A couple of weeks ago, Karen and I went out looking for a new dog. It was time. Our little old Yorkshire, Lucky, who, I must admit, was terribly misnamed because she was anything but that, had gone on to greater rewards. She was a rescue dog and lived a hard life that left her, after 13 or 14 years, with one eye, bad teeth, an occasional limp and a rather intense dislike for big dogs.
At first we thought we’d just simplify our lives and skip having a dog. After all, we had a cat, Sooty, who, we thought, never much cared for Lucky and apparently seemed quite content to live on with us as an only child. The two did have a bit of a strange relationship. You could always find them, Lucky and Sooty, sitting within two feet of each other, facing in opposite directions, and pointedly ignoring each other. I shouldn’t be surprised, as I have known several people that have marriages like that, sort of a relationship of parallel hostility.
Perhaps, if we had a few grandchildren, we might have passed on getting a puppy. But since my sons don’t seem to be in any great rush to breed, it became apparent that the quickest short-term choice was a puppy, which Karen was dead-set against. We had just gotten two new couches and Karen said the first time the dog starts chewing the new couch, it’s going to be an ex-puppy, so we compromised. We went looking for a dog that was more than a puppy, but not yet full-grown. One that was partially trained, or at least partially house broken, and a rescue dog. So we began a Sunday pilgrimage, hitting the pet adoption shows on the west side.
If you like animals, this type of trek could break your heart. They’re all just waiting there, like kids in an orphanage, hoping for someone to choose them. You could easily take a dozen of them home. Worse yet were the ones in the shelter who were locked in solitary-like cages, like a doggy Pelican Bay, waiting for someone to touch them. On the front of the cages hung big signs that read, “Do not put your fingers in the cage, it spreads disease.” However, figuring I didn’t have any doggy diseases, and willing to risk catching one, I put my fingers into the cages. Most of the dogs licked my fingers, except for one chow/pit bull mix, who attempted to bite them off. I thought it was a bit much attitude for a potential adoptee. I suspected that dog was soon going to be sent down the aisle to the Green Room from which doggies do not return. But most of them seem to understand that they were on death row, and they did their damnedest to be charming. They gave you their most winning take-me-home act.
Then, on the last stop of the day at the Santa Monica shelter, I saw her. It was kismet. She was in a cage all by her self, quiet and a little bit shy, a female with limpid brown eyes, about seven months old. Shelter workers wouldn’t let me touch her because she wasn’t available until the following Sunday. So there I was, the next Sunday at 8 a.m., waiting for them to open up the shelter, lest anyone else slip in under my nose and grab her. They took her out, and we immediately bonded. The rest is, as they say, history.
Funny thing about a young dog. It’s sort of like a young child. It slows you down. She watches the birds, so you start seeing the birds again. She doesn’t walk, she just kind of meanders and sniffs, so you begin to meander and start seeing the flowers again. Life seems a little bit fresher and reinvigorated.
It’s hard to believe that a little dog can do that for you, but it must be something deep in our DNA, or their DNA, and it definitely works.
P.S. Her name is Ella, and her breed, well it’s sort of what we decided to call a “Malibu classic retriever” but I doubt that you’ll find the breed listed with the American Kennel Club.
