Animal Kingdom « moonfun.net

Puppy Takeover

Sweet Leo

Returned to volunteer at Animal Haven after skipping a week and the shelter is swarming with puppies. I walked five pups, one after the other. I was never quite sure who was on the end of my leash. Later, I figured my guys must have been Alan Stuart, Montauk, Hampton I think, Moses and one sweet fellow who I can’t find on the Animal Have website.

The puppy room is full; corrals are doubled-up with puppies and the big sometimes-puppy room-sometimes I-need-to-be-alone room is now a dormitory with puppies and smaller adult dogs.

Between customers, puppies and clean-ups, I didn’t have a chance to give my latest favorite, Leo, a squeeze. Sweet Leo looks so forlorn. Before my shift is over, someone had wrapped his neck in a squishy blue cone. What ailment are you suffering, Leo?

I want to snatch him up and take him home, but that is for someone else to do.

Cha Cha and Bubbles Find Homes

Cha Cha Gets Adopted

For every crooked pot, there’s a crooked lid, my mother used to tell me. In what context did my mother impart that wisdom? Was I not invited to a grade-school dance? I don’t remember the situation but I always remember the words.

A few crooked canine pots pass through Animal Haven’s doors. Thankfully, their crooked lids usually show up in the store sooner rather than later.

But no dog waited longer for her matching lid than Cha Cha.

Okay, Cha Cha is huge and New York apartments are small. Okay, Cha Cha can destruct the indestructible. But what about the love, man? Staff and volunteers remained mystified, as month after month the gentle giant continued to be passed over.

I sensed a growing feeling at the shelter that Cha Cha would just remain senior-dog-in-residence forever. Even after she was featured in NY1′s In the Papers segment, no takers appeared. I was sure that the publicity would incite a wave of adoption applications.

Bubbles

A Champagne Toast to Bubbles

Compared to Cha Cha, Bubbles sailed in and out of the shelter. But I worried that the Bubbly might wait awhile for a prospective adopter to see the good deep-down.

Bubbles wore her heart on her sleeve when she should have played a little hard to get. Her separation anxiety manifested itself into ceaseless barking and her bunkmates surely got an earful.

I can image their advice to her:

—Just act coy, Bubbles!

—Live up to your name, Bubbles. More effusiveness, less desperation!

—Just put on a little lipstick!

Cheers to the folks who took these girls in their hearts and gave them a home.

A Yankee Poodle Heads South

Yankee, Before Grooming

—Your mother wants that?

I am holding Abagail who looks fragile and frightened. Pink skinned, almost hairless after a serious grooming, the little poodle has a sad-sack aura about her. Red tear stains cover most of her face and her paws.

But the comment by a tactless neighbor stings and I feel defensive.

I explain to the woman that Abagail was rescued from a puppy mill. My mother adopted her and I would be bringing Abagail to Maryland to meet her new parents.

Of course my mother wants that. She kept us kids didn’t she? She never made us feel ugly or pathetic even around age 11 or 12 when I may not have been ugly, but certainly awkward and pathetic.

A Smidgen of Doubt

It’s the night before our four-hour drive from New York to Maryland. Gene and I are coping with Abby’s nervous energy. She pees on the rug twice before we put her in a crate. She alternates between cowering in the crate and running in circles through the apartment. She is low to the ground and runs with a rat-like furtiveness.

I have a pang of doubt.

Abagail exhibits the behaviors typical of a puppy-mill dog who has spent her life neglected and cooped up. She will need a lotta love to get over her nervousness. Gene has been playing Neil Young’s version of Lotta Love the last few days and the song is stuck in my head.

A Good Sign

In the morning, I walk Shadow, my newly adopted dog, along South End Avenue. We run into the girl who recognized Shadow from the Animal Haven website the moment Shadow and I stepped out of the car together two months ago. I took the girl’s recognition as the first sign that Shadow belonged to us.

I take running into that girl again for the first time since then as a good omen for Abagail’s future.

On the hottest two days of the century, we are working out the logistics of picking up and loading up rental car, who is going to sit where and how we will keep the dogs safe and hydrated. But finally, we are on the road.

Homecoming

Was there any reason to doubt?

—Where’s my dog? are my mother’s first words after we pull up to my parents’ house.

We make a few attempts to dissuade her from rechristening the dog Yankee Poodle. I suggest Fuji, because it is an apple and represents Japan where we grew up. My brother John suggest Cubbie, because he is a Chicago Cubs fan. Gene suggests Yanko The Dentist after an obscure early 20th Century comic strip called Sherlocko The Monk. This idea is immediately dismissed. Yankee she will be. Yankee’s crate is in the center of the living room and Shadow lies beside her.

