Amarillo Magazine

A sweet little girl by the name of Sarah Clark thought it would be interesting to do a story about me for Amarillo Magazine. We sent some e-mails back and forth, and met in the park to take some pictures with my dog, Beau. Then this happened. The abundance of flattery was almost unbearable for me to stomach. I snorted awkwardly when I read that she had called me "petite." Granted I AM short but I've also got shoulders like a linebacker, so I wasn't really sure where she pulled that from but I was willing to take it as a compliment. I never considered myself a "star" and I still find myself moderately uncomfortable when people call me a "dog whisperer"... all I did was take the time to learn how to communicate with them. Anyway, that's enough about that. Here's the article:

Amarillo Magazine - Unpathed Path

***I'd like to add a little something to this; an addendum that CANNOT be overlooked. In this article, while I was still working for my previous "mentor trainer", I mention the use of "e-collars", which is essentially a sugar coated abbreviation for an electric shock collar.

It was mandatory (meaning I didn't have an option and neither did my customers) that I use them on my Camp & Train students and I was repeatedly reprimanded for not using them enough. I knew that I could train my students effectively without their use and always tried to avoid it until the last minute. It was during that last minute that my "mentor trainer" would step in and, without fail, shock the living daylight out of my dogs and puppies as young as 4 months old. I watched those babies flinch, scream, try to run away (but couldn't because they were leashed), and sometimes urinate out of sheer terror. It made ME cry to observe the brutality of such a completely unnecessary infliction.

I wound up covered in stress hives and no longer enjoyed my job. As a matter of fact, I began to loathe my training time when I knew my obligation wasn't just education, but causing pain. So, I quit. I walked away from the only training opportunity I thought I had because I just couldn't take it anymore.

From there, I began my OWN training business. I have since then vowed to NEVER use or endorse the use of an electric shock collar. I also strongly loathe the use of choke chains and prong collars. They just aren't necessary. With some time, patience, and proper techniques, ALL of the aforementioned "tools" can be completely avoided.

If you're in the Amarillo area and need help getting your dog to walk politely on a leash, please visit my website for more information: SheaWhiteDogTraining.com

Allegations and Absurdity

The next entry I wrote for “The Dog Logs” was going to be about the foster puppy, Rango, but before I had the time to finish it, something else came along that demanded my attention…

There is a picture that started circulating on Facebook a few days ago of a bloodied and sad little Australian Shepherd. It’s a heart-breaking picture, really. Having sincere concerns for the welfare of this animal, I immediately had questions. How did this happen? WHY did it happen? What kind of injury are we looking at? Is anyone taking responsibility for this?

The picture and its caption were soon spread with adamant intent. The caption varied slightly from person to person with each posting but its general gist was this: “This is what happened when Animal Control picked up Cassie Simms dog!!! This is Auston, he is the nicest dog ever and he was out in their alley yesterday playing with some other dog when animal control picked him up and proceeded to beat him. Those of you that know Auston know that he wouldn’t hurt a fly, this makes me sick to think that anyone could do this to such a sweet dog, or any animal at that. When we went to pick him up this is how his owners found him, his lip was busted, he had a cut on his chest, he was bleeding from his nose, and looked like he had been tossed around. The owners feel like there is nothing they can do about it. The police were called and they won’t do anything about it because animal control is who deals with animal cruelty. We want this story to spread like wildfire. This happened right here in Amarillo, and it’s completely unacceptable. Something needs to be done to whoever did this.”

This caption only raised more questions for me. Dogs don’t belong in alleys. Why was the dog in the alley? Had it run out the door of his home or had he escaped his yard? How did Animal Control happen upon this dog? Was his home near where he was found or had he been wandering the streets for days? My next concern was why the people involved automatically assumed the dog had been beaten by Animal Control. The dog could have been in a fight with another dog. The dog could have injured himself while escaping his own yard. There are MANY questions that a rational person would have asked before jumping to that particular conclusion.

Being somewhat familiar with the establishment, I was positive that there is NO person employed by this agency who clocks in every morning with the intention of breaking into someone’s yard and stealing their dog to beat it bloody (which is the FIRST position the owner took – that later changed). The notion is absurd beyond comprehension. Every single person on staff there owns at least one, if not several animals. Contrary to the currently popular circulating rumors, they’re actually employed to help protect animals as well as people because they CARE.

This is going to bounce around a bit because this story has been ALL OVER the place and it's quite confusing, even to me. Please bear with me as I try to piece it together as logically as possible from the information I have gathered.

The night the dog was taken into custody (Tuesday, May 8), the owner told officers that she would be going to the media because of her outrage over the situation. Animal Control had no problem with that because they knew they weren’t in the wrong. She has every right to do so, should she deem it necessary.

On the afternoon of May 9, the head of Animal Control contacted the owner and asked if the dog had seen a vet about his injuries. She was told that if she didn’t have a particular vet she already used that they could recommend some and would happily pay the bill for a full examination including x-rays or whatever was deemed necessary. She already had a vet that she had seen regularly, so it was suggested that she go see the one with whom she was already familiar. Animal Control also contacted the vet and asked for a full medical report upon completion of the examination because if there WAS any sign of abuse from one of the officers, action upon said officer would be taken swiftly. The vet soon reported to the owner of the dog and to Animal Control that the only injuries found were several cuts in the mouth and a slightly swollen jaw, consistent with any animal biting a staff. The vet also advised there was no wound on the dog’s chest as stated in the caption. The animal displayed no tenderness or soft tissue damage indicating that the animal had been abused in any way.

I soon found a page on Facebook that had been created for the incident at hand: “Justice for Auston.” (I’m not here to question why the spelling of the dog’s name changed 3 times; I’m sticking with the “O” because that’s what’s been most consistent.) They posted the video of the ProNews7 interview where the dog was happily bounding around the yard, playing with the owner, and with no visible injuries. What WAS visible in the video were gaps in their fencing large enough for a small horse to escape.

See for yourselves here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=LYzJ9dHW6kU

As people lined up to bash the government agency for their cruelty, I decided to start asking questions. It was only fair to start with the instigating party, to see if I could get a more fully formed side of their story. “If the dog was so severely "beaten" why is he running and playing in the yard? Have you ever seen a scared animal on the end of a catch pole? Have you ever had your tongue pierced? It bleeds a LOT. The wounds could have very easily been self-inflicted and have apparently been confirmed by HER veterinarian as such. Keep in mind there are always TWO sides to every story.”

I know now that these were not the correct questions to ask of these people. The point to the tongue piercing question was that when I was 16 and living in Austin mine was done incorrectly and bled profusely for nearly an hour. I didn't think it was ever going to stop. A frightened animal biting at a metal stick could cause a lot more damage. You could Google a medical analysis, or just read this,: “Mouth injuries are common, especially in children [or dogs], and may involve the teeth, jaw, lips, tongue, inner cheeks, gums, roof of the mouth (hard or soft palates), neck, or tonsils. Sometimes mouth injuries look worse than they are. Even a small cut or puncture inside the mouth may bleed a lot because there are many blood vessels in the head and neck area.” Thank you, Cigna Medical Care.

After logic evaded the “Justice for Auston” group once again, I added that their own posting began with the phrase, "An Amarillo dog-owner is breathing a sigh of relief after it was confirmed by a veterinarian that her dog was not abused by Animal Control officials." I continued asking questions. “Then why the tirade? What justice does she want? I'd think she'd want a fence that isn't full of holes. Not ONCE have I seen anywhere that the owner took responsibility for HER dog being out of HER yard.”

