’ bag of supplies and goodies. I could have been warm and dry for the past hour by simply going to the front door. Everyone—men, women, and children—had on a BFP T-shirt or sweatshirt. I pulled a T-shirt out of the bag I had been given and quickly realized it was at least two sizes too small. I would not be dressed like the rest of the group either. Of course I wouldn’t. That’s also when I noticed everyone had come in pairs or entire family units. Maybe Chris should have come with me. But what would we have done with Percival and Roe? Why was this all feeling so uncomfortable? Why was I getting everything wrong? Why didn’t I back out when I had the chance?
I get this kind of thing wrong—these meaningful family moments—a lot. They sneak up on me and I think, “Oh, this. This is what families do. Huh.” I remembered when I passed the bar exam and went to the swearing-in ceremony at the Disneyland Hotel (yeah, imagine a bunch of lawyers at the happiest place on earth; irony had not yet died). I went with my then boyfriend (later husband, later still ex-husband), who was also there to be sworn in. He was an only child, an immigrant from what was then Yugoslavia, whose parents’ wildest dream was to see him become a lawyer in America. I had plenty of family (truly, more than was necessary; at that point the count would have been four parents, three siblings, a grandfather, perhaps a step-grandmother), and still neither of us had thought to invite any family members. Everyone else in the room had swarming relatives, friends, flowers, photographers, champagne, and general celebratory things going on. They also seemed to know about the free passes to the amusement park that day for all inductees. We got sworn in and returned to work… in separate cars. I seem then, now, always, unable to recognize family moments until they are upon me. Or I’m just too determined to do things on my own—or maybe these are the same thing.
At any rate, I was alone.
I hung back, sipping coffee and snacking on the vegan cookies on offer until eventually I saw a BFP board member named Valerie I had met before, though I couldn’t for the life of me tell you when. Good enough! I approached her and reintroduced myself.
“Yes, of course. The author!”
Okay, well that’s a nice way to be known. “Yes. Percival’s mom,” I said, because that’s also a nice way to be known.
Then I saw a couple come through the front door. Deia and Aaron had adopted Percival’s brother, now known as River, and I knew them from a couple of rescue group reunions and of course, from Facebook. They would be fostering from this same rescue as well, which was a wonderful coincidence. Okay, things were getting better.
Finally, Shannon Keith, the founder of Beagle Freedom Project, welcomed everyone, gave a quick speech, and explained that the dogs were on their way from the Los Angeles airport. The moment we had all been waiting for was almost upon us—soon we’d see the first steps of freedom.
I, like thousands of others, had seen the videos of the beagles BFP had rescued from laboratories as they were released from their crates and able to walk on grass for the first time, freely. I had watched Percival’s rescue video countless times: twelve beagles rescued from a laboratory in northern California on December 11, 2012, released from their crates, free to set foot on grass, move about unrestrained, and begin to trust. That video, like all the BFP rescue videos, was a sentimental tear-jerker. The volunteers all wore Santa hats and the dogs were all given reindeer and holiday names (Percival had been Comet… he’s much more of a Percival). Some of the dogs had adjusted quickly, stepping gingerly onto the lawn then running and playing, while others were too frightened to move.
The most recent rescue video I had seen had been the last China rescue—the one that launched me on this quest for a female lemon beagle. I had never seen a freedom celebration live, however. I had never witnessed a dog rescued from a laboratory or the dog meat trade get its first taste of freedom, of its new life. This was the part I had been looking forward to. I decided to put my apprehensions aside and enjoy this moment. This was a special occasion for some very lucky dogs. And soon I’d meet our Poppy girl.
We all shuffled into the backyard. The air was dank and the ground muddy, but the rain had stopped, at least temporarily. The sky was dark, but the yard was well lit, and the twinkle lights added a touch of cheerful whimsy to offset the weather. Shannon asked for some couples to help carry the crates of dogs in and announced that the van was due to arrive any minute. Again, I wished Chris was with me so we could volunteer to carry their crates in, never mind that I probably couldn’t lift my share of the weight.
I got out my phone and tried to find a place to stand so I could see the dogs as they came in and take a few photos. The rest of the excited foster families did the same.
