I like to think that it is for the companionship, mainly because I try to keep in my mind, that all people have a good soul. After all, humans are a nurturing species that instinctively have a burning need to care for all that is weak and vulnerable. We boast about how we are the more intelligent species, the most rational. Yes, I think for the majority of dog owners out there, it is the thought that this one creature will be waiting happily for you, even if you did something horrible a few hours ago. This unknowingly loving creature will always look to you and wag that whip like tail at just the sight of you. It doesn’t matter if you scolded them that morning for leaving you a present on the floor; they forgive you and are blissfully happy that you are back home. They hold no grudges for your outburst of anger that they redecorated your kitchen with leftovers and tin foil. They still show you affection even if you push them away because you had a bad day.

I sit back and look at my pack members and rescue dogs everyday. I wonder how they can be so forgiving after the lives they had. I mean seriously, if we as humans went through what they went through, we would most likely be sending our therapist’s child through some Ivy League college. Just look at my Staffie, Axel. This amazing creature lived in a run for a good portion of his life, coming out occasionally to play with the volunteers at a rescue group, never really having a consistent owner, until now. The first time he came to me he was like a freight train of energy. He had been so pent up he literally could not sit still for more then 1.5 seconds. We joked because his leg muscles were so well defined, that he looked like a Staffie on steroids; but really the reason for it was incredibly sad. He would race back and forth in his little run, jump up and down like a pogo stick just to keep his mind busy. So I wonder, what would I be like if I was stuck in a run for 2 years with only an occasional outing for play with another human? Would I be so quick to accept another human as a companion?

Axel’s experience with people had been his daily caretakers that fed him and let him into his outdoor pen. Even though he never had a constant human companion, he greets me everyday with a play bow and a body so full of happiness that he looks like he will explode out of his fur. How can he be this excited to see me? He did not grow up with humans loving him and caring for him like a furry child, he was not conditioned for this. But alas, he is a dog, a forgiving and loving creature we as humans take for granted everyday.

Then there is Tyson, a recently rescued staffie. When I was asked to take him on through a local bull breed advocacy group Love-a-Bull, I had my doubts that this magnificent animal would ever be able to bond with a human. He and his sister had been chained outside with no human interaction for 4 years with an occasional bowl of food tossed to them. The heroes at Love-a-Bull rescued him and brought him to me in hopes that we could help him become a better canine citizen. This is a dog that had no reason to even look at humans unless it was to protect his territory. He never knew what a gentle touch felt like; he never experienced the soft praise a caring human could speak to reward him for just being there. No, his life was spent in the backyard, attached to a truck chain, as an object of social status. His life was selfishly used as a trophy for humans, looking big and bad so a human could brag his dog was tougher than the other neighborhood dogs. Why would this dog tr ust any human? How can I expect him to not stiffen up when I try to pet him, he never felt a loving touch before. How can I be surprised that he cannot give me accepting eye contact for my soft praise, has he ever had a human just lovingly talk to him? Why should he care if he pleases any human or me? Honestly, no human ever gave a crap about him, why should he even give me the time of day.

With all this in my mind, I spent the first couple of days secretly wondering how I could tell the rescue group that for the first time in my career, I have failed. I was certain I would never be able to show this dog that not all humans were harsh, greedy creatures looking to use him as a substitute for their own lacking strengths. Would I believe that? Would you? It had taken four years for any human to step up and even care enough to take the weight of that chain off his neck. It took four years for him to feel what it was to run around and actually play with his sister. I would be foolish to think I can change him in a short time, if I could at all.

Then came day three of being in my care. I approached his kennel (more of a safe built for dogs, being he has never been crated before) and asked him to wait while I put his collar on. This for the past couple of days was a very long process of waiting longer than your average human has the patience to wait. He immediately sat down and waited patiently for me to place the collar on him. As shocked as I was and as badly as I had wanted to do a joyful little dance right there, I contained myself and kept my calm demeanor. As I slipped the collar on, he leaned forward and put his enormous muzzle in my face. Now this is a strange situation I placed myself in, I never leave myself unprotected. I make it a point to constantly preach to my daughter to never place yourself in a dangerous or vulnerable position when working with our rehab cases. Yet here I am, literally face to face with a dog that has no reason to not bite the person that has been controlling him for the last co uple of days. But this morning, I was the student.

With his nose at my chin, he was slowly taking in short little sniffs. I was hoping I didn’t smell like breakfast. Then he very gently gave me a little kiss to the chin. In my mind I took it as a thank you. I thanked him back softly and gave him a big facial massage. He leaned into it with such force that I was nearly taken off balance. This literally brought tears to my eyes. The fact that this poorly treated dog that lived as confined as he had, could show affection to a human in such a short time absolutely amazed me. Seventy-two hours of having shelter, food, and kindness made four years of neglect truly a thing of the past.

Yes, that must be it. We love to have a dog because they are so forgiving and full of love.

Tara Stermer is a Canine Aggression and Behavior Specialist that has spent 20 years researching canine pack behaviors and aggression issues. For more behavior tips about your dog visit www.trainingbytara.com

Knowing her as I do, I more or less expected that I’d have difficulty understanding what she was saying and that she’d be drooling uncontrollably. What I didn’t expect was that she’d lunge at me when I leaned down to kiss her.

No one disputed that she belonged in a home, not I and certainly not any of her kids. She had become unpleasant, even dangerous to herself and to everyone around her. She fell down stairs, got into unprovoked fights with neighbours, and couldn’t control her bodily functions. There really wasn’t any choice.

I visited a number of places before settling on The Bushes. There was Roverdale, which I found a bit too diverse for someone of her pedigree. There was Paws-a- Moment Convalescent Facility, which Jesse said smelled sterile and boring. And there was Play Dead Until You’re Not Playing Estates, which was just morbid.

Since entering the facility, Jesse’s list of complaints has lengthened by the day. She says she marks the nurses’ station only to find an hour later that somebody has marked over the same spot. She claims that her roommate cries all night. She says that the attendants are stealing her treats, then selling them to visitors who bring her the same treats as gifts.

There’s more. She thinks someone is putting fleas in her bed so The Bushes can charge the insurance company for extra baths. She believes the place is using generic food that contains dog parts, although she grudgingly admits that she looks forward to chicken offal Thursdays. She believes the old guy who lives down the corridor is doing more than just saying “Hi” when he sniffs her butt.

She also says that the activities organised by the institution are of no interest to her. They tried to get her to join the chorus, but she told them that the only time she sang with others was when a coyote passed through the neighborhood.