As suspected, the Shea-bashing continued. Rikki Lynn Nicole Quaas replied, “wow seriously ^^^^ thats just insane.... and complete bs. NO DOG SHOULD LOOK LIKE THAT WHEN IN CARE OF ANIMAL CONTROL, and if the "catch pole" is such an obviously horrible way to capture an animal, then WHY USE IT!!?? and not to mention they knew where the dog belonged and instead of getting the owner and returning them home they leave a note???? and catch and "BEAT" an animal that cant speak up. Plus we all heard side 2 to the story ....”

First of all, why am I insane? For suggesting that the owner take responsibility for having inadequate fencing? Lemme 'splain a little something to you. The owner was clearly not home at the time of the incident. Do you expect the Animal Control officers to break into her house to leave the dog inside? No. Should they have put the dog back into the yard from which it just escaped? No. If they had done so, the dog would have easily been able to escape again and what then? Get run over by a car? Is THAT better for the dog than taking it into custody? No.

After this, a young gentleman by the name of Jake Hudson decided to toss another spit wad in the bucket. I'm not here to call Jake a bad guy – he's clearly passionate about the situation, although it would seem slightly misguided. It's obvious he cares about the dog and its well being. He's just not willing to look at any view point other than his own.

“@Shea if you read, there was more than a bitten tongue. The dogs nose was bleeding and had cuts. I understand there are two sides to the story, but when you look at the FACTS, regardless what you think you can not ignore the fact that they left the dog in the kennel to bleed. Im about 99% sure if that was your dog, you wouldnt go "oh the pound didnt do this cuz the vet says so".


Actually, if I didn't SEE any wounds on my dog, I certainly wouldn't invent them. And if I should have my dog inspected by a professional of my choice who agrees there are no additional injuries, I wouldn't be seeking an attorney to sue someone over something that didn't happen and demanding that everyone who was called in to help (because of MY mistake) lose their job because of incompetency.


Jake continued, “Obviously if the dog was bleeding from the nose, there would have been some type of blunt force trama. If you watched the video, the director blamed that on the stick they used. Oh please that thing was plastic, likelyness that the dog was close enough to the officers to hit it on the nose is ridiculous.”


Again, I have to point out some inaccuracies. The poles are metal. The dog doesn't have to be in close proximity to the officer in order to bang his nose on it. The point is to keep the dog AWAY from the officer. If you think this is physically impossible, you've clearly never watched an episode of Animal Cops. If that's still too much effort, you could just take a gander at this video which PROVES the possibilities. I know your attention spans are short, so just skip to the 50 second mark. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVuC8LHiM3A


Oh dear mother of pearl, he's still talking. “Also Shea, this has nothing to do about her lack of responsibility. We all understand that things happen, dogs get out. But when it looks like the dog was beaten and thrown in the kennel is unjustifiable. You cant remotely consider taking there side on that, if not you dont deserve to have a dog.”


Actually, yes, it has everything to do with her lack of responsibility. And I can forgive the grammatical errors and misspellings to an extent. But to say I don't deserve to have a dog? Them's fightin' words. And it's not stopping there! “Also, i have had my tongue pierced and no it does not bleed alot ;)” I'll give you the grace of assuming you've been misled up until this point but now I can without hesitance call you a LIAR.


For some reason, I continued to beat my head against a virtual brick wall. “I work with animals every day. I am a teacher, a trainer, a reader, and a writer. Too many people are using emotion in the place of logic here. Is it not standard practice to notify an owner if their dog has been picked up? Yes. That's why they left the note. Obviously, the owner was not present when this occurred. Why was Animal Control called concerning the animal in the first place? What did the owner SEE happen to justify - aside from what a veterinarian has already disclosed - the accusations of abuse? What state of panic, aggressive or otherwise fearful as is its natural instinct, was the dog displaying at the time? How long was the dog in Animal Control's possession before the owner arrived? You shouldn't be angry at someone for having questions. I don't want to see any animal hurt when the situation could have been prevented - I care for them as much as anyone here. All I want to know is the WHOLE story. That shouldn't offend anyone rational.”

Here comes Rikki Lynn Nicole Quaas. “There was no questions asked by you. You made a blatant statement suggesting the animals injuries were self inflicted. And absolutely no animal should ever be returned to the owner looking like that ... No matter how long it is in animals cares control. Not EVER. Call whomever you like irrational, fact of the matter is if you see this picture and hear both sides of the stories which we all have and you still want to place blame on a defenseless animal then I don't even have any more to say ...that pretty much says it all. anyway.... enough outta Shea ....”


I pointed out that there were indeed TEN previously asked questions, none of which were answered. You can't say that both sides of the story were clearly represented, then turn around and accuse the news station that the owner went to of somehow providing a cover-up. It can't be BOTH. According to the owner and her friends, the TV station is lying, the newspapers are lying, the veterinarian of HER choice is lying, and of course Animal Control is lying. Everyone BUT the owner is at fault. These people are making my brain tired. I give up. If the people on this side won't answer my questions, I'll ask them elsewhere.


The entirety of my day has involved investigation of every aspect of the events which Cassie Simms has personally deemed newsworthy. Her outcry for “justice” while running to every media outlet in town is what made this information public. I didn't get into this looking to take sides or pick a fight. All I wanted to know is WHAT HAPPENED.


And this is what happened:


It was reported that several male dogs were wandering loose in an alley near Cassie Simms' home. A resident nearby owns a female Boxer who happened to be in heat. The woman who owned the boxer – and had her contained safely in her yard – called Animal Control to have the excess animals removed because they were also acting aggressively to other residents who were trying to use their alley.


At approximately 4:10, the first officer arrived at the location and quickly assessed he would not be able to handle the situation on his own and called for back up.

The people who know Auston well say that he is a very friendly dog and never aggressive towards anyone he knows. This persona can change dramatically when a male dog is trying to mate with a female in heat. In addition to this, he was also being pursued by people he didn't know who were trying to take him away from “sexy time.” In this instance, a dog would be naturally aggravated. That's just science. If you disagree, feel free to look it up.


It took both officers several minutes to corner Auston and contain him with a staff, also otherwise referred to as a “catch pole.” Once he was secured on the staff, he continued the aggressive behavior and attempted to attack one of the officers. This is another reason for the implementation of the staff. The animal fought and bit the staff from the location of his capture, all the way to the vehicle into which he was loaded. Even with the additional protection of padding on the end of the staff to help prevent injuries, he wound up biting his own lip and tongue, and banging his nose on it.


At approximately 5:55, Cassie Simms arrived at Animal Control demanding the return of her pet and accused “someone” of opening her gate to allow her dog to escape or that Animal Control had trespassed onto her property in order to steal the dog from her back yard.


Before I continue, let me show you some pictures of her “gate” and you can make your own decision as to whether or not this scenario seems plausible.

Where else could an Australian Shepherd – whose breed is known for their acrobatic skills - have possibly had the opportunity to Shawshank his way out of there? The more sensible question to pose would be, “Where did he NOT have the opportunity?”

At approximately 6:05, the officer returned to Animal Control with Auston secured in his unit. He was advised that the animal needed to be cleaned up before giving him back to the owner. Both the officer and his supervisor made several attempts to clean Auston up. The more they tried, the more aggressive the animal became, and the more he bit the staff and kept injuring his lip. In fact, he was SO aggressive that even Mrs. Simms could not contain him and had to wait for her husband to arrive before they could leave with the dog.

