Let's take a break from Process & Procedure. I'll be gone for the next two weeks, and I wanted to leave you with a reminder of why we rescue, and also to share with you a story of a most incredible animal-human relationship.
I wrote this story in dedication to my "Holly Goil," back in Dec. 06' when she was still with us and I could clearly focus on the best of her. It was originally published in the Creature Featurette newsletter:
Holly has been the best dog we have ever been owned by. She is three-quarters black Labrador, and one-quarter black Chow. She also has the largest dark brown cow-eyes ever observed in any dog anywhere. Obviously we are biased.
Holly’s story begins back in mid November of 1992 when I was driving to my home on an ordinary foggy, cold afternoon in Stockton, California. Soon after I turned on my street, I saw sitting on the side of the road a fluffy black pup watching my car approach. Actually it was not so unusual to see that. Seeing animals on my road was a common thing as they were often dumped there. The local shelter was less than one block away and is often full year-round. They are a no-kill shelter after all, and have to turn away many people trying to surrender animals. So those same people drive down the road a bit, and dump the animals. What was uncommon about this particular pup was the fact that she was just sitting there, not darting around, not running away, but was waiting. As I mentioned before she was watching my car approach, as though she was expecting me. As I got closer, her blue-black fluffy coat struck me right off. But when I got even closer I saw those eyes, those incredible deep brown, large, soft cow-eyes. I pulled over. I got out of the car quickly as I assumed she would be immediately afraid, and try to run. But she never moved. She just waited until I gently picked her up and put her in the car. I took her home. Now that I had her safely in the house I was able to assess her condition. She seemed to be in fair health, a little thin perhaps, but pretty muddied as if she lived in it. She was about three to four months old…but still had all her baby teeth.
During the next week we observed that she was very calm for a young pup. She always waited politely for her meals, and never tried to steal anyone else’s food. She was naturally house-broken, and never once had an accident in the house. She had also taken to carrying fuzzy-type toys around in her mouth every time she walked anywhere. For example; if she greeted us at the door she had a toy in her mouth. If we called to her to come to us she would immediately pick up a toy and come over. If she wanted to go outside, or followed us outside she would first pick up her toy before going.
One day at the end of that week a man came to the house, and asked us if we had picked up a certain pup. He then described her, and the location where I had picked her up. Obviously he had seen me pick her up, or someone else did and told him about it, because I didn’t tell anyone about the event. He said he owned the property at the spot where I picked her up, but no one lived there. He said he used the land to store Porta-potties. I looked at the man before me. He was of retirement age. He was dressed in work clothes, and was wearing knee-high, black rubber, Wellington-type boots…covered in mud. I asked him why if no one lived at the property a puppy was there all alone.
He said, “Oh, she’s not all alone…she’s there with her mother and all the other puppies.” I said, “What other puppies?”
“Her brothers and sisters.”
“How many are there?”
“Thirteen all together.” I stared at him.
“Thirteen?” I said. “Plus their mother?”
“Yeah. Do you want to buy this one? I’m selling all of them except one” Then he said with conviction, as if he knew it would clinch the deal, and all he would have to do is say it, “This one’s name is Cindy.” I searched his face for any signs of pure cleverness. I didn’t have a personalized license plate at the time. I was certain he didn’t look up my car at the DMV, and find out who I was, where I lived, but more importantly what my first name is, so he could use it as a divisive sales technique. No, there was no cleverness in that face, just the rapid blinking of an impatient man wanting to make a quick sale. I didn’t ask but he said quickly, “For fifty dollars you can have her.”
I glanced at my husband standing nearby who was silently but intently glaring at the man the whole time. At that moment thoughts of past purchases of dogs from years gone by flew though my head. I had extensive knowledge of puppy-mills, backyard breeders, and people who sold puppies at flea markets and parking lots. I knew that each time one bought from such a person one perpetuated the problem even more. It was in fact equivalent to an agreement on the part of the purchaser that this method of breeding and selling dogs was okay. I looked at “Cindy” at my feet, swallowed hard and said firmly, “No, we don’t want to buy her, but we’ll take her off your hands for you.”
The man shut his mouth hard, scooped up the pup under his arm like a football, turned on his heels and started for his truck. He called back to me as he got inside, “Let me know if you change your mind. All these puppies are like their mother. She’s a real good dog…half Chow and half Lab. The father’s a full Lab. Her other litter turned out real good too. We didn’t have any trouble selling them. She had eleven that time.” He hesitated a moment hoping this last bit of information would change our minds. I shook my head at him and turned back towards my house. My husband was already inside the door. Then the tears came. Mine. My heart was breaking. I believed then I couldn’t do anything as wrong ever again as I did at that moment. I stepped inside my front door and immediately saw her toy dropped on the floor where she had left it.
The days that followed were difficult to say the least. We missed her. However, now that I knew that property by the side of the road contained thirteen puppies and one mother-dog, I couldn’t keep from slowing down to a crawl every time I drove by, and looking in. I noticed first that the entire acreage was a slough of mud. That explained the Wellington boots…and the mud on Cindy. Every once in a while I caught a glimpse of the mother-dog as I went by. She was a little more furry….being more Chow and the size of a Lab, but always, always caked with mud. I never saw the pups though. Perhaps the man was being more careful now, and not wanting any of them to escape again, I thought.
