![]() I stocked up on pig ears and rawhides and Milk Bones only to have him approach them all with a little suspicion. Why are you looking for me outside? People are so dumb.” His deprived childhood at the shelter also made him leery of treats. He would always look at us as if to say, “You idiot. Countless times, any one of us would stand at the back door and call his name, only to have him come jingling from some obscure corner inside the house. He was so quiet and unassuming, we often forgot whether he was in the house or outside. He would curl up like a cat under tables or behind the couch. He sought out cold hard surfaces and enclosed areas. He had lived on a concrete floor in a small chain-link-fenced dog run/kennel for so long that he did not know what to think about the carpet we wanted him to walk on. ![]() The shelter’s workers were sad to see him go, but glad that he may have finally found a home. As I reached for the car keys, Katy squirmed from her dad’s hip, ran up to this animal, hugged his neck, looked at us, and said, quite confidently, “This is MY dog.” We asked about the return policy and decided to take him home and give him a try. I remember rolling my eyes and huffing at the whole scenario, feeling like we had begun to waste time. We shook our heads at this skittish, sedate dog and looked at our watches. She said that people thought he was just too shy or too reserved. She was not optimistic about finding a home for him. The attendant brought him out to the play area. His tail had been docked, and he wagged the nub intermittently, as if he were skeptical and didn’t want to get his hopes up. One ear stood straight up while the other flopped down, as if he was only half-listening to our chatter. We weren’t sure which one to look at, but I always chose the pretty blue one. Apparently he had some bad memories of abuse.) We were introduced to this Australian shepherd/heeler mix hiding at the back of his kennel. (A few years later, we discovered that he was afraid of fishing poles. Then a shelter attendant reluctantly said, “Well, there is one more dog you might want to try.” We were told that he had been there for a while and that he was about two years old. We thought that maybe the kids weren’t ready for a dog just yet. She would cling to her dad’s leg or even climb up his side and be perched on his shoulder in a blink. Katy was two years old and afraid of every dog we considered. We went to a local no-kill shelter where you could take the dogs out to a play area and see how they interact with people. So Santa had left a leash and a bowl and all sorts of dog paraphernalia under the tree with a note telling them that they needed to choose a dog. The kids had hoped for a dog for Christmas, but we wanted them to pick it out. I hugged his stepmother (probably his favorite parent) and thanked her for taking such good care of him. His father, usually so stoic, wiped tears from his flooded eyes. I leaned hard against my husband’s shoulder, trying to quell my trembling. I hugged my crying children, knowing I was helpless to ease their pain. ![]() I cried with occasional bursts of loud, ugly, heaving sobs of gut-wrenching grief. We said more goodbyes, held back tears, then let them flow. They put him on a blanket and gave him the injection. Six sad family members surrounding an aching elderly dog who certainly wondered what all the fuss was about. His parents, his step-parents, and his brother and sister. We all crowded into the tiny exam room at the veterinary hospital. I have bits of his fur on my sleeves from the final hugs. His scent is still on my hands as I write this.
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