I'm not here to say who's right and who's wrong, but you can clearly see where my suspicions lie.

I should also add that the ConnectAmarillo.com article containing the previously debated video ended thusly:

“Results of the examination concluded the dog did not suffer any type of injuries from any sort of abuse.

Cassie said she is content with the outcome and glad her dog was not abused.

As for Auston, Cassie said he is doing fine and getting back to normal.

She said her family now plans to upgrade their fence to ensure their pets do not escape again.”

Yet the fight continues because justice has still somehow been avoided. Justice for WHAT!?

Here's what I want you to ask yourselves: Which story makes more sense to YOU?

Life's the Pits

I started doing volunteer work at the Amarillo-Panhandle Humane Society the first week of March this year. It began as a requirement in order to gain my certification from Animal Behavior College. I waited until the last week I was still taking classes to cram in my 10 necessary hours and was more than happy to finally have it over with. Frankly, the place was depressing and by my second day out there I broke down in hysterics, tears streaming down my face, announcing I would never return.

Well, I returned. The same week I started my hours at the Humane Society (which shall henceforth be referred to as HS), my sister-from-another-mister, Jena (and just so it sounds right in your head while you’re reading this, it’s pronounced like “Gina”), became the new Executive Director there. She's got a heart as big as Texas, and I have yet to meet another person whose passion is greater than hers when it concerns the welfare of animals. She's a doer, not a talker, and she's inspired me to be the same. As long as I'm being honest, I'll admit she's guilted me into 1/2 of it whether it was intentional or not. Knowing she's up before 5:00 in the morning every day makes it a LOT harder to hit the snooze button until noon with a clear conscience.

Some time in December, Jena and I started making plans to win the lottery so that we could open a Pit Bull rescue and rehabilitation sanctuary for the Texas Panhandle since that doesn't really exist anywhere closer to here than Dallas. We both own Pits and know they can be incredible dogs (and have been historically noted as such) but we’re also painfully aware of the stigma surrounding them because of the selfishness and stupidity of human kind. We started sorting out legal papers, figuring out how to screen potential adopters, looking at and pricing plots of land, imagining blue-prints, and all sorts of shit. Needless to say, we never won the lottery and real life eventually got in the way. Actually, not winning the lottery didn’t really hinder our dreams altogether… we just got veered in a different direction.

About the time Jena was being hired as the Director of HS, I landed my training position at Animal Lodge. I teach group classes twice a week now, and work the Camp & Train (which is essentially a 2 week doggie boot-camp) “students” on a daily basis. We both kind of got our dream jobs. Neither one of us really imagined the term “dream job” would include being covered in shit, piss, blood, vomit or any other number of natural bodily functions regularly, but we couldn’t be happier.

One day Jena called me and said the HS board had revisited its previously applied policies and finally approved the implementation of the adoption of Pit Bulls. After at least a decade of not having been able to rescue this particular breed from the shelters, we were both ecstatic.

Most people should already know (although some seem to not) that this is a decision that requires quite a bit more planning and responsibility than trotting down to the pet store and picking up a cute little Bichon Frise bouncing in the window. (I said they’re cute – save the “I have a Bichon, you racist!” hate mail, please.) Pits need dedication, supervision, training, exercise, proper socialization, adequate fencing, super strong chew toys (don’t even waste your money on the squeaky shit), and LOTS of love and attention. They are NOT yard ornaments. Despite their tough exterior, they’re really quite sensitive – as are ALL dogs. People all too often forget that animals have feelings and it breaks my heart that so many of them need to be reminded of that. “That dog in my neighbor’s yard just won’t quit barking!” Did you take into consideration he might be tied to a tree with no food or water or attention with nothing to do but bark until his plans of escape come to fruition? If that were you in his place, you’d be pretty pissed off too.

Anyway, there’s a huge adoption event that comes through town every year (well, this is the third), North Shore Animal League America’s Tour For Life. It starts in Jersey or somewhere over there and makes stops all over the country. Jena has been preparing for this since she received notification, and about a month ago she called and said she’d pulled a Pit for it. “He’s really sweet; I named him Sparky. I need you to help me get him ready for this adoptathon. Can you give me an hour a day to just come work with him?” She knew I wouldn’t say no. This was our opportunity to prove what our mission had been about all along.

The day I went to meet Sparky he was covered in ticks. Ticks have been REALLY bad in our part of Texas this year and in a shelter, you can’t help but run across them. We put him on a lead and took him out of his kennel to give him a treatment. Jena applied the medicine while I held on to the nylon leash/noose around his neck. To say Sparky was a puller is a gross understatement. I’ve wrangled some damn strong dogs but I was afraid I’d met my match. The lead was cutting into my fingers and I was honestly afraid it was going to come apart at the stitches. The insides of my knuckles were white for a good 10 minutes after I let him go (yes, I probably need to take more vitamins but that’s not the point); it was obvious to me that he’d never been on a leash and if that was the case, he probably doesn’t have any amount of obedience training either. His previous owners made the effort to crop his ears, but not to register his microchip (for that matter, he wouldn’t still be at HS if they’d bothered to come look for him). Sparky had been a lawn ornament. I had three weeks to get this dog trained and my confidence was shaken a bit. This is going to be HARD. But then again, my dog Beau came from essentially the same situation of abandonment and neglect and I got HIM into decent shape, SO keep yer chin up, lil’ camper! It ain’t gonna be no cake-walk but it’s also not impossible.

That night, Jena picked me up and we took a trip to PetCo to pick up the equipment I’d need to work with Sparky. All I really wanted for him was a prong collar, a 30 foot leash, and some treats.

Some people think the use of a prong collar is medieval and cruel. Don’t get me wrong; it CAN be. But it’s also a learning tool and when used correctly CAN be effective. When I was trying to get my dog Beau to walk politely on a loose leash, I tried every trick in every book. I cried at the thought of being a failure; “Some trainer I am. I can’t even get my own dog to stop dragging me around.” *Sniffle*Sob*Snot* I finally broke down and got a prong collar for him. With the correct sizing, fit, placement, and technique, Beau is now doing wonderfully. He still gets excited about every tree on our walks and pulls when I’m not keeping up, but it’s nothing like it used to be. My face is still where I left it instead of smeared across the sidewalk somewhere down the block. {Side note just to make myself clear: Beau is more than ½ my body weight and built of pure muscle. I’ve lost nearly 20 pounds and 2 pant sizes since I started working with him and the other dogs. To take on a dog like him who’s never seen a leash or the inside of a house is work that takes commitment and patience. I saw something the other day that gave me pause… if you’ve got your 2 pound Yorkie on a prong collar, you might want to put him back in your purse and reevaluate your relationship with the Animal Kingdom.}

Every day that I went out to work with Sparky, Jena was usually off doing something selfish like feeding herself or her animals, or at another meeting figuring out how to be better at her job. On day five, I ran into her at HS. When I saw her I said, “Hey, you wanna come see how awesome Sparky is!?” “Yes, I do!” I told her I’d started off with him on a regular leash but by the end of the week I had him on the 30 foot line which was essentially like using no leash at all (but should he run off or get distracted, I still had control). He was smart, eager to please, and did everything nearly perfect in a very short amount of time, especially considering it took a while for him to recognize that “Sparky” was the new sound we were calling him that he was supposed to pay attention to. Over the next weeks, the days we spent together were as much to get him out of his kennel as anything. Run him around, stretch his legs, scratch his belly, then make sure he still remembered his hand signals and what-not. The way he crinkled his nose when he looked up to smile at me was about as delightful as anything I could imagine. He was truly Sparkalicious.