The conversation is dog, dog, dog—a fun night for dog people. A trip to Petsmart in the morning and my parents are ready to get on with the business of helping Yankee adapt to her forever home.

The Shadow Knows

Shadow At Home

Exactly how long did I think it would be before I brought some sweet pup home from the shelter?

It was thirty days exactly.

I intended to foster a few dogs, to feel the warm fuzzies of canine companionship in short spurts while giving a few animals a comfortable, loving rest stop on the way to their permanent homes.

I knew Shadow would be the first beneficiary of our care and affection the first time I walked her at the shelter. Big yet graceful, Shadow makes walking beside the stalled Soho traffic and its honking horns as mellow as a walk in the ‘burbs. She is mostly deaf so it makes sense that she is unfazed by the noise.

She is house-trained and her house-training is deeply ingrained. Gene and I have experience un-house training and want to avoid the difficulty of re-house training. In this respect, Shadow is perfect.

June 6—D-Day—Shadow and I pull up to our apartment with her riding like a pro beside me in the back seat. I see Gene’s heart melt a bit when he first lays eyes on her. He claims indigestion. We step onto the curb and a woman calls out, “Is that Shadow?” What, a sign? Already?

We walk Shadow in her “Adopt Me” vest for about a week. The vest’s blaze orange draws attention but no takers. Soon it becomes too much of a pain to put the vest on. She likes long strolls through the neighborhood and I find it no trouble to set my morning alarm 45 minutes early.

We discuss adopting her ourselves, but we worry because she is seven at least, and flatulent. How long would we have her? But slowly, we realize she is not the only beneficiary in this deal.

Today I let the shelter know our intention. They knew all along, or were hoping anyway. Though the deal is not yet sealed, I go right to my Orvis bookmark and order the top-of-the-line memory foam bed I picked out last week. That’s commitment.

Animal Shelter: Meet the Ladies

Picture of Lily

When I volunteer Fridays at 6:00 pm, final walks and final cleaning are the main agenda and we work fast. Walk any “Green” dog, the staffer says. (green = easy)

I leash up a newcomer, a pudgy, four-year-old Beagle, yet unnamed. A. says she calls her “Lady.”

“Lady” isn’t too interested in the challenge of the staircase.

—But that’s the only way out, sweetheart.

If she were any larger, I wouldn’t attempt to pick her up. But I do, and I carry her up the stairs.

—Lady, you just made the weight limit.

Lady and I walk down Centre Street, then cross Howard Street. Lady picks up steam in the crosswalk and I am grateful. Every SoHo street is busy. After starting up Lafayette Street, Lady tires in the home stretch. Standing still suits her just fine. With encouragement, we make it back home.

I put the Beagle in her corral and she launches a heart-breaking wimper.

A. tells me to walk Natasha next, so I head down the back aisle to find her. Natasha is in the corner corral, the one with the door too high to see over. Natasha’s info doesn’t indicate a color, but if A. told me to walk her, she must be a green dog. A. said Natasha, right? Right.

What if there is a big feisty brute behind that tall door?

I open the corral door and a small happy black puppy, maybe four or five months old, tells me she is very happy to see me. Her leashed up, with treats in my pocket, Natasha and I hit the SoHo streets. I give her a treat just for being adorable. Natasha never forgets for a second that I have treats in my pocket.

—It will take a lot of treats to grow into my big paws, she says.

I return for Lily, a small rambunctious Shepard Mix. She has one bloodshot eye, probably not from Lasik surgery. Her head is all brown-and-black and her body is solid white, like the head was pasted on the wrong body.

Lily is a handful. Forget the stairs, she wants to grab the leash, taste my sneakers and chew my pant leg. Lily and I struggle to make it down Centre Street. That is, I struggle. Lily could care less. But once we turn the corner onto Grand Street, we figuratively turn the corner as well. Lily’s walking improves.

—Dear God, she just stuck her head through the fencing around that tree.

Lily slips her head back out easily. Relief.

—Lily, you are not going near those fenced trees again.

I get help harnessing big, red Clifford. With a harness and two leashes, I feel like Clifford is a pony and I am the sleigh. This is my second walk with Clifford and I am much more comfortable with him today.

I check the AH website over the weekend. Nick is adopted. Natasha is adopted. Myrtle is adopted. Clifford, too.

Lily and Lucy—I’ll see you next week.

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