You may or may not know I recently lost my Australian Shepherd, Woody, recently to cancer. It was sudden, a staggering blow. He was thirteen, but my other Aussie lived to be fifteen or sixteen, so I thought we had time.
As part of my healing, I decided I needed a new dog, one who would guilt me like Woody did in his youth and make me get off my butt and away from the computer and explore the world beyond my yard. A dog slightly bigger than small and smaller than medium. Something I could pass off as an apartment dog, yet one who needed more exercise than an apartment allows.
After studying the dogs in local shelters through Craigslist and Petfinder, I set out one day to find my new partner. I was not ready for the sad eyes and longing whines. Purebred German Shepherds of later years, elderly rottweilers, and hoards of pit bulls filled the runs, none of them understanding how a recession had changed their lives. None understanding how a recession made slim their chances of finding new homes. I tried to hover over the small dog runs, but so was everyone else. I went home to think some more.
The next day I was prepared to go back and focus on the smaller dogs. No Chihuahuas for me, and nothing so ugly I wouldn’t want to be seen with it. I’m sorry, I admit it, I am vain about my dogs! I already have a Chihuahua-terrier mix with an under bite and a cowlick on his nose that resembles a rhinoceros horn. I’ve done my canine duty with him, now I want something that doesn’t make people say “Ohhh,” in pity.
The cute and fluffy dogs were the focus of everyone else looking at small dogs. No one wanted the Chihuahuas or the other tiny plain dogs. I couldn’t be swayed in my need for exercise, though, so I kept looking.
I kept returning to a pen with a smaller than medium-size male and female brother and sister about a year old. They were black with wiry coats of dubious parentage. He was the size of a large beagle, she was smaller and finer boned. He’d been altered, she had not. That was the deciding point. He could come home that day and have the next day, a holiday, with me around to help him settle in.
He was aloof at first, and ignored the other dogs barking at him. I wanted a Velcro dog like Woody, one who worshipped me more than anyone else. As Jake settled in, he became a duck tape dog, smothering me with his need to be close!
And so began our relationship. Adopting an adult dog is a lot like jumping into the deep end of the dating pool. It had been several years since I dated, and several more since I had to get to know a new dog. I can only imagine that Jake felt the same when comparing me to his previous owner. The first clue was the incredulous look on his face when my other dog jumped up on the bed. Jake looked up from the dog bed like, “We can do that here?” He promptly followed suit.
As I got to know Jake’s idiosyncrasies, I couldn’t help but think about how we compare our new partner to the past ones.
“My last dog knew to put the seat down.”
“My last dog didn’t snore loud enough to rattle the rafters.”
Soon, though, I was seeing the new guy for who he is. “He knows how to sit. He’s been in a relationship before.” “He doesn’t know how to lie down. Must have been a casual relationship.”
Then, at some point, so subtle that I didn’t even notice it, we fall into step with each other. I rolled over in bed and he followed. I opened the car door and he waited for me to take his leash before flying out. At walk time, he danced between me and the leash drawer.
We were speaking the same language. I looked for his face when I came home, not the last dog. I relaxed and wore fat jeans and ate ice cream out of the container.
The bond had grown strong enough that I no longer threatened to throw him back in the dating kennel, er, pool, when he ate the last of the Ben & Jerry’s triple fudge brownie. I knew come good or bad, come fleas or kennel cough, we would work it out together somehow.
At some point you automatically put down the toilet seat before you sit and hide an extra pint of B&J in the back of the freezer. You find yourself buying the stinky liver treats that you know are his favorites, but will mean stinky liver kisses at bedtime.
I’m still learning not to leave the Blackberry on “his” nightstand. He’s still considering not chewing whatever I last touched. When the new phone (one capable of ringing) arrives, I’ve cleared a spot on a tall piece of furniture where it can charge. I know there will be more lover’s quarrels down the road, just as I know there will be kisses waiting when I get home.
And we’ll continue to grow more like each other, ‘til death do us part.