On one of the days that I went to play with Sparky, Jena told me they’d just picked up another puppy and she knew I was going to fall in love with him. “He’s a pit/mastiff mix and we named him Rango.” When Animal Control found him, he had a prolapsed rectum and needed surgery. I learned this via text and replied, “Jesus, his asshole fell out!?” I wasn’t sure what that was all about but when I met him he had little pink stitches in his bottom and a cone around his neck to keep him from bothering them. It was heart-breaking AND hilarious. Then he looked up at me with his little golden puppy eyes and I DID fall in love with him. But I don’t want a puppy… puppies are jerks and pee all over your house. I can’t have him because my house is too small and Beau is enough for me to handle anyway. I found 100 reasons to walk away from this puppy to keep from getting attached to him. Then Jena said, “He’s cute AND he needs a foster home! It’d just be until the adoptathon and I’m sure he’ll get adopted quickly. He’s got special needs and I know nobody will take better care of him than you will. C’moooooon, Shea!”

Shit. Now I have a foster puppy. I guess we’ll see how THIS works out. *Sigh*

Who doesn't love a cookie?

After finishing the book portion of my learning through Animal Behavior College (which shall henceforth be referred to as ABC) I was set up with a local certified trainer. To complete my certification, I must observe a series of 7 classes, take a dog through the 7 week course (naturally, I'll be training Beau) and then help teach said classes. We're almost ½ way through the observation and participation segments (since there is more than one class per week, we get to double up on schooling) and Beau is doing GREAT! It gave my heart the warm and fuzzies to hear my mentor trainer tell me how smart she could tell he was, and that it's obvious to her how much work I've been doing with him at home. During his first class with me, she even said he should be a therapy dog because of how awesome he was with the children who came to love on him. I'm learning patience, which has never been one of my greater virtues, and it's actually paying off. Once we complete normal obedience training, my goal is to get Beau through the American Kennel Club's Canine Good Citizen program – which is quite a bit more rigorous - so that he'll have additional certification as well. To some it may just be a piece of paper, but to me it will prove that both of us have gone above and beyond the call of duty.

In addition to my schooling, in order to become certified, I must also complete 10 hours of volunteer work at a local shelter, along the lines of the Humane Society or SPCA. Because I know people at the Amarillo Humane Society, that's what got picked. Well, that, and they ASKED me to come work with them.

The paperwork that comes with the volunteer portion of my program is about 30 pages thick; I should have suspected as much since my “textbook” was such a fat bastard.

Upon being informed of my new career choice, my brother delicately inquired, “Why the fuck's it take a year and a half to teach a dog to sit?” Well, it's a little more complex than that. I'd never even heard the word “coprophagia” before but now I know its symptoms and how to write out a comprehensive treatment plan for it. Go ahead, Google it. I'll wait.

To begin my volunteer work at HS, I first had to fill out an application and was told by my coordinator from school that they'd need to run a background check. It makes me wonder why this process came to fruition. Was there at one point a string of hardened criminals lining up to walk shelter dogs? There's no point in me asking questions to rebel against the system, just run my shit and if we have to have the discussion about some bounced checks and traffic tickets from my early twenties, I'll deal with that when it gets here.

I did my “meet-n-greet” early last week with the HS staff, then went back the next day to observe a little bit of their day-to-day routine. After my butt went numb from sitting in a chair in the lobby, I decided to walk around a bit and talk to the dogs. After wandering through several of the buildings I started feeling guilty that I didn't have any treats for any of the animals. I was headed to buy some when the main lady said they kept some up at the front desk. “You wouldn't happen to also have a clicker, would you?”

Within the 30 pages of instructions as to what I was supposed to do while I was working with kennel dogs is a section entitled, “Make Your Shelter a Bark-Free Zone.” In a nut-shell, when you encounter a calm, non-barking dog, you're supposed to click your clicker then give the dog a treat. They have listed EIGHT steps to this process and made it seem nearly impossible. I don't see how this is supposed to keep everybody from barking all the time – random barking seems inevitable – but I'm here to learn. Right this minute I've got no clicker so I'm wingin' it.

I was given a full, sealed bag of cookie type biscuit treats. Knowing I didn't have enough for everybody to get one, I started breaking them into 2 or 3 pieces. From afar I could hear barks echo from every individual building, filling the sky with a chorus of stress and fear. I thought, “There's no way...”

Each dog run stretches from inside a building to an external portion, so they can have their heated or air-conditioned section as well as the ability to be “outside.” Either way you look at it, it's still caged concrete with very little interaction; I don't understand how anybody with half a heart can see these animals in this situation and not have it break a little.

When I went outside, the first dog I walked up to seemed happy to see me. For that matter, most of them are happy to see anybody. My instructions are to not treat the animals unless they are calm, of course not barking, and have all 4 feet on the ground. I figured out that as long as I was standing, most of the dogs would jump up to get closer to me. I don't know if it's considered cheating or not but once I squatted down to their level, all 4 feet hit the floor.

After I finished feeding the dogs in the first outside run, I headed inside the Pit Bull building to visit the most vicious monsters on the planet. (Yes, I typed that with an eye roll.) The second I walked into the building most of them were quiet. One big dude on the end barked a little until he could see me. They had some puppies nearest the entrance and I could see 3-4 kennel runs back at a time – they were ALL calm. I broke my cookies up and squatted in front of each dog, talking to them and feeding them, wishing I could pet them. Every single one of them smiled and licked my fingers. Every. Single. One. Not one barked AT me. Not one tried to bite me. They all just wanted to be loved, as is in their nature.

It was in the “vicious monster” building that I ran into THIS little nugget:

Oh. My. God. Her legs were just over half the length of any normal pit bull and I came to the conclusion that she must have been mixed with a Corgi. I instantly fell in love with her. At first glance this picture might look like she's snarling but she's happily smacking cookie bits. I may have allegedly doubled (or tripled) hers just to see her make that face again. I wanted to bring her home with me SO badly but I've decided I can't have another dog until Beau is fully trained. The dogs here get 5 days for their owners to retrieve them. She's been at HS since at least last Tuesday. If I go out there tomorrow and she's not there, I'll know her 5 days were up and I WILL cry. That such a sweet animal was abandoned and her “people” didn't give enough of a shit to even go find her – sentencing her to death. If she IS still there tomorrow (which I highly doubt) I'll happily pay the $15 to extend her life for 5 more days... but to what end?

I made my rounds through the rest of the buildings and had time with everyone who would come to me. There were only 2 or 3 dogs who I could tell were too fearful to approach me or just didn't feel well enough to eat the cookie I handed them. Working with fearful dogs is a whole different bag and I just didn't take the time it would have taken that day to help treat them. You can't treat that in an afternoon; depending on the severity it can take months and even years for them to recover with constant work.

I'd like to say that every single dog in every single pen acted exactly as I wanted them to but that's just not true. ALMOST. There were 2 boxers penned together who were gnarly aggressive. They jumped and snarled and barked and frothed, even as I was sitting down in front of them. I spent a little extra time with them and after a few minutes they finally calmed down enough to eat their treats. They did NOT get doubles.

I didn't really do any work with any of them but it did help me get a feel of what I'll be dealing with. I just hope that during my time there I can grow the callouses necessary to deal with the fact that these dogs have a VERY short time left on this earth. Even the ones who are put on the side to be adopted only get an extra 5 days, bringing their maximum life span to 10 days from pick up if someone doesn't take them home.

