I wasn’t planning on getting a dog, I really wasn’t.
I started volunteering at the animal shelter up the road, walking the dogs and showing them attention, putting out adds for them, so forth. I have afternoons free, the woman who runs the shelter is a cheerful grandmotherly woman with tattoos of dogs on her forearms and a need for more hands on deck, and I liked the work, so why not? It’s good to do good. I wasn’t going to bring one home. Commitment overwhelms me at times and I owned a dog when I was younger and it went sour, the drunken roommate packing up on day and taking off with it, me feeling guilty for not chasing him down and beating him soundly; I figured that was reason enough to assume I’d suck at pet owning and that working at the shelter was where I would draw the line. Animals are expensive and it’s not like I have the luxury of living with my parents who would pay for a majority of everything and clean up the poo, data data data, etc. You get the idea. I listed my mental reasons as I worked and petted and cooed and tried to ignore my heartstrings being tugged. The older I get, the more rational my mind tries to be, making what-if lists so I’m a little more cautious, a little less broke.
And then one day I stroll in and there in the back is this little old plump beagle curled up in a lonely ball in the back of her cage, wearing a collar. I checked her charts and discovered she didn’t even have a name, just a number. I decided to walk her first to introduce myself and she flung herself crying into my arms the moment her door was opened. Matt was next to me and he kept wincing; the sound was awful and he wanted me to put her back, but she kept trying to crawl up into my lap and well, fuck it, I’m not heartless. The moment we were outside she was all business, doing her beagle curtsy for a nice long pee and then the obligatory sniffing of everything, everywhere. Every time I leaned down though, she’d instantly stop what she was doing and come prop herself up on my knees, leaning her head on my chest. It was strangely endearing. While doing this, I noticed she was wearing a shock collar, and it had been put on so tight the prongs were starting to grow into her neck. I took it off right away and passed it off to one of the others workers and haven’t seen the damn thing since. She was so dirty but so pretty, a rich cinnamon color with black fur on her back and a little white dusting her nose. When I went to put her back, she went obediently right into her cage, and I thought, what a nice little dog, and went to work elsewhere.
I came back two days later, and the moment I turned the corner, she must have smelled me or something, but she went from a ball to a dancing blur at the door of her cage, and the next thing I knew I was outside with her again and she was so happy in the sunshine. I wasn’t going to bring this filthy, pretty little dog home, I told Matt after we left. Expenses and me being a fuckwad and him having no dog experience and her probably turning into a total nutjob after the second week, eating panties and stuff, it was totally a bad idea. Of course, I couldn’t sleep that night, because I kept imagining giving her a bath. And her getting put down.
See, the South is ridden with kill shelters: there are simply too many animals, and the shelter I volunteer for is always, always, always full, and the fuller they get, the more they have to put animals down, especially the ones nobody takes a second look at. Younger dogs have the best bid at being adopted (who doesn’t love puppies), older dogs have maybe a 50% chance depending on size and breed and looks, and seniors are usually dead the second they walk in the door, as are bully breeds such as pits and boxers. It sucks. It really fucking sucks. Like I’ve gone home crying more than once, it really fucking sucks. There are good animals in there with no chance because they’re older, or bigger, or funny-looking, and people don’t want that.
The next day I ended up asking Badass Grandma Lady what she thought the chances were for the beagle, figuring they were good, because hey, she’s cute, and well behaved, and not so old. Apparently not. Apparently being 6 or 7 is a little too old, no matter how cute, and nobody had taken much of a shine to her, and seeing as how the place had just gotten nearly 20 new animals, the odds were looking worse as each day passed. She was being frank with me, which I appreciated, and I could tell she was also a little sad; she explained she loved beagles, loved loved love beagles, but already had seven at home (good God) and was at maximum capacity. I said I understood and went home. I made dinner. We ate dinner. I rationalized. Matt did dishes. I envisioned woofing and pee puddles and drool. I raided the cupboard for cookies. And then I started imagining nose kisses and tail wagging and one less dog for the pound to euthanize, and me being a little less rational and therefore selfish and a little more open to pee puddles and nose kisses and, undoubtedly, a whole lot of love.
Needless to say, I ended up back at the shelter five minutes before they closed and I filled out all her paperwork in a heartbeat. She was taken off the kill list and fixed the following day. The day we brought her home she waddled right into her new red plaid bed and passed out with a contended sigh, and it struck me just how fitting she looked, and how automatically natural she felt with us.
And she’s been perfect. No, seriously, this dog is fucking awesome. And there’s been pee puddles (only a few) and there’s been woofing, and so so so so many nose kisses and cuddles and silly antics and awesome walks and an argument with a groomer and getting into the trash and sleeping between me and my fiance thus negating any option of sex and really great mornings where you wake up next to someone so happy to see you they wag their butt and, yeah man. This little, dirty dog ripped the heart out of my chest and buried it in the yard and that’s fine, because I’m so happy to have her I couldn’t care less. She’s such a sweet, affectionate, patient little mush, and I can’t believe how much I tried to rationalize myself out of falling completely and irrevocably in love. Even Matt can’t get enough of her, and you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a 6 foot muscular NCO come home from screaming at soldiers all day and drop to his knees all soppy because the dog met him at the door. We are pathetic with love and this little rescue has us in her paws, and to the asshole that abandoned her, you’re really missing out.
But thanks, because we can’t imagine life without her, and we’re going to do everything in our power to make sure she’s never left without love and blankets and a good scratch ever again.
Darcy has come home.