Pretty soon it was December. We had had a lot more rain, and a lot more fog. I began to wonder if the pups and the mother-dog had enough opportunities to get dry. I tried to push the thoughts of that family out of my mind. After all Christmas was coming. I had things to do, and obligations to meet. I told myself that by now all the puppies probably were sold. I tried not to think of the kinds of homes a man who wears muddy Wellingtons day in and day out would attract for his pups. It was hopeless. I couldn’t get them out of my mind.
On December thirteenth, it was a very cold and foggy day. I turned down my street as usual and looked at my now usual favorite spot at the side of the road. I did a double take this time though, as there in the grey-blue mist I saw a black, fluffy pup sitting almost exactly as before. Only this time having about four weeks to grow a bit she looked more defined. Her head was more wedge-like, like the Chow part of her. The hair on her back was lying more flat now. Her chest was more filled out. But it was definitely Cindy, and not any of her siblings.
Because of the weather there was absolutely no one on the street. I looked around this time though still bothered by how her owner figured out who I was. I quickly got her into my car and drove home. I was fairly beaming as I walked into the house with her in my arms. My husband had a look on his face indicating that he knew he would again see this scene. Cindy ate some lunch, ran over to where her old toy lay, picked it up and carried it to where I sat. She then laid down at my feet, dropped the toy and went to sleep as if she had been doing that every day for the last four weeks.
We waited. Two days went by. One week. Christmas came and went. By then we had given her a new name. After a few wry jokes about “Which one of you is going to answer to Cindy?” Her name was now Holly. Not just because of the season, but because her name was Holly. We just knew.
By Valentine’s Day, we allowed ourselves a few treasured thoughts of entitlement about Holly. The man never came by. We saw him though, several times. Usually he was on or near his property, or getting in or out of his truck. He never acknowledged that he saw us drive by. He never came back to our house. I tried not to dwell on possible reasons why. It didn’t matter anymore anyway. By June we had Holly spayed, vaccinated and tagged. She was ours.
By fall of 1993 when the rains came, and then more, and came even more. I bought myself some rubber boots as I had chores to do outside. It was so wet anywhere one walked one sunk to their ankles in mud. I actually bought two pairs of boots that year; a pair of knee-high black leather for dress, and a pair of knee-high rubber ones for chores. My husband also bought himself a pair of black waterproof hiking boots. We then discovered an interesting thing. Anytime we walked anywhere near Holly wearing any of those pairs of boots, she cowered, ran away and either hid under or behind something. This reaction lasted for the first five years of her life. The man had come back after all.
By late 1998 Holly was the alpha of our dog pack as the previous two in the pecking order had deceased. She knew she was not the head of the household though. Whenever we went through the door either to go out or to go in she waited until we went through first. We never told her to do this…she just knew. When it was feeding time though and any other dog wanted her food they stopped in their tracks with just a look by her. They just knew.
By July of that year we had Duke, our Labra-Dobe. He thought he was all that and a bag of Beggin Strips. He still thinks that. Anyway, he wanted to dominate Holly in the worst way. Sometimes he would play at it. Sometimes he would get really aggressive about it. Not only did she always outsmart him, but he couldn’t hold onto her long enough. Her coat was so thick, and her skin so loose around her neck that it would always just slip out of his mouth. It didn’t matter that he outweighed her by thirty pounds. They would tumble and tousle over and over and over. Each time in the end Holly would be standing several inches away from Duke, and he would be standing there with the most puzzled look on his face. To this day he has never got the better of her.
At some point Holly earned the nickname of “Bucking Bronco.” You see she never barked like an ordinary dog, or even like an annoying one, since she did it maybe once or twice a month. If any strangers got too close to the house she did this uni-bark, not in rapid succession like dogs do, but she would do a bark, then a buck of her front end up in the air, then a bark and then another buck. Plus, she would somehow grow a bit. Her fur around her neck from just behind her ears to her shoulder tops would actually expand. Visualize a black Chow-like dog with a ruff the size of a car tire encircling her head bucking her whole front end off the ground about a foot while barking a single deep bark at you in between each lift-off. We thought it was cute, but like I said before, we’re biased. Most people steered clear of her.
Now Holly is very, very gray. That enormous ruff has laid down quite a bit now. Her beautiful face has white lips, white eyeliner, lashes and brows, and white accented ears. She has salt and pepper toes, hocks and belly. Many of her teeth are missing, or worn down. She also has cataracts, and limited hearing.
Last year she was unable to come up the stairs anymore to sleep in our room as she had done every night since she came to live with us. That was very difficult for her to accept. She fought that for more than a year. Until she could accept that as fact, we had to boost her rear so she could go up every night, and in the morning grab her ruff to keep her from sliding all the way down. Finally she realized that we are still here with her in the house regardless if we are separated by stairs or not. As a matter of fact lately just in the last couple of weeks when I come down in the mornings she’s so excited to see me that I get a few Bucking-Bronco barks and jumps for my effort. It’s as if she’s saying to me, “So you won’t forget it’s still me.”
We lost Holly in Nov. 07' when she could not move on her own any longer. She had let us know it was time. But she was right after all, we never forget; I still see her in the blink of an eye when I come down the stairs. Or when I come in the house and the pack of dogs are there in greeting...she's still there.
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