I once took someone else’s dog.
There was no dognapping, per se. More like abetting in a self-rescue.
I’ve always had a ridiculously strong urge to nurture animals. Unlike my brother, who had one stuffed animal his whole childhood, I had about 86. Plus Bear, Bucky, Taffy, Pebbles, and Tippy- they were our real dogs. I’d smother them with love, sit in the dirt by their dog house and sing to them, and beg for them to be allowed inside the house (they never were, not even when it rained).
We got each one as a puppy. A few years would go by and, well… the life of a country dog tends to be short. We’d lose one, I’d be devastated, then Dad would bring home another one.
Back to the dog I once took, though…
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It’s Christmas Eve. I’m busy cooking. Family is arriving soon. The kids are rattling the presents under the tree.
My husband is stuck at a job site. Literally stuck. An excavator is on the way but he’ll be late. It’s nearly dark. The house lights on the timer come on and there’s festive twinkling from the kitchen window.
Needing something from the refrigerator in the garage, I open the kitchen door. Standing there next to the tub of muddy shoes is a tiny black dog.
My instinct is to squeal in delight and call it a Christmas gift from the Christmas angel himself. But I force myself to take it down ten notches.
“Merry Christmas,” I say calmly. “What are you doing here?”
It wags its tail and excitedly walks around in circles, dragging a dirty frayed rope still attached to its neck. I bend down slowly, and it cowers. It is mangy. After a few minutes, I pick it up and bring it inside.
It is a he, and we instantly fall in love with him. He gets showered with affection from the kids while I get a small bowl of leftover chicken soup. He downs the meal and then curls up on a towel in the laundry room.
Later that night after company leaves, I give him a warm bath and dry him off, then make up a fresh bed with a fluffy blanket.
“We are NOT keeping him,” my husband reminds me for the tenth time.
The next day, we put the little dog outside with our big dogs. After some initial sniffing, it’s as if he’s always been part of the pack.
More family come over. The day is busy and when I finally check on him that evening, he is gone. We decide he slipped through the wide slats on the fence.
It’s cold out and the coyotes have been extra loud. We’re all sad and worried about our new friend.
Except my husband. Neither the cold nor the coyotes are legitimate concerns-
“He’s a dog. He’ll be fine,” he says.
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Spring comes and we tidy up the yard for an Easter gathering. Family is coming over again.
I hear the kids yell, “He’s back!”
I head toward the front of the house.
It’s the little black dog, once again mangy, skinny and dragging a ragged rope he has chewed through. This time, he has a shabby blue collar, but still no tags.
He’s shy at first, so we try not to overwhelm him. Then he reunites with our other dogs. They greet him like an old friend returning home from battle, and he jumps around barking short happy woofs.
Of course we pick him up. Of course we give him a meal fit for a king.
We spend the day outside. He’s an instant hit with cousins, aunties and uncles. That night, he snuggles up on the patio next to our dogs.
We name him Felix after my 90-year-old grandpa.
“We’re NOT keeping him,” my husband reminds me.
“I know,” I say. “But, don’t you think it’s interesting he came on Christmas and now Easter of all days? I’m just saying… the angels have their ways.”
He shakes his head.
I take him to the vet the next day for a quick scan.
“No microchip,” the assistant tells me.
I feel a tad hopeful that maybe, just maybe, there is potential for him to be a permanent resident. He’s sweet and spunky. He doesn’t demand attention. He’s small, so he doesn’t eat much…
But, two days later, he’s gone again.
We’re sadder this time and we pray he stays safe.
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He comes again in May on our daughter’s birthday, but only briefly. I see him running down our gravel driveway. I pull over and call for him. He rides the rest of the way to the house on my lap and follows me around while I unload groceries. He watches me bake a birthday cake. He comes with me to feed the corral animals.
But then he’s off again. I spot his black tail dashing toward the vineyard.
“Be safe, Friend!” I yell after him, feeling my heartstrings being tugged again.
