The Dog Blog

After having spent several days doodle-adjacent, David proclaims: “It’s time to get another dog!!” Though I haven’t met the dog myself, I am immediately onboard.

If they remade Desperately Seeking Susan into a movie about a middle-aged woman desperately seeking animals, I’d be be on the poster, leaning against the legal limit of animals that can participate on a photo shoot.

A true zoophilist, I am an animal approacher – on the street, in the forest, underwater. In 2008, when our family updated our shots prior to a jaunt to the Dominican Republic, the nurse laid a sternly weighted look upon eight-year-old Rissa. She then said, “There will be dogs on the beach, it’s really important not to go up to them, okay?” Rissa turned to me. “Did you hear what the nurse, said, Mummy?”

In spite of my reputation, there’s been a single incident where I’ve been bitten by a dog (totally my fault), and… I’ve only needed rabies shots once.

It’s been ten looooooooong years since we’ve shared our home with a pooch. We’ve had two senior shepherd/husky crosses: Sheta, from 2005 – 2007 and Bhodi, from 2014-2015. Lovely, lying around the house, low-maintenance dogs – good with kids, good with cats – both quickly became that crucial canine member of our household.

Now that David and I are on the same page, I swan dive into rabbit holes brimming with senior dog rescues websites. As my hyper-focus kicks in, I spend DAYS looking at photos of the most adorable animals to be found on the internet. In March, we apply for seven dogs through Happy’s Place Retirement Home for Dogs – a rescue for senior dogs based in Ontario, Canada. We apply for Scout, Rocky, Bella, Holly, Gino, Chevy and Mary-Jane. Though we rock the initial interviews and our vet vouches for us, we never get chosen by a foster family to interview further. My shoulders slump each time I open the politely worded email, “After careful consideration and reviewing many great applications, the foster family has selected another applicant.” The hairline fracture in my heart gets that little bit wider.

“That’s it!” I say, after finding out that Mary-Jane’s foster family went a different route. “No more online applications and falling in love with a photo! No more! I can’t take it! We are going to keep an eye out at local shelters and see what happens. If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen.” David, sitting beside me, and Rissa, via video call, nod sagely, agreeing that this course of action will be most beneficial for my emotional well-being.

The next day…

I vow that I will not get invested this time. I will not give this dog further nicknames. I will not get lost in his perfect eyes.

We hear nothing all week. Then, on Saturday, as we’re driving along the 401, we get a call from the foster mom. We chat for 15 minutes on speaker. Noon the next day, she calls us. “If you want him, he’s yours.”

The speed with which we leave the house looks CGI’d. We throw an old blanket in the backseat, grab a Tupperware container, fill a water bottle and buckle up. We drive three hours to London, ON. We stop and buy dog treats, a dog bed, a few toys and a double pack balls before we meet the foster mom at a park. At approximately 4:55pm on Sunday, April 6th, we are introduced to Scratchy.

He exceeds all expectations.

After spending 30 minutes walking him and asking the foster mom every question we can think of, we load Scratchy’s dogfood into the trunk and encourage him into the back seat of our car.

Having met us just 30 minutes before, it’s understandable that Scratchy is not super-psyched that two strangers seem to be dognapping him. As I sit beside him in the backseat, he whimpers and shakes. To me, his vocalizations translate as: “Who are you?? I don’t know you! Why are taking me away from my new mom?”

I meet David’s eyes in the rearview mirror. We share the same haunted expression.

This is why people should get a local rescue. If the rescue is within an hour’s drive, then the adoptive family could come visit the dog. That dog could get to know these new humans over several days or weeks and then, when said dog is put into a backseat – he’s not with strangers – he’s with already known quantities. He’s with friends.

One and a quarter hours into the drive home, Scratchy’s emotional bandwidth gives out. He falls asleep with his head in my lap.

And hour later, he wakes up in the dark. The whimpering and shaking begins anew. We turn on the overhead light and remind him where he is, and with whom. Our hairy toddler doesn’t seem impressed. “I still don’t know you. You’re still not my mom.”

The trip home takes us three hours and twenty-five minutes and two travel plazas stops. When the car stops in our driveway, Scratchy leaps out, wild-eyed and uncertain. We introduce him to the sights and smells of our neighbourhood before holding open the front door and inviting him into the house.

We are greeted by our cats, Steve and Lola who quickly posit that a canine invasion is in progress. They immediately seek higher ground. Indifferent to the existence of the cats, Scratchy plods around the main floor, snuffling out uneaten kitty kibble. His foster mom was right – he has zero prey drive. (This is confirmed when he ignores squirrels/rabbits in our yard and on subsequent walks.)

David and I head to the living room – Scratchy shadowing us. We might not be his mom, but he sure as shit doesn’t want to be alone in a strange room. Scratchy flops down on the carpet with a beleaguered sigh.

“Important decision,” says David. “Will the dog be allowed on the furniture?”

The lift of my eyebrows kisses the ceiling. None of our dogs have been allowed on the furniture. “No, of course not,” I scoff.

My dog-free furniture resolution shatters within three minutes. Scratchy just looks so lonely on the carpet. He’s had a traumatic day. At least that’s what I tell him as I grab a quilt to protect the faux velvet seat cushions.

I’m not a person who babytalks to animals. Unless it’s done ironically. I broke up with a boyfriend after I heard him doing it. Imagine my chagrin when the treacly phrase “Whooose a goooood boy?” oozes from my lips. “Come on up, buddy. You’re such a gooooood boy!” I can’t help myself. Sir Scratch is perfect.

“Wow,” says David. “You’re going all in.”

I am. I have. I will continue to do so.