So was he. There was no collar on the dog. He was emaciated and I could see ticks on him. No way was he going to catch sight of my girls, much less stay.
Thinking he might be one of the neighbors 'outdoor' dogs, I grabbed a leash, formed it into a noose, and went into the yard. I crouched down, held out my hand (with a cookie from my pocket in it, of course!) and called, "Puppy, Puppy!"
The 20" high at the shoulder 'puppy' came at once...crawling through the mud on his belly. I knew right then that this dog was never leaving again.
But I had a cat-loving, dog-barely-tolerant husband (with a very kind heart) to deal with. And I already was trying to find a way to tell him that within the next year I would be adding the next generation of Sheltie and GSD to our household. I decided that 'one dog at a time' would become my motto, slipped the noose on the neck of this wormy looking yalla dawg and walked down the road with him.
Neighbors told me he had suddenly appeared three weeks before and had been wandering the country neighborhood since. It was generally thought that he had been tossed out of a passing truck, a common way to dispose of unwanted dogs out here. One neighbor had put him in a kennel run and fed him for a few days but her dogs did not like him, and she had turned him loose. Ah, the country mindset!!
I brought the dog back to the house and cleaned him up some, removing ticks. I fed him -- he was ravenous -- and observed that he seemed to be the typical outside dog: starved for attention, friendly, and without any manners whatsoever. Then I told my husband I was taking him to the no-kill shelter down the road.
I put the dog in the backseat of my station wagon and drove off. Halfway there and I heard that horrible, soul-felt baby-cry of sheer misery that dogs only emit when they have lost all touch with security -- their pack. I glanced over my shoulder. The Yalla Dawg was stretched out on the seat, head lowered on to paws, and the cry seemed to come out of him involuntarilly, as though wrenched from his soul.
Let them be full, I thought. Tell me there's no room for him. I knew my husband would not allow me to take the dog to a kill shelter and neither of us would allow him back on the streets.
The little heartfelt prayer worked and 20 minutes later we were heading home, because the shelter was full. I told my husband that if we could foster the dog I would have him neutered, vet-checked, I'd give him his shots, do some training, and in a few weeks we'd put him up for adoption ourselves.
"We don't need another dog," my husband said, stroking the broad skull and fondling the flop ears. The Yalla Dawg licked his hand.
"He likes you," I said. "You need a dog. He's yours."
My husband shook his head. "He's not my dog."
"Okay. Will you hold the leash while I go set up a crate for him?"
I returned a few minutes later. Husband hadn't moved. Dog was still sitting, blissfully happy with the continued stroking of his head. Husband looked up at me. "His name is Tommy."
I smiled to myself.
"But he's not my dog," added my husband.
"He's not my dog," my husband said a day or two later, as he snapped on Tommy's leash to take him for a walk.
Later that evening, I told my huaband that his dog had crashed through the varikennel and needed to have a wire crate.
"He's not my dog," replied my husband. He handed me the stack of dog supply catalogs.
Over the course of the next few weeks, Tommy gainsed some and lost some. He gave up his virility in exchange for becoming domesticated. Gradually, he learned what it meant to live in a house, not have to scrounge for meals, that it absolutely was not permitted to jump on the sheltie's back because she passed by while he was inhaling...I mean... eating...... He quickly learned basic commands, and wore his new collar with rabies tag and ID tag with pride. He shed out his old coat and the new coat was thick and shiny.
I put an ad in the paper for someone to adopt him.
Several days later, while we were eating dinner, I took a call from a woman who was looking to replace a dog she had recently lost due to old age. It sounded like an ideal home. I took reference names and told her I would get back to her. When I hung up my husband just looked at me.
"How will we ever know he is being treated properly in another home?" he asked.
I called the lady back and told her that my husband had decided to keep Tommy as his own dog.
"He's not my dog."
"My dog wouldn't do that," my husband protested until I showed him the damage.
And then the pieces de resistance came. We were sitting in the den with all three dogs and three of our cats. Tommy was play barking, trying to get one of the cats to play with him. My husband looked at him, and said, in his sweetest voice,
"Tommy, Daddy doesn't like it when you bark at the kitty."
I fell off the couch, laughing until I couldn't breathe. The cat man had been converted.
Here are Dax, Maggie and Tommy, at play in May, 1998:
Tommy demonstrates the joy of the hug to newcomer Robbie, a rescue Sheltie who came to live with us on 7/11/98. (Not one of the two 'next generation' dogs.
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