The Foster Chronicles: Old Dog, New Dog

[NatureJunkie]

I did not need to hear their side of the story. I couldn’t even imagine that there were circumstances that would let my own conscience get away with such a thing. In my mind, there was no possible justification for what these people were doing.

 

Before I left on my hundred-mile journey to pick up Mister, my latest foster dog, I was asked by the rescue organization if I would mind transporting a dog on my way. Terry was a 15-year-old dog who was being surrendered by a couple in Oakland. They had two dogs, and they had just bought a condo in Chicago where they would only be allowed to keep one pet. So they decided to keep the younger one.

 

And discard the older one, their friend of 15 years, like a used-up toy, I thought. When I called them to get directions and set up a time for the pick-up, I knew I wasn’t trying very hard to keep the edge of contempt out of my voice. I didn’t give a shit if they picked up on it.

 

Their neighborhood was an older terraced tract on steep hillsides. All of the houses had a flight of stairs serving as a porch, with small yards sloping either uphill or downhill, like mountain houses. Instead of stairs, this couple’s house had a bridge between the front door and the street. It was a wheelchair ramp.

 

They greeted me in a tight little front room. Terry slept soundly on the floor and didn’t flick a hair when I rang the doorbell. Is he deaf, I asked. No, they said, just a sound sleeper. The old man nudged Terry and Terry rose to meet me with slow enthusiasm. The dog had a limp, the old man explained, because he’d accidentally run over Terry’s paw the day before with his motorized cart.

 

The only furniture in the room was a hospital bed. Next to it was a hospital nightstand with all the things a sick person likes to have handy. But the old man had greeted me from his wheelchair. He was about two sizes too big for it, and it was a few moments before I realized that one of his pant legs was empty.

 

His wife came in shortly. She was nearly blind, and I realized after just a few minutes of talking to her that most of her memory and mental capacity had left her. But between the two of them, they told me Terry’s life story, and why they had to give him up.

 

The “condo” in Chicago was actually an assisted-living center, one that had amenities they needed to make their lives physically easier. They introduced me to Anna, the other dog that, unlike Terry, would be going with them. Anna was a lot smaller than Terry, easier to lift and handle than the old boy who was starting to need a lot of lifting and other care.

 

They gave me six full grocery bags of Terry’s “belongings.” Terry had been one pampered fella during his years with them. He owned bags and bags of expensive and whimsical dog toys, grooming equipment, hair products, and kosher dog food. They had treated and loved him well.

 

Up to the point I rang their doorbell, I had been grieving for this dog, Terry, imagining what he would be feeling when he was taken away from his family of 15 years. But when I left them for five minutes so that they could say their goodbyes to Terry in private, my tears were mostly for the couple. It seemed like a tragedy all the way around.

 

But perhaps not so much for Terry.

 

When I arrived at the house of the foster-dog rendezvous, it was buzzing with a dozen people who were there to deliver dogs or take dogs home. When Terry walked in, all activity stopped and everyone, people and dogs, turned their attention on him. He loved it. After spending two hours in Terry’s company, I was a little in love with him and about ready to adopt him myself, but I was introduced to Elizabeth and Martin, the couple who were taking Terry in.  They were introduced to me as the organization’s “special angels.” They exclusively fostered hospice dogs, the ones who were either too sick or too old to place permanently in new homes. Elizabeth and Martin give their home to one hospice dog at a time, shower them with love for the remainder of their days, and make every one of those days filled with comfort. Terry took to them immediately. Terry had to be lifted into my car when I left his house, but when Elizabeth and Martin were ready to go home with him, Terry sprang into the backseat of their SUV with a rediscovered agility. He looked truly happy and miraculously younger when I kissed his head farewell.

 

A friend here at the Ark tells me all the time that animal abuse is not nearly so prevalent as we’re lead to believe by the media. For every abuser we hear about, we don’t hear about the millions of ordinary people who go out of their way to make existence easier and kinder for animals. Those people are the norm. I know that she is right. And now I have the examples of Elizabeth and Martin as proof.

 

As for myself, I have always tried to refrain from withholding judgment until I know the full story behind an event or action, because I keep learning over and over again that things are always more than what they seem to be on the surface. My experience with Terry’s owners was the same humbling lesson all over again. Maybe someday, I’ll actually get it.

Terry from NatureJunkie on Vimeo.

 

[Geoff]

Just loved this.

[NatureJunkie]

Thank you, Geoff.

 

[photo2010]

@NJ, Yes, when my Mom and I moved to this condo, some 16 years ago, we knew about the 'no-pets' rule. No 'grandfatherng' of old pets allowed either. But there was no way we were going to give our old cat Blackie away. Blackie walked into our lives one day with a sibling cat, (literally walked into our yard at our old house), around 1988. His sibling, Sam, was hit by a car the same week my Dad passed in 1994. Sometimes I think my Dad needed a furry friend in heaven.

My Mom was never interested in the pets my brother and I had growing up. She never had her own as a child. But after my Dad passed, she began to love the affection and attention Blackie showed her. My Mom also suffered depression most of her life, but Blackie made her laugh when he jumped on her bed and 'kneaded' her, or when he would walk in front of her, turning his head to make sure my Mom was following him. The three of us helped each other survive after the loss of my Dad and Blackie's brother Sam.

So we snuck Blackie into our condo. One of the nosey tenants looked into our grocery bags and saw cat food one day, and the building started harrassing us, assuming we had a cat. But they never saw Blackie so we denied it. I also found out that the superintendent of my building had at least two cats, and he lived in a basement apartment of my building!

We had Blackie until he got kidney disease. He was at least 16, maybe older, not sure because he was already a big boy when he adopted us. His health went down fast. We had to have him euthanized about 6 years ago this month. My Mom and I cried. I know that both of our health suffered without him. We never got another furry friend. It was too hard to deal with the rules here. There should be a law allowing cats or small dogs in any residence, as long as you can take care of him/her. He was a sweet companion, as were all my pets. I still mourn them all.

[NatureJunkie]

@ Kevin: I am so, so glad that you and your mom flouted the rules and gave yourselves the joy of Blackie's company all those years. There is a lot of scientific evidence to document the fact that having a friendship with a companion animal can reduce pain, lower blood pressure, and mitigate depression. (Every antidepressant and anti-inflammatory drug you see advertised shows a person having fun with a dog. I say the dog is the better part of the medicine.) Most definitely, I wish the regulation of housing, especially housing designed for retired and disabled people, were more enlightened with regard to pets.