“Dogs’ lives are too short. Their only fault, really.” – Agnes Sligh Turnbull
Once upon a time, I met a guy, we fell in love, bought a house, and decided to take the next natural, albeit huge, step in our relationship.
We decided to adopt a dog. Well, look into adopting a dog, anyway. We planned on doing some window shopping at the Connecticut Humane Society. My then-boyfriend (now-husband), who has tried to convince himself for the 20+ years that we’ve been together that he is somehow in charge of things, made me repeat after him, “We are NOT getting a dog today. We are JUST looking.”
We were greeted by the friendly crew at the Humane Society and offered the chance to see the dogs and cats they had available for adoption. I saw one dog that I fell in love with right away; she reminded me of my very first dog, Ruby. Ruby was a beagle/collie mix, with a long snout and floppy ears and a beautiful soft coat and a similarly beautiful temperament. This dog looked so similar to Ruby and I just knew she was destined to be my new best friend.
We kept walking and looking, but none of the other dogs we saw really grabbed me. Then I saw a scrappy looking dog, with a wiry coat of black and grey fur, with some unusual brown striping. She was smallish, with these really intelligent eyes. She walked up to the door of her kennel, and when I said crouched down to say hi and offered her my hand, she looked at me with those wise eyes and gave me a tentative sniff and a gentle lick.
While my heart was still pulling me to the New Ruby, we asked if we could spend a few minutes with this particular pup. The Humane Society worker brought us into an office equipped with a desk, chair, computer and a couple of chairs, with a concrete floor and cinderblock walls. As I remember it, we were asked some questions and given some information. They asked if this dog would be the only other member of our family, because, as an energetic terrier, she needed to be. We weren’t even married yet, and truly hadn’t decided if we wanted children, so we shrugged and said, sure. They brought her in, and then left and closed the door behind them.
The sweet, shy dog who gave me the puppy dog eyes and sweetly licked my hand became a complete maniac the second that door closed. She started running between us, crashing into the walls, jumping on all of the furniture, tongue hanging out, refusing to be calmed, and then took a giant crap in the middle of the floor.
We looked at each other, wide-eyed, with this little Tasmanian devil of a dog bouncing between us, and started laughing. I shrugged, and said, well, she picked me…
We finished the interview process, during which we were assured that she would calm down once she was in a stable environment, and would certainly never be bigger than 35 pounds or so (this is what they call foreshadowing, folks), and we took our new pup and went on our way.
We decided to name her Ashley. Actually, I decided to name her Ashley, after my childhood best friend. See how “in charge” he is?
One of the first things a friend said, was “Look at the size of her paws, they’re HUGE. And she kind of looks like an Irish Wolfhound.” I was like, oh ha ha, you’re so funny. They TOLD US she was not going to grow much more. Plus, they called her a TERRIER.
Fast forward a year. Ashley never got the hang of leash walking, but loved other dogs, our friends and family, and tearing around the yard. She had also almost tripled in size, and going from 25 to 70 pounds, all long legs and muscle.
She had her favorites, for sure. She would greet the people she loved most at the door by running at us, full speed, grinning and snorting. Most of the time, we were able to dodge her assault and save our knees, which meant that she would go crashing headlong into the door.
Ashley truly lived as if she were a tiny dog; she charged and leapt at everything and everybody, leading to her nickname, “Smashley”. I called her Ashley Underfoot, because wherever I was, so was she, looking for belly rubs and snacks.
Ashley changed a bit once the kids came along. She was no longer everybody’s friend, and became quite protective of me and the girls. She didn’t want to know anyone she didn’t already know, and made that very clear.
With one, and then two young kids, I didn’t have the patience or time that I used to have with Ashley; she sunk all the way to the bottom of my priority list, and I considered her, more than once, quite a nuisance. We could no longer have people over without confining her, because she would either knock little ones over with her enthusiasm, or act hostile. The very worst moment came when Ashley met my future sister-in-law, who at one time worked in an actual zoo, and was very comfortable around animals of all kinds. She bent down to greet Ashley, at the very same moment Ashley leapt up to gave her a warning, and teeth met face. I was devastated and humiliated, my brother (rightly so) was completely pissed, but my SIL-to-be handled the incident with grace, aplomb, and forgiveness. To this day, if it ever comes up in conversation, she still treats it as no big deal.