I wasn’t sure how this would work. I didn’t know if we picked a dog or if they had been assigned to us. Megan had told me she put me down for a female lemon beagle, but I was uncertain what that meant. One of the emails had mentioned we should spend time with the dogs and see if there was one in particular we felt a connection with. I had never met a beagle I didn’t connect with, so that wasn’t a helpful instruction. I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter. I was going to foster, not adopt. Chris and I had decided that. We were keeping Roe and fostering Poppy, whoever she might be. I would just take whatever dog needed me. I’d give in to the universe this time (honestly, she’s a bitch to be battling all the time).
A couple came walking through the yard carrying a crate with a large tri-colored beagle. Then another couple with another crate. Then Curtis and his wife, Melody, a couple I had known for years through BFP, came through carrying a crate with two small beagles inside. I could see these were lemon beagles: tiny, huddled together in matching turquoise sweaters. They looked so small and so vulnerable, sticking close by each other in the back of the cage. Curtis and I had worked together on a few rescues—the kind where someone posts on Facebook about a dog needing help, and a ragtag rescue village steps up to pull the dog from the shelter (often Curtis), transport the dog (again, often Curtis, sometimes me), and get them to a safe environment (one of the many rescues I dealt with). Curtis and Melody were also regular volunteers with BFP and had several rescue dogs of their own, including Rocket, the dog on the “Rescue. Rehab. Repeat.” banner, a sixteen-year old BFP rescue with Cushing’s disease they had lovingly cared for and often brought to events. Those two tiny lemon beagles were in good hands being carried to freedom by Curtis and Melody.
The parade of crates kept coming. They were set down inside the converted garage in front of the big welcome banner, side by side. Eight crates total. Eleven adult dogs and some puppies with their mother.
The doors to the crates all faced toward us and we humans, desperate for a glimpse, so wanting to reach out and console these frightened pups, all gathered in front of them, phone cameras trained on them, recording every moment. The small room quickly filled with warmth, beagle noises, and the familiar musty smell of wet dog. Wisely, Shannon asked us all to back up and explained that they would open the crates one at a time and let the dogs come out on their own schedule. We were not to make loud noises or quick motions, and we should know that after a long flight and the time at the airport, it was likely they would all be going “potty” very soon after they were released.
As she talked, one of the beagles began to howl rambunctiously. AR-AR-AR-AROOOOOO! It was the one adult male in the group, a big tri-colored boy. He stood, wagging his tail and urging someone, anyone, to open the crate.
I loved him instantly.
That demanding howl and spirited personality were deeply reminiscent of Seamus, the diabolically cute beagle we’d had before Daphne—the one who saw me through my cancer battle and showed me how to do it. I laughed at the howling beagle’s antics.
That one. I’ll take that one. How fun would that be?
Wait. Fun for me, not fun for my neighbors at the condo. And the neighbor on one side already complained about anything he could and was constantly shooting disapproving looks at us, our gardener, and anyone who came within glaring distance (the poor mailman!).
So, no. Not the howler. Not even when he howled again and had the whole crowd laughing. Just like Seamus No. Don’t. Bad. Oh, this was going to be hard. I’d long ago gotten over a young girl’s penchant for bad boys, but misbehaving dogs will always have my heart.
Kevin, the adoption and foster coordinator for BFP, first opened the crate of everyone’s favorite howler (after Seamus of course). The beagle came out willingly, walked, sniffed around, and in a matter of seconds peed and pooped nonchalantly and voluminously. Kevin began to open the rest of the crates and we humans tried as best we could not to crowd forward, while the beagles all worked up the courage to leave their crates.
It was frenzied and joyful, with the dogs and humans scrambling about, exploring, trying to figure things out—the beagles restrained by fear and their new strange circumstances, and the humans restrained (barely) by politeness and respect for these pups. But truly, all humans were vibrating with the urgent need to pet and comfort one of these beautiful creatures who’d come from such horrific circumstances. I was no different. I leaned forward, willing one of them to come to me so I could shower it in love.
Near me was a crate that held the mama beagle and two of her pups, though the pups were nearly as large as she was. Mama did not come out of her crate. She would walk to the edge, look out, and return to the safety of the far back of the crate, hiding, hoping not to be seen and that her babies would do the same. Soon the male beagle, the howler, trotted over to check on them and boldly walked into the crate. He looked as though he was encouraging her, telling her it was okay, come on out and play! Mama allowed him in but wanted nothing to do with leaving the crate. Thanks, but no thanks, buddy Do you see all those people? She hunkered down.
