Don't Be Afraid

“Ouch! Get off you idiots! Ow!”

What is it about dinnertime that sends these dogs into a frenzy? Despite the fact that they are only getting served dry kibble by a humble and somewhat vexed servant, me, Pinto, Pogo, and Ciara dance around my legs, their claws stabbing into my exposed toes.

“You know,” I tell them, regardless of whether they understand or not, “I seem to recall that Pogo used to be quiet.” Eager to prove my statement false, Pogo barks excitedly in reply.

I can just tell that they’re saying, “Ooh, story-time! Story-time, story-time!” and I recall that one October day so easily it’s like I invited it in for a casual dinner.

I remember that Mom sighed again as we hit yet another stoplight. “Sheesh,” she muttered. “How long is it gonna take us to get home?” No one answered her rhetorical question, slightly intimidated by her intensity.

“Hey Mom!” Doug called out, trying to draw her attention away from the anger-inducing road. “Look, it’s the Humane Society!”

“Can we go and look at doggies?” Evan blurted, bouncing like a small child with a severe caffeine addiction in his car seat.

“Sure!” Mom replied, turning right into the parking lot.

Wow. Ever since Ruggles died last December, I’d wanted another dog. But I didn’t know how to bring it up. In the back of my mind I knew I’d be accused of wanting to replace dear old Ruggles. Yet Evan, a five-year-old, handled the situation better than me. Is something amiss here or is it just me?

“Dogs!” Evan yelped as soon as the din of the Naperville Humane Society reached our ears.

From every direction you could hear just that – dogs. Barking, howling growling, yowling – just about every sound you could dream of.

As I set off down the line of pens, I inspected each name and occupant closely, taking into account their history. Waves of sadness engulfed me at the sheer number of homeless creatures in this building. Here was a dog that got disowned by an abusive master… and another that was found lost, who never had a loving home.

One particular dog caught my eye. He was way at the back, but when I approached him, he jumped up like he had been sitting on hot coals. The big, shaggy white and brown dog licked my fingers when I stuck them through the bars of the cage. “Mom, look at this one!” I yelled, adding significantly to the confusion around me.

Mom took one critical look at the huge hulking mass behind the bars and gave me a firm “No.”

“Sorry, buddy,” I mumbled, genuinely upset. Dragging my hand across the bars, I hesitantly made my way to the other side of the room.

“Maureen, look at this one!” Doug shouted, waving me over.

Sullenly, I followed him to a small puppy that looked like he had enough fur for three dogs of his size.

“It’s a puppy,” I stated, only half-expecting my brother to realize my point.

“So?”

“So it’ll take a lot of work. We’ll have to train it and take it out to the bathroom and do everything we did with Pinto all over again.”

“Oh,” Doug muttered, disappointed.

The dog next to it caught my eye. She was a calm dog and she sat serenely in the middle of her cage, keenly observing the chaos around her.

“She’s cute,” I remarked, crouching down to pet her.

Standing, the little dog ambled up to my hand and rubbed against it through the metal cage. Mom, who was standing behind me, tapped the information card.

“This dog is nine years old. I don’t want to go through another Ruggles so soon,” Mom observed sadly.

With a grimace, I stood up and welcomed the Humane Society worker-person. Her nametag read “Hello my name is Jill”.

“What kind of dog are you looking for?” HellomynameisJill asked kindly.

“A small dog,” Mom told her.

“A big dog,” I declared at the same time.

“Uh, well, let’s see,” HellomynameisJill trilled somewhat uncertainly.

“Oh, I like that one, Mommy!” Evan hollered, pointing at a beagle/Jack Russell Terrier mix. Well, it wasn’t exactly running material, but I bet this dog would be nice to have around the house as a playmate.

“It’ll bark like mad and dig our house to bits,” Mom protested matter-of-factly.

“What about this one?” Doug bellowed. The dog he referred to was a Labrador/Newfoundland mix. Like I said, I dig big dogs!

“It’s huge.” Mom told us this like it meant “no” all by itself.

Dog after dog was being turned down by my mother’s critical eye. Could we ever find the perfect dog? I doubted it. There’s no such thing as perfection. But as I neared the last cage, I hoped that this would be as close as we could get.

“What’s in this one?” I asked Jill, jabbing my finger at the cage nearest the exit.

“Oh, she’s just shy!” HellomynameisJill answered, and with that she crouched down and snapped her fingers, saying in a sickening baby voice, “Come here, Winky-doo! Come on out, these people want to have a look at you!”

Finally, after much internal gagging on my part, a dog emerged from the shadows of the pen. A long feathery tail trailed on the ground behind a stocky built dog. She was a German Shepard and Rottweiler mix, and had a broad chest and thick legs that ended in wide paws.

“She’s five years old,” Mom breathed happily.

But… She’s so shy… I thought to myself regretfully. I, personally, had been hoping for a big, sturdy, heavy-duty dog that I could run, play catch, and even wrestle with at times.

“Now this dog is special,” Jill informed us like she was handing over secret, classified information. “She’s a Katrina rescue.”

“Really?” Mom inquired, intrigued. While they discussed the matter thoroughly, I bent over and gave the dog my hand to sniff.

She gave it a half-hearted whiff before retreated to the back of her cage. I bit the inside of my cheek, upset.

“Let’s have a look at her!” Mom tapped me on the shoulder.

HellomynameisJill smiled warmly and clipped Winky on to a leash, leading us to the visiting room.

“She’s good with kids and other dogs,” Jill notified Mom, who nodded approvingly.

Evan pulled gently on the dog’s tail as if to prove the point. ‘Winky’ did not react to this torture.

“We’re gonna have to change her name though,” I observed wryly, patting her on the head.

“Why?” Mom asked. “I like it. We can call her Winky-Dinky-Doo!”

“Uh, you can, but I refuse to call her such a name. Look at her. She’s part rottweiler! It would be a disgrace to the credited history of the breed to call her that,” I retorted.

“Oh, can we get her Mommy?” Doug and Evan questioned eagerly.

“Now kids, you’re going to have to take care of her…” Blah blah blah, we all know the drill. Having a dog takes responsibility, blah blah blah. You need to feed her, blah, take her out to the bathroom, blah, and walk her, blah. Hadn’t we been through this before?

Mom was looking at me expectantly, but I’d zoned out. “Uh, yes!” I said, guessing that was what they wanted to hear.

“Yes!” Doug and Evan exclaimed happily. Their outburst spooked ‘Winky’ to hide behind HellomynameisJill’s legs.

“It’s okay,” Mom told the dog sweetly. “We’ll bring in the other dogs tomorrow so you can meet the rest of the family!”

And then when we did bring our new dog home for the first time (courtesy of my father), she was an unmoving statue; sitting behind the front window and watching cars zoom by our house. She never let out a peep.

How different is that dog in my memories from the one that’s standing in front of me now? Pretty gosh darn different, I’d say.

So what is it exactly that changed her from the silent dog that sat in one place all day to… uh, this leash-pulling, dog food gobbling, barking, brutish behemoth? The one word that pops into my head nauseatingly reminds me of the motivational posters that are hung up all around my old elementary school: kindness. Maybe… maybe it takes a kind and caring heart to bring out the same in someone else? I think that without us, this dog could still be at the Naperville Humane Society, her days dwindling hopelessly before her eyes. But with us, she’s a totally new creature. Katrina must have hurt her; it broke apart her family. So maybe I as one cannot change the world. But I did make a world of difference to this dog. Pogo. The name is also from the courtesy of my father (who is no longer just a chauffer in this story).

“Arf!” Pogo testifies loudly.