So many emotions.
My dog Chloe is about 15 years old, a Corgi mix rescue that arrived at the shelter with no documentation. I don’t know her background or true age.
Regardless of the number, she is old, and I’m not far behind her.
My friend, who knew I’d lost my husband and my mother recently, and that one of my two Corgis had died weeks before, called to tell me she’d seen a Corgi mix for adoption at the shelter in Erie, PA and thought I might be interested.
Initially, I wasn’t. It was too soon. I wasn’t ready. I was too sad. I knew the remaining Corgi Clancy was feeling sad too, though. He’d never been the only dog in the house.
In less than an hour I was driving the fifty miles to Erie. The shelter staff was busy and suggested I could just look around at the dogs for a bit. So I did.
There were a lot of dogs there. Labs and collies and Chihuahuas. I found Chloe near the end, huddled against the back wall of her cage. As soon as I approached, she crouched down, a soft warning growl from deep in her throat. I sat down on the concrete floor and talked to her softly. She never stopped growling.
After a while I went back out to the desk and said I wanted to meet her. The worker looked me at, surprised, and said “She’s not very friendly. She growls a lot.”
But when I mildly insisted, she took me to a tiny room with two plastic chairs and asked me to sit. She’d bring the dog.
Chloe came in on a leash, growling. She paced around the perimeter, still growling. I had brought chicken breast for treats and I held out a piece to her. It took quite a while until she approached, keeping her body as far away as possible, stretching out for the chicken, growling low. It sounded more like “Please don’t hurt me” than “I will hurt you.”
But she took the treats. Slowly she came closer. She sat down at my feet and took the chicken. I held the treat in one hand and as she took it, I stroked her shoulder. She was STILL growling, but made no move to complete her quiet threats. Chicken is powerful.
I lifted her onto my lap, which made the worker very nervous. But Chloe just took bits of chicken and softly growled. The next morning, I brought Clancy to meet her and they were neither friendly or angry. They sniffed and mostly ignored each other. I said, “I want her.”
We did the paperwork and I paid. Chloe walked on the leash to my car and jumped up on the window ledge at the back and growled for fifty miles. Clancy stretched out in the back seat and slept.
At the house, she growled but willingly walked beside me. I took of the leash and let her explore. She found Clancy and I in the living room, sat down, and watched me, head cocked. In time, she came to my chair and jumped onto my lap. I stroked her coat and offered both of them the last of the chicken. We all three thought, well, I guess we’ve all adopted each other.
Clancy, at 19.5 years, died. Chloe and I bonded closer.
Now, here we are, in our little apartment, both of us not what we once were. She is very nearly blind and deaf. We now have a set of steps by the bed. She still easily climbs up and down but she waits until I stretch out my arms to either side, I think so I can catch her if it goes wrong. She sleeps closer, maybe so I can watch her or maybe so she can watch me. Even Chloe doesn’t talk.
Eventually, the chronic growling stopped. Not once has she snapped, not at me, not at anyone else. Once, in the park she chased a boy who came at us to retrieve a misthrown Frisbee and stumbled close to me. No biting, just barking and chasing away.
Both of us constantly remind me of the Robert Frost poem The Oven Bird.
“ There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.”
[media=https://youtube.com/shorts/MBbJyWULcd8?si=yBfzN_3gTaZ9z9mJ]
Regardless of the number, she is old, and I’m not far behind her.
My friend, who knew I’d lost my husband and my mother recently, and that one of my two Corgis had died weeks before, called to tell me she’d seen a Corgi mix for adoption at the shelter in Erie, PA and thought I might be interested.
Initially, I wasn’t. It was too soon. I wasn’t ready. I was too sad. I knew the remaining Corgi Clancy was feeling sad too, though. He’d never been the only dog in the house.
In less than an hour I was driving the fifty miles to Erie. The shelter staff was busy and suggested I could just look around at the dogs for a bit. So I did.
There were a lot of dogs there. Labs and collies and Chihuahuas. I found Chloe near the end, huddled against the back wall of her cage. As soon as I approached, she crouched down, a soft warning growl from deep in her throat. I sat down on the concrete floor and talked to her softly. She never stopped growling.
After a while I went back out to the desk and said I wanted to meet her. The worker looked me at, surprised, and said “She’s not very friendly. She growls a lot.”
But when I mildly insisted, she took me to a tiny room with two plastic chairs and asked me to sit. She’d bring the dog.
Chloe came in on a leash, growling. She paced around the perimeter, still growling. I had brought chicken breast for treats and I held out a piece to her. It took quite a while until she approached, keeping her body as far away as possible, stretching out for the chicken, growling low. It sounded more like “Please don’t hurt me” than “I will hurt you.”
But she took the treats. Slowly she came closer. She sat down at my feet and took the chicken. I held the treat in one hand and as she took it, I stroked her shoulder. She was STILL growling, but made no move to complete her quiet threats. Chicken is powerful.
I lifted her onto my lap, which made the worker very nervous. But Chloe just took bits of chicken and softly growled. The next morning, I brought Clancy to meet her and they were neither friendly or angry. They sniffed and mostly ignored each other. I said, “I want her.”
We did the paperwork and I paid. Chloe walked on the leash to my car and jumped up on the window ledge at the back and growled for fifty miles. Clancy stretched out in the back seat and slept.
At the house, she growled but willingly walked beside me. I took of the leash and let her explore. She found Clancy and I in the living room, sat down, and watched me, head cocked. In time, she came to my chair and jumped onto my lap. I stroked her coat and offered both of them the last of the chicken. We all three thought, well, I guess we’ve all adopted each other.
Clancy, at 19.5 years, died. Chloe and I bonded closer.
Now, here we are, in our little apartment, both of us not what we once were. She is very nearly blind and deaf. We now have a set of steps by the bed. She still easily climbs up and down but she waits until I stretch out my arms to either side, I think so I can catch her if it goes wrong. She sleeps closer, maybe so I can watch her or maybe so she can watch me. Even Chloe doesn’t talk.
Eventually, the chronic growling stopped. Not once has she snapped, not at me, not at anyone else. Once, in the park she chased a boy who came at us to retrieve a misthrown Frisbee and stumbled close to me. No biting, just barking and chasing away.
Both of us constantly remind me of the Robert Frost poem The Oven Bird.
“ There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.”
[media=https://youtube.com/shorts/MBbJyWULcd8?si=yBfzN_3gTaZ9z9mJ]