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The final visit comes the morning after Halloween, on All Saints Day. We find him curled up on our front porch, wet and shivering.
As he eats his welcome meal, I decide I’ve had enough. Time for a heart-to-heart.
“I can’t take this coming and going and worrying. Brings back too many memories. All the dogs I lost when I was a kid. We need to figure out a permanent solution!”
He stops eating and looks up at me.
I call rescue centers, but they all say the same thing- “You’ll need to foster him until we can find a placement, probably three to five months. If you can adopt him yourself, that would be the best solution.”
It’s like a nod from above.
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“He’s a Terrier, probably a Yorkie mix. About three or four years old. Six pounds. Where did you find him?” our veterinarian asks.
“He keeps coming to our house, and sometimes he’s dragging a rope,” I say.
“It’s a miracle the coyotes haven’t gotten him out here,” he says. “Whoever ties him up doesn’t take care of him. He’s below normal weight and his hair is in bad shape. He has a double ear infection and a slight fever. Also, fleas and tics. And, he needs to be neutered, which will be more complicated than usual because he has a condition called…”
I leave the Vet with two medications, the name of a groomer, and a cost estimate for surgery.
Later that night, I recap the day’s events with my husband and prepare to go to bat for Felix.
He surprises the whole family by saying, “He’s a fighter. Look how determined he is. The right thing to do is to get him healthy. Then we can decide if we’re going to keep him or find him a home,” he says.
But all that talk about deciding is just jargon. The decision has already been made. Call it fate or faith or crazy… the scraggly black stray managed to earn my husband’s respect.
A few days later, I get our dogs ready for their daily walk and kneel by Felix.
“Now listen, I will not tolerate all this running away business. You can’t fit through the slats of our new fence, but I’m not going to have a dog who would run away if he got the chance. You’re either part of the pack or you’re not. I’m not putting a leash on you. If you run off, then I’ll know you’re not meant to live here. You got one chance to prove yourself,” I say, knowing my husband would be rolling his eyes if he heard me.
Felix stays right next to my left ankle the entire walk.
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A year later, the dogs and I are walking again. We’re almost home when I hear a car slow down behind me. I glance back at a blue van. Our road is usually quiet and I’ve never seen this car before.
It stops alongside me and the driver gestures for me to come over. But I still have a healthy amount of 1980s “Stranger Danger” paranoia left over from the 1980s that directly involves vans of all kinds. So, I ignore her and turn into my driveway. She says something I cannot understand. Then I hear “dog” and glance back again to see her point at Felix.
And I instantly know.
I keep walking toward our house, feeling like someone just flipped on the Mama Bear switch.
If she thinks she’s going to take Felix back, she’s got another thing coming. Treating him that way. How dare she? Maybe she’d like to see the vet bills.
The next day while I’m at the grocery store, our daughter calls.
“Mom, some lady is knocking on our door,” she asks.
“Don’t answer it. What kind of car does she have?” I say, already knowing the answer.
“A blue van. She has short black hair,” my daughter says.
“It’s the person who had Felix,” I say.
“What are you going to do? She knows where we live,” the panic in her voice takes me back to childhood, back to all the times my parents delivered bad news about one of our dogs or I’d see a gloomy commercial on TV asking for donations for abused animals.
Back then, there was nothing I could do about it. Sometimes, there is nothing you can do.
But sometimes there is.
I know she won’t do anything. Felix was determined to find a better life, and he did. It was divine intervention. And that’s the end of that.
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That was seven years ago. The lady never came back and Felix never tried to run away, not even when those pesky kittens took over his blanket.
He has fewer teeth and a lot of gray hair now, but he still takes nightly walks. He still gets leftover chicken soup. He’s said goodbye to three college-bound kids and welcomes them back home when they visit.
And every night, he sits next to my husband in the recliner.
Oh how I love this story. Beautifully written too. What a cutie!