Rescue dogs are, sadly, the metaphorical dime a dozen.
There’s a never-ending supply, thanks to a lack of spaying and neutering, or in some cases neglect and even cruelty on the part of humans.
The pandemic saw a huge spike in adoptions as people were confined to their homes, and now many of those dogs are being cast out or given up. Some are victims of a post-pandemic reality that sees people having to go back to the office, while in other cases their humans were just unprepared for what it takes to have a pet.
Owning a dog represents a significant responsibility. It requires a commitment, a willingness to devote time to their needs and their development. They don’t come out of the box, so to speak, with perfect behavior and an automatic understanding of what we expect from them.
Most dogs come into this world as good-hearted beasts with an innate desire to please and to love, but all of them require development and patience. They’re not a fashion accessory at the end of a leash.
My wife and I have fostered and found homes for a continual stream of rescue dogs over the past couple of years. They’re all different. Some were young and wildly energetic; others were in their last years, after a life that probably included far too little joy. A few had issues such as separation anxiety, or reactivity to people or other dogs.
We keep them and try our best to resolve these issues with training and love before passing them on. Last year we had a beautiful female shepherd named Luna who’d been chained up on the island with her puppies. It took four months to train her out of her reactivity to people, a feat we accomplished with some help from the excellent Maggi McClure; and eventually, we found her a wonderful home on Lummi Island where, we hear, she runs endlessly up and down the beach every day chasing waves.
People often ask how we can give up these dogs after developing bonds with them; mostly it’s not hard, because we see them go to great homes and new, fulfilling lives; but Luna was the one dog that part of me will always regret not keeping — she was special.
And of course, we have our own “failed foster” story.
Petey came to us a year ago; he was ancient, deaf and broken, a dog who’d apparently been chained up on concrete and finally given away to a homeless person when his owner decided he didn’t want an old, deaf dog. He has a poorly healed broken hip, presumably the result of being hit by a car at some point.
Yet despite this sad history, Petey is a wonderful dog who just wanted to curl up next to us and be loved. So it was rather inevitable that we fell in love with him; and one evening, over rather too much wine with friends, we decided that he deserved to spend his remaining years being pampered, and we duly signed the papers to adopt him.
Since then, he’s blossomed: the dog that came to us unexercised and emotionally shut down is now a sweetheart of an animal who delights in long woodland walks, and who greets everyone with a wagging tail. To say this is gratifying is an understatement.
That tail, by the way, is something of a minor miracle. It didn’t work at all when he arrived. But Petey is now “employed” regularly as a demo dog for Lola Michelin’s classes at the Northwest School of Animal Massage, and a few months ago one of her instructors somehow fixed the issues in his rear end and he emerged from the class with a tail that was restored to full wagginess.
Our current foster is Billy, a five-year-old American Staffordshire terrier whose aged owner died of a heart attack in Seattle in April.
As I said, some dogs have issues, but Billy isn’t one of them. He’s the easiest dog we’ve ever fostered: affectionate — he’s a great snuggler — fun, and totally chill. He loves kids and other dogs and is just a delight to have around. If it wasn’t for the difficulty of finding dog-sitting for three critters when we travel, we’d probably keep him.
Selfishly, I’m hoping that someone on the island adopts him so we can continue to hang out with him from time to time. (If any reader is seriously interested, Billy comes with unlimited free dog-sitting!)
As I’ve noted in these pages before, the world’s a mess and we can’t fix that. Making life better for one dog at a time is undoubtedly meaningless in the grand scheme of things. But to the dog concerned, it’s everything.
Phil Clapham is a retired whale biologist who lives on Maury Island. Billy is available for adoption; please email desertislandbookworm@gmail.com for details.