It's ugly, but it's life. It's what I've chosen to plunge myself into with the hopes that maybe I can help save a life... or at least bring one more smile to one more dog's face and give them the opportunity to know that someone cares while they're still here.  

Goodbye, Indica

She had a long life but it wasn't the easiest. She was repeatedly beaten, neglected and mentally abused. I did my best to change that, and some days it turns my stomach to think I didn't do enough. All I could do was try.  

She came to me during the winter of a year I've tried to forget. She'd just birthed five puppies and was barely a year old. She didn't know how to be a mother to those pups, nor did I understand what it meant for me to be a mother to her. We both had to learn the hard way.

The man who brought her into my life was a horrible excuse for a human being and always will be. In many ways, Indica and I both endured the same pain... except that I eventually had to accept responsibility for putting myself in a shitty situation. She never had a choice. She was just “here” and didn't have the option of walking away. She stayed by my side for 15 years. I gain solace in the knowledge that MOST of those years were as comfortable as I could possibly make them for her.

She was the toughest bitch I've ever met and I loved her with all my heart. Although I was legally an adult when she came to me, I still feel like we grew up together. She was the protector of our domain; she took to no strangers and kept friends in check, as well as making sure there was never an abundance of free-roaming cats anywhere near my yard. I'll never forget the smiles it brought to her face when she caught one. Or the mess I had to clean up afterward.

I was out of town this past October when she started losing control of her bodily functions. It took multiple visits to the vet and a string of medicinal experiments to figure out what was required to keep her balanced. It was during this time she was eventually diagnosed with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever and I was told she'd be on medication for the rest of her life. I was willing to deal with that.

This became her morning dose of medication, followed by round 2 in the evenings:

It was close to the end of November when she picked Beau to be the newest member of our pack. Because of her arthritis, she didn't really want to play with him. I started noticing how easily she tired. Her days were beginning to fill with frustration and, I feared, a slight resentment. She wasn't getting 100% of my attention anymore. Although, until I got him neutered, she sure as hell had 100% of Beau's attention. All he cared about was her vagina, and that well had dried up long ago. She spent a significant portion of her time telling him to fuck off. I thought it showed how much she liked him by the fact that she hadn't drawn any blood on him... turns out, she probably didn't have enough teeth left to get the job done.

On the evening of December 23, my friend, Jena, came to visit. She brought early Christmas toys for Beau, none of which Indica paid any concern – she just wanted to rest. After a while, Jena had the smarts to put Beau in his kennel to let Indica have some peace. As I watched her lie on her self-designated section of the couch, the weight of her reality started to kick in. It was heavy on my sternum like a steel-toed boot tied to cinder blocks. I began to sob.

I kept thinking, “But she's still happy sometimes. She smiles and wags...” And then I considered how much effort it took her to give me those smiles and wags and realized how random they'd become. She never wanted me to know she was in pain and she hid it well. She also had a heart murmur, growing lymph nodes, and a constantly irritating growth on her snout she'd break open every day but it couldn't be removed because of its close proximity to her eye.

She was tired. So very, very tired. I forced myself to come to the realization that it was just plain selfish of me to demand she endure this. As much as I hated it, I knew what I needed to do.

I had Jena pick me up the morning of Christmas Eve because I knew I wouldn't be able to make the drive by myself. The vet was only available for an hour that day and it didn't make him very happy to see me under the circumstances.

As we walked down the hall to the back of the clinic, Indica spotted a cat and perked up momentarily. She had no desire to chase or mangle it. My hart sank a little more. I looked at the doctor who had become all too familiar with us in the past 15 years and said, “I don't WANT it to be time, but it's time.” He asked if I was sure. Tears began to flood my steaming, red face. He said, “Shea, at her age, you can't make the wrong decision.”

Jena had the forethought that she didn't want Indica's last moments to be cold or uncomfortable so she brought a soft, fuzzy blanket that she laid upon the “exam” table. As we hoisted Indica to her spot I tried to stay strong for her. “Momma's here, it's gonna be ok.” I switched positions with the administering vet techs to make sure I could hold her. I watched them inject her and held on tighter.

“I'm right here, momma dog... I've got you. I love you SO much...” She didn't fight it at all. She went peacefully limp in my arms. I didn't want to let go. The tech came back within a minute to check her heart-beat. She didn't have to tell me – I knew – she was gone. I stayed with her a little bit longer, to get one more hug and give her one more kiss on her head... until I felt the last puff of air in her lungs escape with a gentle cough.

I have to know I made the right choice. Although I was devastated, it would have been much worse had I returned home one day to find her gone and had missed out on the opportunity of holding her while she passed.

My gift to Indica was to relieve her suffering. Her gift to me was not returning to an empty house. I had Beau's bouncing, smiley face to greet me upon my arrival. I believe she put him here to help heal my heart. He's curled up on my feet under the desk as I type this. It's painfully adorable; and by that, I mean it's cute but I'm losing circulation. 

A few days later I was called to go pick up her ashes. That day was almost as hard for me. We had one last car ride home, then she was laid to rest upon a shelf over my bed, next to her boyfriend, Darwin. 

I like to think they're together now, chasing rainbows and butterflies. It's more likely that they're slaughtering little angel kittens... but either way, I know they're happy now. And so am I, knowing I have my furry guardian angels watching over me.   

Finding Our New Beau

(Additional back story available at “Puppy Love?”)

The beginning of my mission to find my old mama dog, Indica, a new boyfriend turned out to be a little harder than I'd first anticipated. Amigo was a great dog and Indica got along with him just fine but it didn't take me too long to realize he'd be more comfortable staying where he was, at Hope Rd. Vet Clinic.

From there I, along with my mother, ventured out to the Humane Society who shares a building with Amarillo Animal Control. My hopes for adoption failed there as well but I'll write more about that at another time.

By the time we got to the SPCA it was near closing time so we really didn't get to spend the time I wanted looking through the kennels. I found a small, black and white, male pit bull who seemed calm enough (which is rare in a kennel setting) but when I asked if I could take him for a walk a woman told us he'd already been adopted. Fiddle-sticks.

I think all that happened on a Thursday. Although slightly disappointed that I hadn't found Indica a new boyfriend, I knew that the pieces would fall together when it was the right time.

This is Indica -

On Saturday, I headed up to PetCo where a rescue group from Dalhart (about an hour and a half away) does adoption events every weekend. I had called them earlier in the week but they never called me back. Instead of making the drive, I decided to wait until they came to me. I had looked at the dogs available for adoption on their site but knew better than to think they'd bring the ones I wanted into town. I had specifics in mind: I wanted a male (because 2 females won't get along as well) slightly larger than Indica (so she doesn't beat him up) who was past the puppy stages (for a multitude of reasons) and I wanted him to be a pit bull.

Before I continue, I feel the need to explain the necessity of the pit bull part. I never thought I'd be the kind of person who sought after “a dog like that.” When I was young, I didn't know much about them other than the stereotypes the media has so generously bestowed upon society.

Somewhere around 15 years ago, a man (er, well, an upright walking mammal with a penis whom I affectionately refer to as 'The Nazi') came into my life who fit those stereotypes to a T. Just a meat-headed, ignorant piece of shit who wanted tough looking dogs to distract people from seeing his own multitude of insecurities. He was as mean to the dogs in his life as he was to the people who tried to care. Before I knew of the evil that seeped to his core, he moved in with me and brought Indica and her 5 newly-born puppies. She was only about a year old. I'd always had a dog at one point or another in my life, but having pit bulls in my house was a whole new level of responsibility. I had to learn the hard way – and so did they.