Nor does Movie Night provide respite from her unhappiness. Most recently, they showed “101 Dalmatians,” a film she had gone to see more than ten times in her youth. But when she walked into the “community room” for the screening, she saw eleven of the film’s stars sitting with open mouths, mottled spots, and dry noses. Depressed, she went back to her room, the tick-tick-tick of her toenails on the linoleum echoing off the walls.

Jesse did find one pleasure when she came to The Bushes. It was Bingo. During her first two weeks there, she was at Bingo every night. Sadly, that simple pleasure vanished last Friday when Bingo unexpectedly passed away.

Jesse constantly asks why one of her children can’t take her in. I’m reluctant to tell her that they don’t remember her. For that matter, they don’t remember each other. In fact, if Jesse herself ran into one of them on the street she’d be as likely to rip into his flank as nuzzle it.

“Convalescent homes,” as we like to call them, aren’t really places where someone goes to get better. At 14, the prospects are slim that Jesse will again roam the woods, catch a Frisbee with all four feet off the ground, or take a midnight circuit of the house to make sure that everyone’s in bed.

I can’t help but ask myself whether we sent Jesse to The Bushes for her own welfare or for our convenience. True, the picking and mopping up had become tedious and irritating. True, she growled at our son when he grabbed a tuft of her hair. True, her breath and flatulence required apologies all around. But does all of this add up to justification for sending her to a strange, impersonal place to live out her days?

I’m not sure. What I do know is that things were a lot simpler before we had the option of shipping a loved one to a place out of sight and out of mind. The expansion of our choices has made life harder. Reverting to the notion that an old, loving and faithful member of the family is entitled to a permanent place beside the hearth would doubtlessly make our lives more difficult. But it would also tacitly affirm that incapacity should not lessen the value we assign to life—canine or otherwise.

by Mark Steinberg. Mark is a retired Los Angeles attorney and former Clinton Administration official whose essays may be found at http://rejectedopeds.blogspot.com/

With the recent front page tabloids featuring distraught young Hollywood celebs (with perfectly made up faces and hair) revealing shameful secrets like ex-boyfriend forced me to have lipo and “I had to be perfect”, Sheila Appleby Williams had the courage to come forward and make her announcement.

“I knew this wasn’t going to be a 50/50 relationship from the start, but I had no idea how out of balance and one sided it would become” said Ms. Williams as a slew of reporters and animal rights activists assembled to hear her statement.

The pattern is a familiar one according to a number of therapists. “People can have unhealthy relationships when they lose objectivity,” explains counselor Marty Tousley, RN, MS, CS. Tousley notes that human-animal bonds are unhealthy when we expect our pets to take the place of people. Many women (there might be a few men- but they’re usually too ashamed to speak up), mostly single and often middle -aged empty nesters are easy victims. The need to be in a committed relationship and to nurture is deeply ingrained in women and when that need is unfulfilled, well the huge emptiness becomes an aching void. And that void is most commonly filled by the irresistible charm of a devoted “furry baby” eager to lick the hand that feeds him/her.

“Well, that’s how it was at the beginning,” tearfully confessed Ms. Williams to the crowd. “At first, she (referring to her significant pooch, Miss Phoebe Rose) seemed grateful for whatever little thing I did for her or gave her to eat. She made few if any demands and showered me with affection. I was in heaven; it was like an absolute honeymoon. She would follow me from room to room and couldn’t bear to let me out of her sight. She slept cuddled in my arms all night with her head resting on the pillow beside me.”

“I don’t know exactly when things started to change, or on second thought, maybe I do,” confessed Ms. Williams. “I think it all began to change when I took her to play at a friend’s home. My friend has a very nice large home (much fancier than mine) and I could see how much Phoebe enjoyed the extra space and luxurious over sized chairs. She paid particular attention to the king size pillow top mattress and Italian 400 thread count sheets. She didn’t want to leave and when I got her home, she looked at me in a different way than before- sort of a questioning look, with her head tilted to the side – like she needed some answers, and then realizing that I didn’t have any to give her, she slowly and deliberately made her way to the living room couch and left me to sleep alone in the bed. This would become a familiar pattern. When I did something to displease her or wouldn’t buy her a special toy or designer outfit, she would punish me by ignoring me, sometimes not making a sound for days, no licks and refuse to come when I called her name (well, actually that was never one of her strong points).

The real abuse began when I took her to off leash dog parks- she loved to run free and play with the other dogs. The problem was she would follow the other people and sometimes try to climb into their cars. People would smile and act amused, but I know what they were thinking “a public display of rejection like that is very difficult to ignore.”

“We’re in canine couples therapy now,” admitted Ms. Williams. “I don’t want to give up on the relationship and our therapist thinks that we can work through this.”

Accurate statistics on pet inflicted human abuse is not available since most dysfunctional canine/human relationships go unreported due to the stigma and shame.

by Sheila Appleby Williams

I am sure no career counselor would ever suggest that a candidate start an interview with a, bordering on inappropriate, question. But this was a deal breaker to me, if I could not take my dog abroad, then I was not going abroad. Thankfully, the interviewee, who must have heard some strange things in her time, calmly answered,” Yes, you can take your dog, but why don’t we take some time first to introduce ourselves and talk about your qualifications.” Knowing my dog could join me, I relaxed and was eventually hired to direct the office in Almaty, Kazakhstan.

The time before my departure was, supposedly, full of logistical decisions, emotional goodbyes and anxiety about the decision to live abroad. However, my real order of business (renting my home, storing my stuff and selling my car be damned) was to train Brownie to get her comfortable in her carrier since she was going to be traveling under the plane with the luggage. Don’t get me wrong, Brownie has had a lot of training experience. It is just that up until this point, she was the trainer not the trainee. Let’s just say the dog treat industry got a bump that quarter. We also spent an inordinate amount of time pimping out the interior of the carrier so she would feel comfortable. It was like I Dream of Jeannie’s bottle in there, complete with rugs, pillows and maybe a couple of pictures of us together. We went to the vet to get micro chipped, updated shots and anti anxiety medication for the airplane ride. We were good to go.

On the way to the airport, I gave her the anti-anxiety medication that I hoped would help, though I should have taken it myself. As it turned out, I did not need to train her for her carrier, since she got so completely freaked out by all the hustle and bustle of the airport that she literally ran into it the second I took it out of the car. I said goodbye to her at the gate and hoped that it would all work out. I am not sure whose heart was beating faster or louder at that point.