I quickly spotted another bigger, tri-colored female stepping out of her crate. When I saw her face I caught my breath. I immediately moved toward her. She had those big brown “root beer candy” eyes of my Daphne! That one. Come see me, please! I knelt, hoping she would come to me, making our bond instant and clear to all. I did not want to step in front of everyone or move forward too quickly, possibly scaring her, but my Daphne doppelganger did not seem to notice me in the crowd, and I needed her to. How does she not know of our connection? She moved toward someone else far to my right.
It’s okay. It would be a bad idea to get a dog who looked so much like Daphne. I would cry every time I saw her. I’m crying now! I turned my attention away from her, for my sake and hers.
Kevin was opening the crate with the two little lemon beagle girls. They came out slowly, very shyly, and almost immediately ran behind the row of crates. With all the dogs now loose—all but mama and her pups outside their crates and exploring—it was hard to track any one dog. They seemed to be everywhere at once. And true to what we were told, they were peeing and pooping all over the place. BFP, a true PR machine, wisely edits the freedom videos to not show the massive amounts of urine and feces involved in these releases. Maybe best Chris didn’t come I think he’s had enough dog shit and piss for a while. He’s temperamental like that.
Humans and beagles were all ushered into the yard, where it was colder and damper but smelled decidedly better. People began to trail after their favored beagles and very soon I saw that my Daphne look-alike had an ardent fan. A couple in their thirties had followed her around, and eventually the man picked her up and held her. For the rest of the evening he stayed by her, petting her, talking to her, and very clearly falling in love. Okay, so, good. She has a home. I won’t make that mistake. I fervently hoped they would post regular updates of her to the BFP adopters and fosters Facebook page.
The Seamus sound-alike also had a fan. A mom and her young son seemed to have attached themselves to him, and while mom may have been trying to redirect her son to a less rambunctious dog, the boy knew what he wanted. I couldn’t blame him. If you get a beagle, you must have a very good sense of humor. Mom was going to learn that soon. Her son had picked out quite a character.
Slowly I realized that we were indeed supposed to be choosing which dog we wanted. They weren’t matching us up so much as letting us pick. I reminded myself, for the hundredth time that day, that I wasn’t adopting, I was fostering, so I may as well let the others choose. I’d take the one that was left. They’re all beagles. They’re all fabulous. I couldn’t lose. No one could.
As beagles and people paired off, I saw there were a few dogs still in the yard, unattached. One of them, staying as far away from people as she could, was one of the little lemon girls. I walked toward her. She cowered, but she did not run. I bent down to her and held my hand out. She stepped backward a few feet and then stopped, looking at me. She was tiny, by beagle standards. Her head was about half the size Daphne’s had been. She was mostly white, with tan patches around her dark little eyes, staring back quizzically. I could see she was trying to overcome her fear, trying to figure out just what exactly had happened to her these last twenty-four hours. Her ears, floppy but not as long as an average beagle’s, moved forward and just as quickly twitched back.
“It’s okay, baby. I’m okay. You’ll be fine, sweetie. It’s all good from here on out,” I said. I stayed put, squatted down, hand out, talking gently to her until she slowly stretched her head forward, sniffing at my hand, her back legs firmly planted. I petted the top of her head. But her bravery evaporated, and she bolted away. She moved farther into the backyard, skulking along the bushes.
I walked around a bit more, watching as families chose their dogs and posed for photos. I petted a few more beagles, talked to the happy couple who chose my root beer candy–eyed girl. Eventually I spotted my shy lemon girl again, still far in the back of the yard, up against a brick planter but no longer behind the bushes. I approached her slowly and sat on the damp brick wall beside her. She watched my every move, primed to bolt. I understood. There were plenty of people in my life I was primed to bolt from; heck, how many times had I wanted to bolt from this very event? I was able to pet her head, stroking down her back. Even with the protection of the little sweater she wore, I could feel her shaking. I bent down and scooped her up, bringing her up onto my lap in a quick but gentle motion. She struggled for a bit, but I held her closer, brought her in against my sweatshirt and held her firmly. I talked softly to her, promising it would all get better. I promised her a warm bed, treats, and some really good food before I realized I had picked my dog.
I was holding Poppy.
