The Servant's Quarters

I know I'm a sentimental sap, but this is ridiculous.

Ok, it seems that Rita and I managed to get a new dog. That is, in addition to the huge monster we already own.

A couple of Sundays ago, I was sitting in our family room, enjoying the latest episode of Ax Men on the History Channel. (Olivia had the line of the day. From another room, she yelled, "Hey Dad, what are you watching? It sounds like you've got a heart monitor going in there!" Ah yes. Those lumberjacks. How they do love their F-bombs.) At the time, Walker was out in the yard taking care of business. As I watched the TV, I noticed a strange dog that I had never seen before coming into view through our door wall. She was a yellow lab, walking very slowly. As she passed by, I couldn't help noticing that Walker was aware of her, too. In fact, he was bringing up the rear. I mean, he was really bringing up the rear. His nose was so far up her backside that I was afraid it would take a trip to the vet to get it out.

I jumped off the couch and was out the door in a second. I greeted her happily, and she likewise looked like she was happy to be paid attention to.

Some things were immediately obvious. She was very old. She was very fat. She had some kind of health problems going on because she couldn't catch her breath. She was panting incessantly. Her toe nails had never been clipped. They were incredibly long and curved back in on themselves. Worse of all, she smelled horribly. Like a barnyard. Total scent of dog poop.

Still I stroked her head and talked to her. She seemed to like my attention, but she was on the move. She wanted to leave. I ran into the house and got a dog bisquit, hoping that some food would convince that maybe she should hang around for a while. She refused the offer. While I followed her around the neighborhood, I yelled for Philip to bring me a collar and leash so I could get her under control. He took a long while to find it, and while she was moving pretty slow, she still managed to give me the slip. When Phil returned, we managed to find her again in short order. She hadn't gone far.

We brought her around to the front of our house, where we offered her some water, which she gratefully accepted. Then she plopped down in the shadow of our car while we discussed what to do with her. We called the police. Bad news. The animal control officer was off for the weekend and none of the other officers could transport animals. The woman I spoke to suggested that if I would transport the old girl myself, she would arrange for an officer to meet me at the shelter.

No way. I'm not letting that stinky beast in my car.

But we had to choose. Either keep her for the night ourselves or take her to the shelter.

Neither sounded good to me. So, I set off with my new girl for a little walk. I knew she didn't live on my street, so we went a block over. This took a while because she plodded along very slowly. I asked everyone I met if they knew who she was. Everyone told me that they didn't recognize her and had not seen her around before today. Not promising. I knew there was a house down the street that used to have a big, fat yellow dog, so I headed in that direction. However, it became clear that we were not going to make it there. The old girl was just panting and working too hard. So, I decided to take her back home.

When we got there, Rita suggested that we let her spend the night in our garage. Maybe in the morning, the owner would come around looking for her. No way, I said. We already had one dog on the premises. I didn't think it was fair to Walker, and I thought that making her sleep in the garage was kind of mean. (Told you I was a sap.) So, I put some towels in my backseat and decided to drive the old girl to the shelter.

It made me sad to see her reaction. When she saw that she was going for a car ride, she got so excited. Her tail started working like crazy. The look of joy on her face was unmistakeable. She struggled to climb up onto the seat, and once she did, she plopped down like a queen. Rita and I were both touched by it. Obviously, she was a loved dog, even though she hadn't been well cared for. Rita said, "She still has her smile."

I drove the 10 minutes to the shelter, talking to my girl all the way. We arrived and waited a few minutes. We walked around. I bent over and talked to her. She wagged her tail.

When the officers arrived, they interviewed me for a few minutes, wanting to know my name and address. They asked me how I found the dog and what I had done. I felt a little like a criminal, and it wasn't until afterwards that I thought that they may have thought that I was just dumping my own pet for the city to deal with.

Inside the building, a cage was all ready for my dog. They had food and water for her, and a door in the wall led to an outside kennel. They officers told me to put her in the cage myself. They wouldn't help. She didn't want to go in. I had to force her inside. Finally, she surrendered, and we shut the door behind her.

It was done, and I left. As I drove home, I couldn't escape the feelings of sadness.

The next day on my way home from work, I swung by the shelter to check on my girl. I was disappointed to see that the outdoor kennels were completely walled off by a privacy fence. I had to peek through the cracks to look in at her. There she was. I couldn't tell if she had been cleaned up or had her nails clipped, but she definitely looked more spry than she had the day before. When she heard my voice, she started loudly barking. Yup, I think prison life was agreeing with her.

The animal control officer, a fellow named Jim, came out outside to see who was stirring up his dogs. I introduced myself and told him why I was there. He seemed to genuinely appreciate me driving the old girl to the shelter and my continuing interest in her. I was delighted to hear that a whopping 80% of dogs at the shelter are reunited with their owners. Maybe there was hope for my dog after all. I was also happy to hear that after at least 7 days (or more if the police think there's hope that the owner may show up), the dogs are sent to the Humane Society to be considered for adoption. (I had thought that unclaimed dogs were actually destroyed at the shelter.) Only those dogs who couldn't be adopted from there were put to sleep. (I took comfort in this, even though I knew that my old, tired friend would never be adopted out.)

I continued to stop by every day on my way home from work. The other dogs came and went, by my old girl was still there on Friday afternoon. I called to her from the fence. She didn't bark but looked at me curiously.

On Monday, I stopped by again. I knew she probably wouldn't be there, but I didn't want to miss a chance to see her again just in case. Her kennel door was still open, which means that someone was home. (The others were all closed and unoccupied.) I called. Nothing stirred. I tried to get a better angle to see if I could peer in and see a hint of her yellow fur. Nothing. Well, at least someone was home. Maybe she was still at the shelter....

Tuesday, I returned. The door to the kennel was still open. "Hey, girl!" I yelled.

A muzzled face looked out of the dog house at me.

It was covered in black fir.

My girl was gone. She had probably moved onto the Humane Society the day before. In fact, in all probability, she had probably been euthanized the day before, too. No one would want to adopt an old, fat dog in poor health.

I stood at the fence for a minute. It wasn't a shock. It wasn't a tragedy. It was probably for the best. But that feeling of sadness was back.

"Goodbye, girl," I muttered under my breath.

I put back on my sunglasses, got in my car, and headed for home.

My dog, Walker, would be waiting there for me. And that made me very happy.