Upon landing at the Frankfurt Germany airport, I was able to call the animal transfer center and check up on her. They reported that she went to the bathroom, ate food, drank water and was playing with one of the handlers. All lies. My dog does not eat when she is freaked out, nor does she play with me let alone strangers. Really, at that point, I was just glad she was still alive and did not have a stress related heart attack. Me? Well, I was not quite sure I was in the clear yet for an anxiety ridden death. Twenty-four hours later, I landed in Almaty, Kazakhstan and made my way through customs to search out my girl. Sitting in her little crate next to the baggage claim conveyor belt was my little doggy. She was just sitting there happy as could be watching the parade of people walk by. I do not know whose face lit up more at our reunion. I took her out of her crate and she promptly pooped at baggage claim. Ah, welcome to Kazakhstan. Nothing like introducing myself to my new staff while apologizing in a language that is not understood and furiously cleaning up after a dog. It was a less than auspicious beginning.

Just in case I didn’t stick out enough as a foreigner, it was good to have a small dog trailing me everywhere I went to really reinforce I was different. She sat in on my Russian language lessons, had a Russian dog walker and made friends everywhere she went. In fact, the combination of her attending my lessons and her non English speaking dog walker were especially productive for Brownie and resulted in her understanding way more Russian than me by the end. All in all, we did pretty well there for the 18 months.

I was not nearly as nervous about the return trip home as I was going there. Though she did not need to be quarantined upon return, she did need a much more extensive passport than I did. On the return trip I put up only one picture of her and Lena (dog walker) in the crate to remind her of her big adventure. I thought that was only fair, since I had already pasted a picture of the two of us in her passport.

My name is Claire Mathews. I live in North Wilmington DE with my husband Jim, our daughter Emily, Ziggy our cat, and two dogs, Buster and Peanut.

Buster joined our family 10 years ago. I had just had my second of five miscarriages. We were living with my recently widowed mother-in-law, Pinky, and saving for a nicer house. With her blessing, we went to the SPCA in Newark to “look” at dogs. While I wanted a full grown dog, my husband and daughter were hoping for a puppy. A man was walking in with 7 spaniel terrier mix puppies as we arrived, and my then four year old daughter was immediately drawn to one of the puppies. Needless to say, Buster became part of our family that day. I was 34. Within two hours, I discovered I was a dog person. OK, I’ll admit it, a dog NUT. Because of my emotional state over my miscarriages, I became quite attached to this little puppy. I would cuddle him in my arms after work each day, and even hand fed him. My husband soon became frustrated with the time I was devoting to our new family member and even said to me “your husband and daughter need you too.” My response was immediate and deeply felt- “this may be the only little boy I’ll ever have. Please don’t take this away from me.”

2009 was a rough year for us. Financially strapped and in a house we owe more on than is worth, I had 3 car accidents, we learned Buster had bladder cancer, and in November finally had a much needed double full knee replacement, and then kicked an addiction to pain medicine (the 3rd time in three years, thanks in part to a childhood bone disease that caused the severe arthritis and chronic pain in my knees at a relatively young age, severe enough to require the dreaded knee replacement surgery, and even required the use of a walker at times). Buster’s prognosis was that with chemotherapy and oral medications the best we could hope for was 10-12 months. After contemplating divorce and then attending marriage counseling, Jim and I are committed to making our marriage work. Our finances, while not as desperate as some, are now the worst they have been in 16 years of marriage. Buster’s cancer treatment went on a credit card (along with food and medical bills), we are still paying for thousands in deductibles for the car accidents, and our precious and sweet daughter will be attending public school next year after a lifetime in catholic school. She’s taking one for the team, I keep telling her, though she does not find any humor in it. Jim and I have taken out early withdrawals from our IRAs and 401(k)s to pay taxes and the mortgage the last few years, and we both have loans against our 401(k)s. We are currently negotiating a lower mortgage payment with our mortgage company. I am thankful that we are still in our house, that we are both employed, and that we are all happy and healthy (except for Buster’s cancer). We are thankful that the cancer did not appear when he was 2 or 5, but wish he was 15. At 10, he is full of life, prances around the house with his favorite stuffed bone, and in all of his 10 years, I can say truthfully that he has not been a pain in the ass for so much as 15 minutes. Really. He is the family dog extraordinaire. We have much to be thankful for.

Peanut, our overweight Beagle, was an underweight rescue dog I got from Petfinder.com about 6 years ago. She is afraid of her own shadow, and when I brought her home it took her three full days before I saw her wag her tail. I remember it vividly, and cried like a baby when I saw it. She follows Buster everywhere. He, in true Buster fashion, tolerates his constant sidekick graciously, though I would just love to know for 5 minutes what he truly thinks of the arrangement.

Now, Buster’s holiday story.

Tuesday Dec 29th, 1:45 p.m. I was getting ready to go to physical therapy, hoping for another great session. It was only on Dec. 26th that the sciatica pain in the left leg just disappeared. I even cancelled the appointment that was scheduled for injections into the spine to help with that unexpected result from surgery. I was able to finally sit AND stand for longer and longer periods of time, and only on that Monday did I finally see the light at the end of the tunnel after being physically (and mentally) restricted for over 3 years. It was a wonderful feeling. Rubbed Buster’s belly, said goodbye to Jim and Emily and off to physical therapy I went. I returned at 2:55, just over an hour after I had left. I noticed the gate to the backyard was open and asked Jim how long it had been open. He was splitting firewood on the side yard. He said he wasn’t sure. Within 5 min of entering the home, I knew Buster was gone. He had no collar or tags on as the dogs have a doggie door, and with a fenced yard that the Beagle had dug under before, we never wanted them to get caught on the fencing. Now all I could think about was that he would look like a stray who didn’t belong to anyone.

We jumped in the car, windows down, constantly squeaking his toys out the window as we called his name. He was nowhere to be found. Borrowed a second car from the neighbor, asked a family friend to come help, and still nothing. Emily had started to worry about Buster needing his daily cancer Rx. We were all almost instantly heartsick over the thought that we couldn’t find him. Emily made up a flyer after looking for him for 3 hours, and then after I collapsed in a ball, paralyzed with fear and panic, a family friend took her out for another 3 hrs that night in the dark with a flashlight. Still, no Buster. That family friend was dealing with the one year anniversary of her 42 yr. old husband’s untimely death and still helped Emily to feel some sense of empowerment by driving her in the dark. It is more than any 14 yr. old should have to carry on her shoulders. I am so proud of her. I let her know that she did right by Buster. Dee, my dear friend and recent widow, had been approached by a nice woman out walking her dog and had her name and number on a slip of paper for me. Said the nice lady wanted me to call to let her know if ever found him etc. At 2 a.m. I still couldn’t sleep so got in my car and went through the empty streets, calling his name as loud as I could, squeaking his favorite toy out the window. Still, no Buster. Prayers to St. Francis that he be safe and warm, or that he be at peace, I repeated day after day. The rain and snow hit Wednesday and Thursday, New Year’s Eve. Asked for Mark Kelleher’s help, our personal angel, the recently deceased husband of my good friend Dee, whom I always associate with being the kind of person, who, upon entering our home, would ALWAYS (not just most of the time, but ALWAYS) kneel down to Buster’s eye level to say hello to him. He was an extraordinary husband, father and man. Mark, please help keep Buster safe or at peace. I couldn’t bear the thought of him out there, in the bitter cold rain and snow. In his entire life, Buster had not spent so much as a summer night outside alone. He certainly couldn’t survive in this weather. I called the animal hospital on Wednesday to cancel his ultrasound appointment.