This was the dog that needed me. A female lemon beagle, just as planned.
I carried her around a bit, holding her close and talking quietly to her. When I saw Melody and Curtis, I asked if they could take a photo of us. Our first “freedom photo.”
“Is that the one?” Curtis said.
“I think so. She’s super frightened.”
“Percival will show her around and get her all fixed up. She’s so lucky! Look how cute that little thing is!” he said.
“I’m feeling pretty lucky, too. Thanks.”
I found Megan and told her this was the dog I wanted to foster. Much to my surprise, she showed me a list of names I was to choose from. Where Percival’s rescue buddies had been given reindeer and holiday names to coordinate with their December rescue, these dogs would all have “rock star” names. I should have realized there would be a list of names, but I had not thought that through (yeah, add that to the list of “things not thought through”). She was, and had been for a month in my mind, Poppy. But, I recalled then, as Megan held the clipboard with the list in front of me, generally, fosters kept the assigned name, but adopters were free to change the name if they’d like. I was fostering.
I perused the list of names still available, quickly noting that Pink was on the list. I love Pink. Pink’s Funhouse album and that title track specifically was my anthem through cancer treatment. (“This used to be a funhouse, but now it’s full of evil clowns. It’s time to start the countdown, I’m gonna burn it down”—come on, how is that not about my cancerous breast?) Pink is a badass, and this dog was going to need to become a badass to get over her fears and rough beginning. Plus, Pink started with a P and so did Poppy, so the names would be easy to switch if… if what?
“Pink. I love Pink.” I said.
“I do too! I put that name on the list so I’m glad someone chose it.” Megan wrote down Pink’s information next to her name, along with my name. We were now a matched pair.
I headed across the yard to have our official rescue day photo taken and to talk to the videographer. Deia and Aaron—the parents of Percival’s brother River—were also there, holding Pink’s little lemon sister.
“No way! Are you guys fostering that one?” I said.
“Yes,” Aaron said. “She’s so scared. She’s like the most frightened one here, so we have to help her.”
I lifted Pink up. “I have her sister! We’re going to share a set of brothers and sisters now.”
We all laughed. River and Percival looked a lot alike. Pink and her sister, now named Miley, were nearly identical. We set them down to be with each other a bit longer, before it was time for photos and the organized chaos of departure (or maybe it had simply become a more tolerable chaos since it was now all about the dogs). We almost couldn’t tell Miley and Pink apart when we picked them up again. Deia and Aaron didn’t live far from me, so I was hopeful we could get all four dogs together for a playdate.
I gathered my things, the bag of supplies from BFP, and of course Pink. She was carried out to my car by Matt, one of the BFP employees, since walking on a leash was not yet in her skill set and carrying that many supplies and a nervous beagle was not in mine.
Matt set Pink down gently in my back seat, and I hooked her harness to the seat belt attachment. She lay down immediately.
How strange this all must be to her. I had never really thought of it from the dog’s point of view. It’s always a bit of a mystery bringing a new dog into one’s life with so much unknown. But what must it be like for the dog? So utterly confused and dependent on humans. She wouldn’t have any idea what her life would be like in five minutes, let alone weeks from now. This assuredly was one of those times where a dog’s nature to live in the moment was a gift. She was safe, she was warm, and she was already loved, though she may not have known that last part yet.
“We’re headed home, my little Pink Poppy. I promise you; you’ll be fine.”
She looked at me with those little dark eyes, so quizzical. She was just so cute. And so, so tiny. As she watched me with her head tilted sideways, I noticed her mouth had a little brown smudge on the right side that made her look like she was smiling. Her muzzle was mostly white, but this tan patch near her mouth looked like smeared lipstick—like the smeared lipstick after a drunken make-out session, I thought, because I was tired, and it had been a long day.
“You’ve been making out, Poppy?… Pink?… Pretty girl?” I cooed.
She looked at me, head tilted to the other side now, dark eyes staring. Was I a friend or foe?
The tan mouth smudge also gave her a bit of an Elvis smirk, I thought. Given my dad’s Elvis fandom, I had seen plenty of that playful smirk. I made a mental note to text my dad a photo of Poppy’s smirk. Then I headed home with my new little girl, the start of a whole new life for her.
I had no more clue as to what the next few days and weeks would bring us than Pink Poppy did.