Four of the puppies eventually found new homes. Because of The Nazi's relationships with people of very little moral character, I'm almost positive 2 or 3 of them wound up being fought. I didn't know the signs to look for; this was a whole new world to me. Once the puppies started teething, Indica whapped one of them on the head. I guess it cracked his tiny skull because his head started swelling. That poor little baby screamed bloody murder for days. The swelling only got worse. Eventually, The Nazi finally felt bad enough for the puppy that he drove him out to the country and shot him in the head with a .357 – that was one of the only times I ever saw that monster cry.

Along with Indica, he brought Houdini, her boyfriend. Not only was Houdini small (maybe 35 pounds) his face also bore the scars of being fought. The Nazi said he “rescued” him from a shelter in Hereford. I'm still not too sure how much of that story I believe. He always kept them chained up to poles in the back yard. Normally I would have fought this but there was about a 6-8 month stretch where I was in a drug induced coma. Not only was I not thinking rationally, I was more concerned with my personal safety than that of any pets; I was being beaten on a regular basis, sometimes to the point of hospitalization. The dogs would have been too, so in a weird way it was actually safer for them to be in the back yard. Honestly, I kind of forgot about them – they weren't MY dogs. During that winter, both dogs figured out their chains were long enough to reach the chicken coop for a fractional amount of shelter. Houdini froze to death in that chicken coop right next to Indica and is now buried in my back yard. The moment I realized what a horrible shell of a person I'd become and the unintentional misery I'd inflicted, I sobered up and vowed that no animal under my watch would ever have to suffer like that again.

About a year later, one of The Nazi's friends had stolen a batch of pit bull puppies, but he was homeless and was living with them in the back of his truck. One kept following me around the yard, never leaving my side. He just wanted to be in my lap and I could tell when his eyes met mine that he could see into my soul. I decided this was my new dog. He was soon stricken with Parvo; luckily, a stripper The Nazi was boffing on the side offered to pay for the vet bills to help save him. The vet told me on three separate occasions, “I'm sorry, but this dog isn't going to live.” For weeks while he was on an IV, I went to visit him every day at lunch and took off early every evening to go sit with him and cry and wallow in his vomit until the vet's office closed. He DID live and I named him Darwin.

I was closer to Darwin than I had been to any animal in my entire life. He had a better temperament than Indica which wasn't really her fault – The Nazi had trained her to be aggressive, to attack, and to kill random things. She's better now that she's old and I've been working to regress the negative influences for 15 years. She and Darwin were like Bonnie and Clyde – they got into EVERYTHING together, especially trouble.

During one of our later break-ups, I left Indica with The Nazi (because I was positive he'd never let me have her) and took Darwin to my mother's house. I came back home to get some clothes for work the next day, intending to stay at a friend's house and he asked me where “his” dog was. I said, “He's not your dog.” I got thrown onto my bed, pinned down, punched in the face, and asked again, “Where's my dog!?” I answered again indignantly, “He's not your dog.” This time, he took a lit cigarette and began to burn my eyelashes after another punch. “Bitch, I'll fucking kill you. Where's MY DOG!?” I stayed calm although my teeth were clenched, not really caring whether I lived or died, “HE'S NOT YOUR DOG.” I got punched again and could smell the the lashes of my other eye being singed with Camel ashes while I felt its red-hot cherry growing ever closer to my eyelid. He asked yet again. As the blood from my face intermingled with the spit and tears running down my cheeks, I said one more time, “He's. Not. Your. Dog.” This continued until he realized I would not be broken. Not this time. Bruised and battered once again, I finally escaped the prison-type confinements of my own home.

When I finally got rid of him for good, The Nazi eventually made the only humane decision he's ever made in his life. He knew that Indica and Darwin were inseparable and to take one from the other would only cause them both harm. As a compromise, he decided to take one of the puppies from their last litter together (she only had repeated litters because he refused to let me get her fixed; the last batch of 11 puppies was born 3 days after the SWAT team blew my house up and she got fixed while he was in jail for that). Not surprisingly, that dog is now dead. I heard he made his son dig the hole in which that dog would be buried – while the young boy had a broken arm. I can only assume this was to teach him how to be a “man.”

Darwin and Indica flourished for over a decade together. They were happy and so was I. I had not only learned an otherwise unattainable amount of knowledge about their specific breed, but also of humans and how they treat this particular kind of animal. I had now saved two dogs from an inevitable destination of fighting pits and my soul rested well at night knowing that they had wound up with the cushiest lives they could have ever imagined. Turns out, they're actually the ones who saved ME.

One day at the vet, I noticed a lump on Darwin's side. I had taken him in to see about something on his ear (he had a multitude of health problems but always seemed happy, no matter what) but as soon as the vet walked in I said, “Our priorities just changed.” While I was on a road trip the previous week to visit my brother, Darwin had developed a tumor. We gave him all the medication they could think of and he just kept getting worse. He finally went into surgery and on that day a tech called me. “You should go ahead and come up here.” I broke no less than half a dozen laws speeding to the vet's office that day. They kept his heart beating and his lungs pumping until I showed up. In as little as two weeks, the tumor had eaten its way through his ribs and into his lungs. There was nothing more they could do. Although he was knocked out from the anesthesia, I prayed to every god imaginable that he could hear me say, “It's ok, buddy... mama's here... I love you... you don't have to hurt any more.” When they unplugged the machines, I cried like I'd never cried before. I've lost family members without missing more work than the time it took to go to the funeral, but when I lost Darwin I called in for 2 straight days. “I just can't do it.” I lost him on December 8^th, 2009.

Rest in Peace, Buddy-

These two dogs had been the most loyal, dedicated and loving animals I never knew existed. The problem is, because of their stigma, they have nowhere to go in this town. Animal Control puts them down, no questions asked, without so much as a temperament test. Even the SPCA has gotten to where they won't take any in because of liability concerns.

Once the popularity of any specific breed gains attention for being dangerous, more people seem to want them. They get bred beyond reason and control and their incident numbers skyrocket. It began in England with the Bloodhound in the 1800s, then moved onto the Doberman after World War II because they were so prominently displayed in propaganda as being vicious alongside the actual Nazis. The fear mongering pendulum soon swung toward the German Shepherd and eventually, in the late 1970s, to the Pit Bull. They multiply exponentially due to back yard breeding by people who want to make a quick buck from the “tough guy” up the street who will most likely in turn abuse, neglect or completely abandon them once they figure out they're not as mean as they expected. Now, I had a chance to save another one.

Back at PetCo, they had a circle of pens lined with hay out in front of the store, each containing a variety of cute little furry faces. They repeatedly hopped up and down making tiny, yippy puppy noises as if to say, “Take me home!” A little female black lab nearly leapt into my arms. She was deliciously sweet and obviously starved for attention. They all were. One of the adoption event's coordinators came up to me and said, “She wants to go home with you!” Of course she does. But she's adorable enough that anyone would adopt her. She had hope. I was looking for a much more difficult project.