Over the four days from when he went missing until New Year’s Day, over 300 flyers and posters were stapled up on telephone poles, or distributed to anyone I ran into, from the local UPS man, to both New Castle County Police and Delaware State Troopers, to 3 different mail carriers, neighbors, gas stations, coffee houses, the dog park, etc. I was running on empty but knew I NEEDED to do whatever I could and more, that I needed to do right by this dog and by my daughter. It is in my nature to live with no regrets, and unless I did everything I could I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. Depression was once again creeping into my life, but at an alarming rate. I cannot recall ever feeling such despair. We called about 20-30 vets, put an ad in the paper, on craig’s list and my friend Dee even helped us set up the email address “busterislost@yahoo.com. Asked friends to circulate the flyer to any email distribution lists they might have in their email history. Called DE Animal Control and had his picture and flyer on their website. Still, no calls. Borrowed stapled guns from 3 different neighbors, as I didn’t even have the time to go to Home Depot to buy one.

In my heart I knew he was gone, dead, hopefully with no suffering. I thought if someone had him that we would have heard something by now. I couldn’t bear to think of him suffering outside, cold and hungry. Worse yet, if someone had him and didn’t know he had bladder cancer, that according to the vet if he got totally blocked that it is an unusually agonizingly painful way to die. Peanut and the rest of us were a mess. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Buster, where ARE you?

Jim had spent hours checking nearby woods for his body, wanting desperately to bring him home, dead or alive. He felt so guilty about the gate and to make matters worse, he was not able to get any time off at his job. He felt so helpless.

My parents came to stay for a few days for emotional support. The house was so quiet without Buster’s nails click clicking on the wood floors. But through all of the pain, I was overwhelmed with the goodness of others, and couldn’t believe how supportive strangers were, from offering to go look for him, to crying with me at the ACME, to calling to say they saw a Found poster of a dog but not to get our hopes up because it didn’t look like him but you never know, etc.

On Friday Jan. 1st, at 6 p.m. the house phone rang. One of Emily’s good friends had gotten a phone call from a school friend (who had been to our house maybe twice in ten years), who thought she saw Emily’s dog in a nearby neighborhood within the last 15 min. I only found out later that they had not seen any of the flyers and did not know he was missing- that school friend’s name is Angela, and she is indeed a little angel! I didn’t have any hope that it was Buster, but my dad and Emily and I got right in the car, high beams on, and started going through that neighborhood. A man turning into his drive flashed his high beams at me. I took the opportunity to quickly say “Someone just told us that they saw our dog who has been missing for 4 days in this neighborhood within the last 15 min. His name is Buster, looks like a large Jack Russell. Can you give me five minutes?” He just nodded, and drove on. We then saw a fluffy dog in a front yard and I said to my dad and daughter “that must have been the dog they saw.” Then the man I had flagged down drove up and told us he thought he saw our dog on the other side of Shipley Rd. (a place I don’t know I would have looked) but that he was too scared to get in their car. Scared, I thought, if I were out there for 4 days I would be scared, could it really be? I asked the man if he called him by name and did he seem to respond etc. The man simply replied “Lady, I think it’s your dog.” I immediately panicked and asked him if I could follow him. We turned onto Shipley and then onto Baynard. Right there, on the sidewalk, was our Buster!!! Brakes on, Emily rolled out the right side of the car and ran to him, I got out and immediately dropped to my knees. I had never been brought to my knees in my entire lifetime, and this was not for dramatic effect! I was in total disbelief that our Buster was really here, really right in front of us! We had him! He was coming home!!

I said a heartfelt THANK YOU to the man and woman in the car (whom I intend to track down and thank properly), then drove Buster home. He was whimpering as he licked my face, and he was covered in mud. I started to realize that he probably really somehow had spent the entire 4 days, 3 nights, through rain and snow and New Year’s Eve fireworks, outside. I thought he might be hurt. When we pulled in the drive, my mother was at the door. We were all crying. I found some hard boiled eggs in the fridge and as quickly as I was smashing them in my hand, Buster was gobbling them up. Gave him his cancer meds right away. Emily said she thought his tail might be broken, but just then he put it up and was wagging his tail. I used 2 or 3 very warm dishtowels to wipe the caked mud off of him, then we put him in front of the fireplace to warm up. I wanted him checked out since he had apparently been out in the elements those 4 days. I was such a mess I couldn’t even call the emergency hospital to let them know we were coming. We arrived at the Veterinary Specialty Center of Delaware about 15 min later (Peanut came too of course- she seemed to be thinking- “oh great, Golden Boy has returned.” Turns out Buster was just fine, no frostbite, no dehydration, no injuries, and they were amazed that this was the cancer patient whose laminated poster had been posted there for days. It felt so good to tear it down! I asked he be given a half dose of a pain injection so that he could rest easy that night. We all slept well that night.

I must tell you also how good it felt to get out of the car over and over again to pull down the flyers at every nearby telephone pole and at every nearby intersection. I was jumping up and down and as I hugged the torn flyers to my chest I gave a big thumbs up to anyone driving by. I got thumbs up and smiles in return. Yes, I wanted to shout out loud, WE FOUND HIM! And my new knees were up to the challenge! I still wonder how it was that my surgery recovery had turned a corner just hours before I needed to use them more than I had in over 3 years- coincidence? I think not.

Buster and Peanut are asleep in front of the fire as I write this. His ultrasound on Monday showed that the inoperable tumor is the same size as it was in August when he was first diagnosed. This means the chemo and medicine had worked, that it had stalled the growth of the tumor. We just have to watch him carefully so that we can put him down before he becomes totally blocked. And I know it will be hard, but we get to say goodbye to him the way we want to now, properly, humanely.

