forces of nature

My husband made a funny comment recently about our two rescue dogs. He said they’re like thunder and lightning. I suppose he means that Maizy is sleek and nimble; and that Grant is low and loud. Or maybe he means that if they’re left in the house together too long, something is going to get wet. Regardless, it got me thinking about how rescue dogs are like the proverbial Forrest Gump box of chocolates: you really never know what you’re gonna get. Some are light and fluffy, some are dark and bitter. Then there are the ones I seem to pick out, who are 20% sweet and 80% nuts.

Grant is a perfect example. First of all, why do rescue services and pet shelters feel compelled to say a dog is “part poodle” when they really have no idea of its lineage? Is it because poodles are supposed to be mellow and low-shed? Grant is allegedly “part poodle,” but he looks like the product of a love-in between a raccoon, a duck and a baby hippo; and he barks like a Saint Bernard. I am guessing a lot of stars had to align just right for a dog like Grant to exist, and I’m pretty sure most of them would scare the bejesus out of your average poodle. Just tell me the dog is “half shih-tzu, half no idea” and I’ll take my chances.

Secondly, why are rescue shelters so hesitant to tell you the dog has anxiety management issues? Wouldn’t that be an ideal way to weed out the serious shoppers? If I had been locked in a cage and/or tied to a tree all day, I would certainly have anxiety management issues. In fact, anyone going in for a rescue dog and not prepared for this little hindrance might want to reconsider their options.

I was told Grant had “an excitable personality.” Here’s how I found out what, exactly, that entailed: We were walking down the sidewalk about a week after I got Grant. As we approached a cross-street, up rides an eight-year-old boy on his Big Wheel. I didn’t know how Grant would react to a child but I sure knew he was afraid of things that rolled. So I pulled up on the leash, and we stopped. The kid, who had seen us coming and had started to slow down, saw me put Grant into a “sit” so he started pedaling again. I had seen the kid beginning to slow, so Grant and I resumed walking. The kid saw this and threw on the brakes. And on it went. He stopped. We started. He started. We stopped. He stopped. We started. You’d think one of us would have just turned around and gone the other way, but no. It was like being locked in a Death Star tractor beam for idiots.

Mercifully, one of our stops finally overlapped one of his stops, and we found ourselves about a foot away from each other. Grant starts jumping around and panting, bright-eyed and wagging his tail. I am still holding the leash like a madwoman, but feeling encouraged. The kid sees this dog-like show of enthusiasm and, understandably, begins to stick out his index finger oh-so-tentatively. As he leans in, the Big Wheel’s big wheel moves, almost imperceptibly.

"BARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARR !!!!!!" Grant freaks. The kid screams and flees. I holler and pull back so hard on the leash that the dog goes airborne and we both hit the ground. I grunt. He yelps. Neighbors start flying out of houses. One of them is holding half a hamburger. Grant morphs back into bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed mode almost immediately. When my vision finally clears, the dog is sitting up eagerly, his tail thumping on the grass.

If there’s a moral here, it’s this: When it comes to calming a frightened rescue animal, food is the answer. Actually, when it comes to Grant, food is always the answer. In Grant’s case, he doesn’t even care if there was a question. And in that sense, the thunder analogy is truly on-target ... but that rumble you’re hearing isn’t the sky, it’s the stomach.