I explained to the woman we'll call Amber (because I forgot her name and that sounds close enough) my list of wants and mentioned that I'd seen 104 adoptable males on their website. I'd narrowed my selection down to about 2 or 3 because I specifically wanted a pit bull since it's so hard to find them good homes with responsible owners. I said I knew they'd only bring the cutest puppies because it was impossible to transport a couple hundred dogs, most of whom nobody wanted. She looked at me and said, “We have A THOUSAND.” Are you serious!? The Dalhart Animal Rescue started with some 4^th grade kids who began picking up strays, taking them to a local vet to get vaccinated and fixed, then gave them shelter and food. I know their hearts were initially in the right place but now it's clearly overwhelming. Amber told me that there are nine volunteers who work there. NINE people taking care of a THOUSAND dogs. She said when she started she had a section where she cared for about 60 dogs; now her responsibility has easily more than doubled. Those dogs can't possibly be getting any significant amount of individual attention. They're probably lucky if they each get fed daily. I wanted to be able to help them but it was unreasonable to think I could make that drive every day.

She told me about a few dogs she thought we'd like but none of whom actually fit my description. Indica gets to make the choice here, not me, and I'd rather not make a 3 hour drive on a “maybe.” I decided to keep looking around town.

One suggestion was that I look at Craigslist. Some of you may be thinking “that's dangerous!” but since Amarillo is nearly a decade behind the rest of the planet on any social curve, I really don't think we have a section of people about town who want you to pee on them before they rape you. But I was gonna be careful anyway.

The amount of pits people were offering on Craigslist was staggering. People either just couldn't keep up with them anymore or they were moving and couldn't take the dogs with them. I made several inquiries via text and got few replies. Most people had already gotten rid of the listed animal and seemed slightly irritated at my attempts. Well, if you'd take down the add, maybe people would quit contacting you!

One woman called me back and the story was such that I couldn't ignore her pleas for help. It was late in the third week of November; her neighbors had apparently skipped town and just abandoned 2 of their 3 dogs. Rent was due on the 5^th and when their land-lord showed up they weren't there. This neighbor lady didn't figure out the dogs had been locked in the garage until the 12^th. They had no food, what little water they had was frozen, and they were covered in piss and shit, as was the garage. Did the owners just leave town with hope someone would figure it out eventually and save them? Due to the circumstances, it seems to me they essentially left those dogs there to die.

According to Texas State Law:

42.09. Cruelty to Animals
(a) A person commits an offense if the person intentionally or knowingly:

(1) tortures an animal;
(2) fails unreasonably to provide necessary food, care, or shelter for an animal in the person's custody;
(3) abandons unreasonably an animal in the person's custody;

[etcetera]

(c) For purposes of this section:

(1) "Abandon" includes abandoning an animal in the person's custody without making reasonable arrangements for assumption of custody by another person.

(d) An offense under Subsection (a)(2), (3), (4), (9), or (10) is a Class A misdemeanor, except that the offense is a state jail felony if the person has previously been convicted two times under this section.

If I knew how to get these people prosecuted, I would. Unfortunately, I don't know who they are, where they went, or how to even go about the paperwork. Rest assured, one day I WILL be working with Animal Cruelty investigators and I WILL figure out the hoops to jump through. Probably not for the aforementioned shit-bags but for someone equally deserving.

The neighbor lady and the land-lord had no choice but to chain the dogs up in the back yard of the vacant house. They had little igloo houses for some shelter (when they hadn't knotted up their chains too tight to get into them) and the lady had been bringing food and water to them on a fairly regular basis. She had 4 dogs of her own and must have been spending a fortune on feeding them.

I had mom, my little sister Heather, and Indica in tow. I took Indica back to meet the 2 dogs and naturally, they were more than wound up. They had no way to release any energy aside from running in circles until they choked themselves out. They were only about a year old, one male, and one female. The female was immediately aggressive towards Indica and that just flat-out wasn't going to work. I handed Indica to Heather and decided to take the male for a walk to see if I could calm him down. Nope. I was gonna have to have at least a two mile jog in me to make a dent. Not only must our new companion have an acceptable energy level for me, Indica wasn't going to stand for a puppy jumping on her non-stop. It broke my heart to take that little boy back to his chain.

The neighbor lady knew we couldn't call Animal Control because the dogs would be put down immediately. I told her, “Well, as a last resort, we could call the SPCA.” She said, “I already called them. They won't even come out to look at them.” (This is how I discovered they, too, were abandoning this specific breed.) The Dalhart Resuce place will take a pit but they're clearly over capacity. She said she called every other resource either one of us could think of, and that the closest pit bull rescue group was in Dallas but they'd already decided that the 4-5 hour drive was “too far to just pick up two dogs.” I told the woman I'd help spread the word as much as I could. I couldn't help them and there was nobody to call. I cried a little bit on the way back to my truck.

When I got home, I remembered a message I'd failed to return from a friend of mine we'll call Faye. She'd been trying to get a hold of me for about a month concerning her neighbor's dog. I didn't know how to help when she'd first contacted me but now that I was actually looking for a dog, I gave her a call.

Faye and her soon-to-be-husband, Joe, had been watching this dog wither away in their neighbor's back yard with no attention and very little food for about a year. The household consisted of mom, dad, and three young boys. The seven year old was in charge of feeding the dog and I think we all know how responsible a kid that age can be. Most times when parents put their children in charge of feeding an animal and the child forgets, someone more responsible steps in and feeds them. That didn't seem to be the case here. He was also covered in bald, bloodied, scaly patches of mange and had received no medical treatment.

I loaded Indica into the truck and went to scout the situation. I pulled up in my friend's driveway and Joe came out the door. He said, “Nobody's home right now, let's go visit.” The dog was surrounded by a 4 foot chain-link fence visible from the street and wasn't tied up, so he didn't seem to be a fence-jumper. That was good news. He was super friendly and not aggressive AT ALL. Faye and Joe would go next door to love on him when they could and assured me he was just as sweet as he seemed. He put his front feet on the fence and let me love on him too. There was nothing in the back yard but a tree and a lot of dirt. I said, “Where's your water, buddy?” Joe said the kids had told him he eats and drinks in the garage. I said, “But the door's shut.” When they remembered to give him food and water, they denied him access to it. I brought Indica over to the fence to see how she'd react to him. There were lots of new smells to discover along the way, so she didn't seem to interested in him at first. His eyes lit up and his tail began to wag – he was desperate for a new playmate. I asked Joe what the dog's name was. “Bevo.” Well, that's weird but we'll go with it.

Operation: Repo-Bevo was now in effect.

I came home and called mother for a briefing of the situation. She said, “Ok, well, let me know when you need me.” A couple days later I went to her house to borrow an additional leash. I couldn't find Darwin's old one anywhere and figured I'd probably donated it to someone in need and forgotten about it. While mother was rounding up equipment I got a text from Faye, “No one's home right now, btw.” Shit. “Mother, it's go-time.”

Armed with merely an old leash, dirty jeans, a bag of sandwich ham from mother's fridge, and my senior-citizen accomplice, we loaded up in my truck and drove into the sunset to find us a dog.

Gravel and broken tree limbs creaked and crunched under my tires as we crept up the alley. I parked a couple houses down in order to more efficiently conceal my vehicle. In a surgeon's “scalpel” tone, I barked at mother, “Ham!” and instructed her to move into the get-away-driver position.