The miracle- The silver lining in all of this is not just that we have our precious Buster back, who shows no sign of his ordeal, but that as a family we have been reminded of what is important in our lives, and it doesn’t have anything to do with money. We have been touched by the generosity and love of friends, family, angels above, neighbors and strangers (from the local pizza shop owner who called to inquire and who said they had people coming back in for pizza that were so concerned about him-I asked her not to take down the flyer but instead to write FOUND across it so people would know. She agreed). We have been reminded of the power of prayer, and that miracles happen every day. I have also met two very special new friends- that stranger who gave her name and number to Dee to give to me turns out to be Andrea Levine, an animal clothing and jewelry designer (andrealevinedesigns.com), and the woman who called to say she saw a Found poster but didn’t want to get my hopes up is Julie Smith, the former head zoo keeper for the gorillas at the Philadelphia Zoo, who was there when that devastating fire occurred and who is now a local pet sitter for Home Sweet Home. I had both new friends over (and Julie’s daughter, who so wanted to meet this amazing dog her mom kept talking about) for hot chocolate and to say hi in person just yesterday. These two amazing and compassionate women, who not surprisingly make their living from their love of animals, even indulged me as I told them about my dream to leave corporate America one day and open a distinctively different doggie day care in North Wilmington. I have had this dream for over 3 years, and oh how fun it was to share that dream with my two new friends, while Buster, Peanut and Ziggy rested in their beds.

“Pick me. Me next. Hey lady. Cut a dog a break – please me next – ok?”

It’s Small Small – an 80 pound one-year old pit bull the blue color of inky twilight, with yellow-rimmed demon eyes and an angelic soul. Like most of the other pit bulls and pit bull mixes at the city animal shelter (and, like at so many other urban shelters, there’s no shortage of pits and pit mixes), Small Small is nothing but a big lug of wiggling, anxious, you-can-do-anything-to-me-as-long-as-you-love-me, dog flesh. When he first arrived Small Small was so afraid of doors that he had to be carried through the front entrance to go on a walk – front legs sticking straight out, hind legs hanging loose, head resting turned sideways against my shoulder eyes tightly closed, breath held – giving surprised incoming visitors a full bare-bellied-pit frontal.

Small Small has nosed his bed – the standard shelter-issue green vinyl cot – to the back of his kennel space in order to make room at the front for the full length of his sleek-fuzzed body, the better to stare intently up at passer’s by, lying in silent wait amid the barking cacophony of the kennel runs. And, like other dogs at the shelter, Small Small has mastered the art of the guilt-inducing stare – putting it all out there, wearing his heart’s desire shamelessly, going for the hypnotic Jedi mind-control of anyone that meets his eyes:

“You will walk me now. For at least 20 minutes. Then you will give me ten treats. When you wake up, you will remember nothing.”

But too late, it is. The shelter is closing in five minutes. The volunteers that have come to walk and play with the dogs are out of time.

I glance at Small Small’s kennel card – a rectangular piece of paper encased in a plastic sleeve, containing a small picture of him, his name, breed mix, identification number, and a one-liner come-on to potential adopters walking through the kennel runs (some with t-shirts pulled up over their noses to block out the ever present urine smell) about how he’s the handsomest boy on the (cell) block. When I see the ID number is relatively high I’m relieved. Small Small is a long-timer, but not such a long-timer that his time is up. Unless he gets adopted in the meantime, he will still be here next Saturday.

And so will, in all probability, most of the other dogs. Dogs like Justin Timberlake (according to his kennel card, a skittish two-year old hound mix who’s “bringing sweetness back!”); Bat-Woman (a pointy-eared pit who’s “looking for her Robin”); Sheila Down Underbite (a young cream-striped boxer who is, despite her evident underbite, “still a top-dog”); Mini Mart (a melon-size-headed pit who was picked up in the convenience store, “trying to be incognito, chompin’ on some Cheetos”); and many others.

The shelter is as progressive as possible for an east-coast big-city public shelter, with dozens of animals arriving every month and without the luxury of being able to turn any away. Some strays, some dogs seized by animal control officers due to abuse or neglect by their owners, many dogs surrendered by their owners because the new apartment doesn’t allow dogs, because of tight finances, because the new girlfriend/boyfriend/roommate doesn’t like dogs, and often, because of no particular reason.

Shelter staff works hard to find homes and keep the shelter’s live-exit rate high. All of the dogs made available for adoption are generally healthy, clean, and temperament tested to ensure that they are not aggressive. Still, there are too many dogs. Too many dogs to walk; too many dogs to give individual attention to; just too many dogs, and not enough owners.

Most of the dogs put up for adoption will eventually find homes, their names written in black ink on the white “adoption” board posted behind the vet tech’s desk, their picture included in the “success-stories” video montage running on the lobby TV. For the pit bulls, it will take longer. For some, it will take too long, and they will be euthanized in order to make space for incoming animals.

So when I leave the shelter that Saturday, I look forward to seeing Small Small next week. But what I would look forward to more is arriving to see his kennel empty, his name written in black ink on the adoption board, eyes gazing happily out at me from the TV as his picture scrolls by, no Jedi mind-trick necessary.

By Kristina Beard

There is something tranquil – almost tranquilizing – about a canoe quietly cutting through the dark surface of those ancient canals, nothing breaking the silence but the rhythm of me paddling and Molly panting. Molly is my dog, not my wife. For heaven to be heaven it will have to include a canoe, fishy water, a really good fly rod and Molly.

Half Lab and half Golden Retriever, she came to live with our family a little over thirteen years ago. Doesn’t seem that long, but it is. And thirteen years is enough time to build a pretty solid friendship. There is something easy and unforced about the relationship between a man and his dog. There’s no need to fill up empty space with words just because the space is empty. After thirteen years worth of fishing trips, words are optional for me and Molly.

So there we are, canoeing toward a good spot to catch a bass. The paddle still keeps time but Molly’s breathing has slowed and deepened, a sure sign that she’s asleep. Of course the snoring is a dead giveaway. On this trip we paddle down Slocum Creek to a spot where tree branches hang out over the water. These are the kinds of places anglers look for. We’re like undercover cops who can spot a place where a drug dealer might live. We know where the bass hang out.

I don’t like to brag (actually I do but you’re supposed to say you don’t) but I was making some of the prettiest casts you’ve ever seen. The timing was perfect, the distance was perfect, and the placement was perfect. One of those perfect casts landed perfectly underneath those branches. Suddenly the surface of the water exploded as a truly huge large mouth bass gobbled up the popping bug (an artificial frog made of cork and feathers). I set the hook and the fight was on!

All this commotion was, I suppose, unsettling for Molly. Still drowsy from her nap, I guess she temporarily forgot where she was. After all, she is almost 90 in dog years. At any rate, in her confusion or contrariness or some other unknown mental state, she jumped out of the canoe. Now, as anyone relatively familiar with a canoe will tell you, it is hard to maintain your balance standing in one while reeling in a huge bass and compensating for the instability created by an eighty pound dog abandoning ship. In fact, it’s down right impossible! Molly left the canoe on one side and I left on the other.