But aside from the occasion that Ashley’s behavior needed to be managed, life continued along as usual. She never made the slightest hostile move toward my kids, she was always gentle with them and patiently waited by their chairs for them to drop food. She continued to curl up beneath my husband’s feet in his home office, wipe her face on the couches after she ate, charge the door at full speed, snorting and grinning, when it opened, startle herself when farting, eating anything she could manage to get to when no one was looking (which included an entire bowl of wrapped chocolates, all of the grease in the bottom of the turkey pan at Thanksgiving, half of a gingerbread house that had been painstakingly assembled by a 6 year old, and untold amounts of food that had fallen to the floor or were just lying on the table), and barking at every passing person, vehicle, squirrel and leaf blowing across the lawn.
And the years went on. Ashley continued to be a pain in the ass, but she was MY pain in the ass. I resigned myself to the fact that she was going to be with us for a long, long time, because mutt.
And of course, the inevitable. She was peculiarly low energy for a couple of days, but bounced back with a vengeance. Never lost her appetite, just seemed kind of…tired. Those eyes of hers locked with mine at me on a Friday afternoon, so I sat down on the floor and she scooted forward and put as much of herself as she could onto my lap. I snuggled her, which actually hadn’t happened for awhile between us (not to worry, she got plenty of loving from the kids). Then she seemed fine.
And then she wasn’t. Turned out that Ashley’s insides were riddled with cancer, which she had likely lived with for a while, until she just couldn’t any longer. She hung on to protect us, to love us, and to be loved by us. It wasn’t until that one particular week that she gave any indication that something was wrong.
As much as I grumbled that this dog was never going to die, she did. Well before I was ready. It’s been years, and sometimes, when I open the door, I find myself stopping for that split second, waiting to hear her paws scrabbling on the floor, waiting to see that silly grin, waiting to smell her breath and all her dogginess coming at me.
She lives on my mantel (well, her remains do); the cremation service also took a plaster paw print. Which, upon inspection, contained a tuft of her paw hair. Which just grossed me out to no end. I couldn’t throw it out, so that canister lives somewhere buried in the attic.
Since Ashley died, whenever the topic of getting another dog has come up, my stock response was that I wasn’t ready. The level of emotional pain I experienced when she died took me by surprise. That it also caused my kids pain just compounded my focus on the feelings of loss and sorrow that seem to be the inevitable part of being a pet owner.
All this to say, I’ve been feeling the pull lately. My two kids are now tween and teen-aged. The house is quieter, calmer. I feel it; this home is missing a dog. And my focus has shifted; yes, it was so painful to lose Ashley. But there were also those 12 years of joy, amusement, play, snuggles, care, and love.
Which, finally, brings me to my quest for information, and I’m hoping that you all can help me out. Currently, I live on a busy through-street with no sidewalks and barely a shoulder, and people drive by in excess of 10-20 mph over the speed limit. Cause people are jerks. My yard isn’t fenced and backs up to several acres of woods, which contain deer, bears, bobcats, foxes, coyotes, and probably Freddy Krueger. One of the things that I really feel like I failed at with Ashley was the ability to get her enough exercise, because she was a big dog with so much energy to expend.
So I suppose what I’m looking for is a smallish, medium energy dog, who doesn’t shed too much and has a calm and friendly disposition. I’m not looking for a purebred, and I’m not opposed to a senior dog, although I would prefer a younger dog, but maybe not a puppy? Is that like asking for a unicorn? I really don’t know. And cost…for perspective, when Ashley was adopted, it was $65, which included first round vaccines and spaying. From that to a fee of $350 or more that I see on some websites just gives me pause. However, I acknowledge that I am completely ignorant regarding the current structure and cost of running rescue/shelter organizations.
So please, educate me. What are your favorite organizations? What type of dog or mutt mix do you favor or recommend? What should I be wary of? Do you have preferred training methods or resources? What is a reasonable cost for adoption, and what level is too low or too high?
My brain can’t imagine loving a four-legged creature more or even as much as I loved Ashley. But my heart feels like it’s ready to do just that.
Until Next Time…
Just Breathe
The Twisted Maven
©The Twisted Maven, 2020