As I snuck up to his enclosure, I heard the dog bark, but only once. He could probably smell the ham as soon as I exited the truck. I tore off a chunk and fed it to him through the corner of the fence. As I moved toward the gate I realized he was still eating it and I'd probably given him too much. Now he doesn't give a shit that I'm at the gate. Dammit. Once I opened the gate he finally cared enough to come check out what was going on. He was thoroughly appreciative of the ham but every time I reached for his collar to attach the leash, he would run away. He doesn't know me and dogs can sense tension. He couldn't tell I wasn't there to hurt him. I went back to the truck and said, “Mom, this isn't going to work.” We figured it might work better if I wasn't trying to hold ham in one hand and grab his collar with the other while trying to leash him. We went back to the gate and mother continued the ham-feeding. He gobbled it up like he'd never seen ham before. He might not have. No matter how wide we opened the gate, he never would come past the fence line. He ran away one more time and I heard something in front of the house. I didn't know if it was the neighbors making noise or if it was the residents of the lot returning home. I smacked mother on the ass, “GO!” She either didn't hear me or her reflexes are getting slower because she just stood there trying to feed the dog some more. “MOTHER! It's time to LEAVE.” She finally said, “OH! Ok.” We trotted back down the alley and drove away.

A few minutes later I got a text from Faye. “How's Operation: Repo-Bevo coming?” Sadly, the mission has been aborted. She told me her neighbors had indeed returned home so it was a good thing we got out of there when we did. I explained there were just too many things that weren't right about the situation and I felt horribly guilty. Honestly, I had begun to think about just going up to the people's front door and simply asking them if they didn't want the dog. But then if the dog in question should happen to come up missing, I'd pretty much just made myself the main suspect. I'll sleep on it and get back to you.

On the afternoon of November 22^nd, Faye called again. She'd just spoken with the neighbors and they were more than happy to relinquish custody of the dog. Thank Gawd! I got Indica loaded up, went to fetch mother and we were on our way.

When I pulled up in the neighborhood, I first walked up to Faye's door. I had forgotten they were moving that day and didn't realize they wouldn't be home. Bevo's owner came up to me and said, “Are you here about the dog?” Yes, I am. He took me straight back to him. It was love at third sight.

Apparently dude's sister asked him to dog-sit for a while and just never came back. The family never wanted the dog in the first place and with three children, he'd become too much to handle. I saw the sincere regret in the man's eyes and could tell he wasn't a bad person – he was just in a bad position. I asked him if I could take Bevo for a walk with my mama dog and not only did he agree, he handed me his leash.

I had mother walk Indica while I tried to wrangle Bevo. The man told me “I only get to walk him every once in a while.” You might not be a bad person but you're a horrible liar. I don't think this dog has ever been on a leash before but I did my best. Within a span of about 3 blocks I was winded and in pain. I wouldn't consider myself anywhere close to peak physical condition but this was, without a doubt, an extra strenuous exertion. It's time to turn this party around.

When we got back, Faye and Joe were standing out front along with the man, the mom-person and three boys. I hugged Faye and said, “I've finally got my new boy!” Because the energy was completely different, the dog was more than ecstatic about the exchanging of owners. The mom-person looked at me and said, “I was just praying last night that Jesus would send us a miracle, and here you are!” Well, I wouldn't call it a miracle as much as I would good timing, but you're welcome. I thanked them for being so kind and assured them that he would be very well taken care of.

As soon as we dropped Indica back off at the house, I took the dog to my vet to make sure his mange wouldn't spread and schedule an appointment to get him neutered. I don't think I realized how huge he actually was until he was in my lap.

The vet needed to make an additional file for my new fella. “What's his name?” Mother answered, “Bevo.” NO. No, no, no. We are NOT keeping that stupid name. He was used to answering to it so I didn't want to pick something completely different like “Charlie” or “Hank”. After about a 3 second deliberation, I figured out something that stuck.

“His new name is Beau.”

Puppy Love?

(previously posted on November 16, 2011)

I usually watch Indica while she's outside because she's been known to be less than polite to passersbye. I've disposed of one too many a cat to not be on alert while she's past the boundaries of the house walls. I've spent many a winter's day standing in the back doorway in my robe and slippers with snow in my face, cursing the cold and wishing I weren't so responsible. 

Since Darwin died (next month, it will be 2 years ago) she hasn't been nearly as intent on her distruction of other life forms. Maybe because she doesn't have back up. They were always kind of like a tag-team, with Darwin being the "dur-ta-dur" follower. He was never naturally aggressive, he just did what his girlfriend showed him. Unfortunately, Indica was bred and taught to be a fighting dog. (In case you're wondering, NOT by me.) She was encouraged to seek and kill things. Once you get that into a dog like her, it's REALLY hard to reverse it. I learned this the hard way when I was young, ill-informed, and unfamiliar with her strength and temperment. I hold firm in my belief that we're both lucky that she's snuggled up on my couch right now instead of where her fate would have otherwise led her... to a fighting pit, and most likely dead by now. 

Because of her, I learned more about dogs AND people than I probably ever wanted to learn. I know I'm a better person now for it and it's something that will NEVER be reversed. 

Back to the point: I've trained myself that if I'm momentarily distracted from directly watching her while outside, to listen for barks, growls, and other random "flags." Today she was outside when I turned around to pick something up in the kitchen. 

There aren't alleys in my neighborhood, we leave our trash out front for the people to pick up. There is only a chain-link fence and some now wilting grape-vines separating my house from the one behind me. There's a German Shepherd who keeps showing up back there... I don't know if the people own this dog or if that's just where he likes to hang out. The other day I saw them spot each other and I waddled out in my flip-flops to redirect them both. I gave Indica a slippered nudge accompanied by the standard, "Back off the fence," and waved to the Shepherd and said, "Ok, go on." He put his head down and sulked away. 

Today, while briefly distracted, I heard no barks or growls. I looked outside to see them both at the back fence, face to face. To my surprise, she showed every indication that she wanted to play with him. Not eat him - PLAY. There were absolutely NO signs of aggression. She was smiling and doing the "play-bow" and wagging her tail. I watched this go on for several minutes and finally called my mother. "You're not gonna belive this..."

Since Darwin died I've often contemplated whether or not Indica was lonely or if she was happier having a complete run of the house. All the attention, all the treats, all the belly-rubs, and getting to hog the entire couch. I eventually assumed she was happier with the latter and figured she might be stressed with the incorporation of a new dog into our tiny house. As some of you know, she's been VERY sick lately and I'm trying to keep her as comfortable as possible during her last days... but today my whole view-point shifted.

In her vain attempt to play through the fence, I saw her friskier than she's been in ages. Really, since Darwin died. She IS lonely and I honestly belive now that she DOES want a new boyfriend.

While talking with mother I decided to call out to Hope Rd. Vet clinic and see if they had any male pits who needed a new home. I know the dogs out there are well socialized and non-aggressive, and that the vet staff does as much as they can for as long as they can but that they can't feed them all forever.

They have a black and white pit mix named Amigo who's up for adoption and who needs a special home because he's shy; he was badly abused. They said he needs to be an inside dog, which he would be. I haven't really ever worked with a shy dog, but now's as good a time as ever. He's super mellow, which is a bonus because Indica's so old. I don't think she'd appreciate puppy energy hopping all over her. He's also bigger than she is, which should keep any potential bullying to a minimum. (Whether we like it or not, she's gonna be the dominant one in this equation.) At this point in time, I'm pretty much home all day, so now would be the opportune moment to be able to supervise the new adjustment.

So much about this feels SO right, but then again, I know that once I put my heart into something I'm usually disappointend. I'll be taking Indica out there today to see if Amigo is indeed intended to be her new boyfriend. SHE's the one who gets to make the decision - not me. If it works out, YAY! If not, we'll keep looking.

If having another four-legged companion is what my mama dog needs to keep a spark in her through her last days, that's what I'll do. Right now, having another mouth to feed isn't really the optimum ideal but if it brings us BOTH some happy, I don't really see how it could be wrong.