It’s odd how things can be so funny in retrospect but not funny at all in real time. Long after Molly leaves this world I’m sure I will remember that day fondly. People will laugh out loud at dinner parties when I tell the story, but that day I wasn’t laughing. Molly calmly paddled to the shore while I frantically attempted to gather fishing gear, canoe paddles and assorted accessories without drowning or becoming lunch for the gators.

At the end of the day, Molly and I arrived home soaking wet, smelling like backwater, missing a lot of essential gear and what would have undoubtedly been a trophy bass.
I’m not really sure if the story has a moral or even a compelling reason to tell it. I do know that somehow, over time, our pets (even cats) become our closest friends. And why shouldn’t they? They keep our secrets. They complain very little. They seldom disagree with our decisions. And even when they get you wet, they do it gracefully.

By Rob Helton

Reflecting on the last few weeks, he wishes he hadn’t given in to the hunger that had landed him here. Turned out that the “nice people” weren’t so nice after all. Eventually, they handed him off to some other folks who kept him tied in a garage. At least he had been fed and warm– yet today, they shoved him in a cage.

With a bump and sway, the cage lifts from the ground. Off balance, the captive scrambles and panic sets in. Anxious voices escalate, doors slam, and engines roar to life as his sensitive ears scream for relief. Soon there’s motion, and his stomach lurches as the cage slides back and forth across the seat. The scene would be almost comical except for the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach: fear of the unknown.

After a while, the vehicle stops and there is momentary quiet. Abruptly, the cage is hauled into the blinding sunlight, causing its occupant to blink. A few steps later, he is lowered to the ground, the door swings open, and a man peers in.

“Hey, Buddy, come on out,” comes a soft whisper.

They gaze at one another then, slowly a hand slips in with gentle fingers to pat the new arrival. Tension seeps out of the weary little body and he noticeably begins to relax. Craving an act of kindness, he leans forward and hope replaces apprehension. Inching toward the opening, he wonders if it is worth the risk…

“Hi Buddy,” says the man, “my name is Joe. Doesn’t it feel good to get out of there?”

Cautiously, the dog draws near and greets his benefactor with a tentative lick on the hand. Momentarily tensing when Joe scoops him up, he soon begins to calm under tender petting.

“Don’t worry, Buddy,” Joe whispers in his ear, “We’re going to be friends. I know you’re scared right now–so was I when I first got here–but soon enough you’ll realize this place isn’t so bad–for a prison.”

As Buddy curls up in welcoming arms, Joe continues in soothing tones.

“I don’t know what you’ve been through, I’m guessin’ much the same as me: unwanted, always scrapin’ by. And trust? No way. I’m a lifer, locked up forever, so I know what I’m talkin’ about. Trust is hard but I got yer back and I won’t let you down. Over the next few months, I’ll always be here. Then when our time is done and you go to yer ‘forever’ home, you’ll remember today: the beginning of your second chance–something we all deserve….” Joe’s wistful voice trails off as he stands. Nodding to the guard, he heads back to his cell. Buddy trots along, deciding that the day couldn’t end any better. (C) Kathryn Randall.
———————-
Go. Rescue. Me ->

I had always joked when Gus was younger that if I were to apply for the job of “Dog” I would never qualify because of my inability to go from 7 a.m. until 4:30 p.m. without a bathroom break. But Gus did it for years without complaint or accidents.

We got him from the pound as a pup, maybe six or seven months old. Officially on the record books he was my daughter Mandy’s dog. This occurred because when we went to the pound neither my wife nor I had thought to bring our driver’s license and you need one of those now to get a dog. So he was Mandy’s dog; a fact she never ceased to remind us of. Funny though, she didn’t mention it any time he needed to have those vet bills paid. It didn’t really matter; he belonged to all of us.

In the Sixties, the Beatles told us that you “Can’t buy me love, everybody tells me so”. Maybe at the time they wrote that song, none of them owned a dog. You can buy love. It’s waiting for you at any dog pound in any city. You just plunk down some money, (don’t forget your driver’s license) and you can walk away with a companion that will give you unconditional love for a decade or more.

The first dog I ever owned was Buddy. He was another black lab stray and came into our lives by accident. My wife had been lobbying for a dog for some time and she had had one growing up. I never owned one but in the tradition of husbands everywhere I initially resisted the idea but eventually admitted that she was right, again.

Buddy didn’t like men at all and he didn’t like me either at first. I was a little afraid of a 65 pound animal with big teeth who growled every time I walked by but eventually we became friends after Cheryl suggested I be the one to feed him. With dogs, it’s all about food.

After ten plus years of faithful service we had to put Buddy down and I was amazed at how much it hurt. We lasted 72 hours, then admitted our addiction and went to the pound and brought Gus home.

This time around I was more comfortable with dogs and so Gus and I were friends from the start. Of course I did not need to be smug about it since Gus was everyone’s friend. Oh, he might growl if a stranger came to the house but within five minutes he probably would have jumped in the stranger’s car and gone to Mexico. He was gullible that way and always assumed everyone was good at heart.

Gus slipped into lives with ease and for 12 and a-half years he was part of our family. He went riding on the Jet Ski, traveled in the motor home (and fought with Cheryl over rights to the shotgun seat). He rode on the pontoon boat and played in the snow at the cabin. He laid out on his lounger by the fire and looked up in amazement at the stars with the rest of us.

He wasn’t quite as likely to cuddle with you as Buddy had been. But if you were lying on floor you might move your head back an inch and find that he had laid down just behind you, not touching but close enough to breath on you. Many times I never knew he was there until I moved.

The weekend we decided to let him go started out like any other. We packed up the car and headed to our lake cabin. By now, Gus needed a ramp to get into the car but I had made one for him and he climbed up it and onto his blanket on the back seat.

Friday and Saturday he got around o.k. limping somewhat from his hip dysplasia which he had been living with for about a year. However, on Sunday he just couldn’t get up and we had to carry him outside. He had developed a cough too and we knew the time was near when we would be asked to do something that we did not want to do for the benefit of another. I guess that’s a pretty good description of what love is.

By Sunday night as we got home, it was clear he wasn’t getting any better. We carried him out of the car and laid him on the grass while we emptied the car. He just lay there and went to the bathroom lying down. He had held it for two hours in the car and that was the best he could do.

Cheryl slept downstairs with him Sunday night and decided to stay home for the day with me so we could both take him in together. His cough came and went and again we had to carry him outside and hold him up to do his duty.

Monday morning came and we called the vet and made the appointment for 4:20 p.m.

The day dragged on with Cheryl and I playing the role of priests praying with the condemned man on death row. We knew we could get a pardon from the Governor by just calling the Vet and canceling but our greedy desire for another day was over ridden by the certainty that Gus was suffering and needed us to be strong.

He wasn’t eating his dog food at all. Cheryl cooked him some bacon and he ate that down like lightning. I thought that if St. Peter guards the gates of Heaven for people then a St. Bernard should guard the gates of Heaven for dogs. The St. Bernard would sniff at the breath of every dog and only those with bacon breath would be allowed past the gates.

4:00 p.m. came creeping up on us and then 4:05 and finally 4:10 and Cheryl said, o.k. lets go. She carried him out to the truck and we went over to the vet. I pulled in and there was a stranger outside the door smoking. I did not want anyone around to see us but as he saw that I was carrying Gus he held open the door and I mumbled my thanks.

We carried him into the room and waited for the vet. She came in and talked about what she would do and then gave him the shots that would end his life. We stayed with him to the end, talking and stroking his head. We bent down close to him and inhaled once more the sweet smell of puppy. Kissed his head and then tearfully left him there.

We will get his ashes in few days. We will spread them down at the lake under the pine trees where our other puppy dogs Buddy and Molly rest. Later when the grandchildren ask me where the puppies have gone I can truthfully tell them that they are up in the trees, fertilizing a new generation of life.

We lasted 72 hours the last time and the withdrawal pains are beginning again. Cheryl sits downstairs and hugs his blanket, rich with his smell and tells me in no uncertain terms not to wash it. Later, when she is asleep, I sneak downstairs and hug and smell the blanket myself, still damp with her tears. I add a few of my own, unashamed to admit that I loved him too.

I think that life is like drinking coffee. At first you are enticed by the rich aroma. You drink the first cup and it’s not quite as good as it smells. You continue drinking until the last bitter dregs are consumed. And then you start another pot.

Our life will go on. We will remember Gus as a special dog like no other. Each dog is different. Every dog will have his day. We were privileged to share over 4300 days with Gus.

Thanks old hound. May your dish be always filled with bacon, your water dish brimming with ice-cold water. May the Sun shine on your sleek black coat, and may you find new friends who loved you as much as we do. Just don’t let any strangers take you to Mexico.

Written by Richard Haebig | All Rights Reserved.

There is a quote that says, “I wish I was the person my dog thinks I am.” I find that to be so true. What can be said about a warm cuddly brown furry creature that the moment you walk into the door does everything in his power to knock you down with his overwhelming love for you. With true reckless abandon he has no problem sticking his wet slimy tongue in your ear, on your face, pretty much any place he can get wet on your body.

Writing or embodying into words Bear for me is truly one of my most difficult undertakings in writing. Now I know for all of you out there who are so called “not dog lovers” you do not understand those of us with endless affection for our furry creatures. But for those of you who do share that same bond with an animal you know and you understand the enormous undertaking it is to tackle the emotions and feelings that you feel for your companion.

For Bear is just that and more. He is a companion, a friend, and my greeter at the door after a long day and the one who snuggles next to me as I drift off to sleep after a long hard day. I guess put simply he is the one who understands and knows me down to my heart and loves me for just me. He does not care about any pretence or how expensive my stiletto heels are or if my hair is perfectly straight from hours with struggling with the straightner or if I have won a tough case. All he cares about is being loved by me. He is the simplest of ways loves unconditionally and all he cares about he having that it back from me.

I guess to even remotely explain or express how much Bear means to me I should begin in how he came to me. My ex-husband and me were planning our wedding at the time and as though we did not have enough undertaking us in our busy life, I was convinced that we needed a dog. Every cute normal couple had a dog and I was a huge dog lover so it fit. And after weeks of whining and begging… it was settled that we would have a dog. Now the question was where would this most perfect beautiful creature that we would call ours come from? After some research on both of our parts, mostly my ex-husband who thought he wanted an expert hunting dog, we found a kennel. We both knew we wanted a Labrador retriever. There was no question about it; I had grown up with labs and he like to hunt. The kennel was located south of Eugene, Oregon and was a top breeding AKC retriever kennel (http://www.duckdog.com). We made a few calls and before we knew it we were waiting on our puppy to be born. It was not too long after that that Merganser’s Classic Matlock and Merganser’s Yahoo bred a litter of brown furry puppies and Bear was born of that group. Now granted we did not know that he would turn out to be the Bear we know today …. But at the same time we should have had a guess that it was possible.

We got a call from Dianne who runs the kennel to tell us of the birth of the puppies and that she would be taking photographs of them and emailing them to us. Each of the puppies would be adorned with a brightly colored ribbon around their neck so that they could monitor their personalities, traits and peculiarities from the moment they were born. We had already asked to have a male of the litter so when Dianne called she asked my ex-husband and I a few more questions about what we were looking for. I guess this should have been our first sign of problems to come in the marriage impending in that we were not totally in agreement in what we were looking for. He suggested a high spirited dog that he could run dog hunting field trials with and I suggested a laid back sluggish dog who would lay by the fire or in bed with me. We ended up with something in between.

We decided on the puppy in the picture with the red ribbon tied around his neck. Ironic in the fact that red is my favorite color and that the color red has a long history of meaning life, vitality and joy. Bear certainly met that description and more.

It was only a short time later until we had our first meeting with the precious furry little puppy that we named Merganser’s Coastal Berringer (to be called Bear). He flew on a plane all the way from Oregon with only one stop in Atlanta (and yes I tracked his flight all day long) and then arrived in Mobile, Alabama late one afternoon. I can still remember being outside at the airport when he was being taken off of the airplane and hearing his whining and barking and probably thinking where in the world am I now!

In a very short time he became the center point and focal point of the house and mine and my ex-husband’s life. Everything revolved around Bear. Whether it be reading books, figuring out house training, or crate training … our journey with him was just beginning. He was so eager to learn anything we taught him and as we quickly learned the high dollar we spent for a spirited dog was shining through. He was just that full of personality and most of all full of endless adventure and love.

There was little that Bear did and does to this day that does not cause some sort of drama or adventure. It is just his way. As a puppy he was no different and before we knew it he had grown into a leaping bounding dog with endless energy.

It is funny how dogs have a sense a second sense of things to come and the surroundings around them. Not long after our second year of being married my ex-husband and I began to have problems in the marriage. Fights, disagreements and just an overall inability to see our life heading in the same direction together. And then there was Bear. Looking back now it brings tears to my eyes to think of the sweet puppy we had raised and loved sitting all slumped down with his head lowered and ducked down with the saddest look on his face when he would hear us fight or disagree. Almost like a child who did not want to see his parents separate or divorce but know that was where it was heading. Bear endured the fights and was the one who would sleep in the bed with me alone at night when my ex-husband stayed in the spare room. He was the one who would lick the tears away from my checks and lay as close to me as possible throughout the night as I slept never leaving my side.

In June 2007 I had to have surgery. At that time the marriage was very badly damaged and on the rocks but hanging by a thread. I stayed at the house after returning from days in the hospital. One night not long after being home, I was having enormous pain and was not sure what was happening. I was laying in our large king size sleigh bed with a high headboard and footboard, when after hearing my cries of pain, Bear who was laying on his LLBean monogrammed bed in the floor, got up and jumped over the footboard of the bed to lay right next to me. I will never forget that moment. The bed still wears the scars of the last little bit of his claws that did not make it over the footboard that left three large scratches in the footboard. Those scars still visible today, are more precious to me than anything you can imagine. Bear laid next to me that night through the entire night with his large brown head gently on my abdomen never moving never leaving making sure that I was going to be okay and gently reminding me that I would be okay.

After I recovered from the surgery, a short time later I moved out. At first my ex-husband and I decided to have joint custody of the companion we both loved so very deeply. As we both agreed being without him was the most difficult part of our split. The day I moved out of the house was a difficult day for me as the truck pulled in and loaded my things. But even more difficult leaving him there that first night and being without him.

Luckily that first year being separated, the sharing of Bear and “joint custody” went as smoothly as it could possibly have gone. But we both knew that there would come a time where Bear would have to find a permanent home with either one of us. And luckily when that time came my prayers were answered and Bear came to live with me.

I think it is ironic how one decision and one choice to get a dog can so profoundly affect your life. I am a huge fan of John Grogan and his book Marley and Me. His writings in that book are poetic, moving, humorous and most of all right on point. It is certainly why the book has become a bestselling novel, so many people can relate and understand the human connection with their pet.

I think that John Grogan states it best …..

“A dog has no use for fancy cars or big homes or designer clothes. Status symbol means nothing to him. A waterlogged stick will do just fine. A dog judges others not by their color or creed or class but by whom they are inside. A dog doesn’t care if you are rich or poor, educated or illiterate, clever or dull. Give him your heart and he will give you his. It was really quite simple, and yet we humans, so much wiser and more sophisticated, have always had trouble figuring out what really counts and what does not. As I wrote that farewell column to Marley, I realized it was all right there in front of us, if only we opened our eyes. Sometimes it took a dog with bad breath, worse manners, and pure intentions to help us see.”

That quote says so much. Bear will turn six years old this year in February. Looking back now it seems like those six years have already FLOWN by … it seems as though it was only yesterday a young couple starting out on their adventure and life together picked this little brown ball of fur with a red ribbon around his neck to be theirs. And now six years later so much has happened in my life and looking back at that young woman who picked her companion just looks like a blurry vision in a mirror.

Bear however has remained the constant. The constant in my life over the last six years no matter where I stood or what place I found myself. There were days his disasters in the kitchen of eating all the brownies on the counter, or tearing up every paper towel he could find and shredding as though it had snowed, or eating a bag of candy corn, or the time that he knocked the small child down at my apartment complex and ate all of her Fun Dip (that was a fun day going to door of the upset parents after I purchased new Fun Dip as an apology for the young child who was upset) ……it has been and CONTINUES to be an adventure. Pretty much every day with him is filled with something new and certainly exciting. As his vet said once, “I am not sure I have ever seen a dog with so much personality.” I guess he fits me well.

Last year on his birthday I thought I was doing this great gesture and went to this gourmet dog store called “Bark Avenue Pets” and purchased Bear this great dog cookie in the form of a birthday cupcake. Just to give you glimpse into my life at the time and where I was standing then, I was in the middle of a very stressful trial, a murder trial with a very tough defense lawyer… so needless to say I was stressed, exhausted and spent. I came home after work bringing the new gift for Bear and as SO excited about giving it to him. Well clearly he was just as excited about receiving it. As I ATTEMPTED to give him the treat (key word being attempted) he got so excited that he snatched the treat and began chomping on it well before it was out of my hand. It took me a few moments to realize my hand was bleeding and there was a large and deep gash right where his teeth went in to take the first bite. So GREAT …. This was all I needed at this point in my life.

As you can imagine my humiliation when I called the doctor to make an appointment after the bite mark continued to bleed. They told me to come in immediately because I needed to have stitches and a tetanus shot … YES all in the middle of my very stressful murder trial. So I ask the judge to start the trial late one morning and he complies and the jury is told to come back a little later (all because of my brown furry friend). I then go sit in a doctor’s office full of people sick with strepthroat, bronchitis and the flu in the middle of the month of February and they call my name up. I step up to the counter with my hand all bandaged up and said “Maam I am here because my chocolate lab bit me on his birthday trying to get his birthday surprise from Bark Avenue pets.” There was an immediate sound of laughter from everyone working behind the desk to every sick person in the waiting room at my reason for being there. So after several stitches and a tetanus shot (that hurt like crazy) .. I went back and continued my case with my bandaged hand and did closing arguments. And yes, I did get a conviction with no help from Bear nonetheless.

I think it is us humans that often time have a difficult time seeing what counts and what matters in life, never dogs. Bear always reminds me to laugh at the small things like stitches on his birthday and an entire loaf of bread eaten or a kitchen I have to clean up after a long day of work, instead of dwelling on the difficult.

The last six years has brought many ups and downs. Happy moments and mountaintops but with those it has also brought valleys and disappointments and sadness. Going through a divorce, those first holidays going home alone after being divorce, learning to be on my own again and searching for answers in the difficulties of my job, yet Bear has been the one thing to stand by me through all of it and make most of the days a little lighter and a little easier (and sometimes just plain FUNNY). Just knowing each morning I was waking up to his brown face laying on my shoulder and falling asleep to his snoring right next to my ear has made it a joy and a constant reminder of how God takes care of us (even by sending us a crazy dog named Bear) in little ways and sometimes in ways we would never imagine.

Those scars I have on the footboard of my bed and the one on my hand are constant reminders of the love of a special dog. A special gift that I believe God sent all the way from Oregon in the form of a brown ball of fur with a red ribbon on his neck named Merganser’s Coastal Berringer to take care of me and experience this journey with me daily.

This is dedicated to the one and ONLY Bear. Thank you for making my everyday life so much better and for loving me when there are days I certainly don’t deserve your love. You are the “World’s Best Dog” !