If there is any universal truth –
other than Jane Austen’s – it’s that you shouldn’t answer a “dog, free to a
good home” ad unless you are planning on coming home with the dog. I blame it
all on Bruce, actually. He was the one, who after saying we didn’t need another
dog, showed me the ad.
Finn, our first Golden Retriever had just
died at the age of fourteen and a half years and with three other dogs Bruce opined
that we didn’t need a fourth. I, reluctantly, agreed. You can’t have too many
dogs in my book. But then, Bruce showed me the ad – Golden Retriever, Free to a Good Home. He blames me, of course, but
if he didn’t want the dog, he shouldn’t have shown me the ad.
We arrived at the small farm on an
out of the way road and were greeted by a pack of barking ankle high balls of
fluff. The real dog, Dexter, was tied underneath a huge oak. He raced to the
end of the chain, and when the tether pulled him up short his forward momentum
drove him up onto his hind legs. A restrained ball of energy – and not very
restrained at that. The dog had been racing around on his chain so long there
ground beneath the tree had been cleared of all grass. But more than that, he’d
spent so much time standing upright trying to propel himself further than the
chain allowed that the muscles of his hind legs bulged. If he’d been human, he’d
be a weight lifter, lifting with his legs.
Dexter was two. It turned out the
people who owned him were his fourth owners. They’d gotten him when they bought
a baler. Apparently, the previous owners (Dexter’s third) had told them they
could only buy the baler if they took the dog, too. They, obviously, had really
wanted the baler.
They let him loose, in order to prove he
was friendly and not vicious crazy. His tail wagged constantly, thumping
against my leg. His tongue lolled out happily,
wanting to lick everything within reach. It moved almost as much as the dog’s
legs did. But Dexter couldn’t sit still long enough to actually be petted.
We walked through their pasture, as
the dogs ran. Dexter came back every couple seconds to make sure he hadn’t been
abandoned. And then he was off again, unable to stay still for more than a
second. The woman explained how they tried to let him in the house, but he ran around
so much she was afraid he’d break her china. Which only confirmed my theory
that if you have dogs you should never own anything that you value more than
the dogs.
Bruce and I just looked at each
other. We had three dogs at home, a Great Pyr, a Newfie, and a Border Collie.
In her day, the Border had expended energy chasing Frisbees for hours. But her
energy was always directed and contained. Dexter’s was neither. The Pyr and
Newfie, of course, thought that getting up to eat dinner was enough energy
expenditure. That and a walk would do them.
Still, Dexter after ten minutes of
running, ran back to us with his tongue flopping out and sat down. He leaned
against my leg. Then he stood, circled, sat. Stood. Ran. Returned. Sat. Leaned, torn
between getting constant attention and not being able to sit still.
“What do you think?” the man said,
eager for an answer.
Bruce and I looked at each other
again, knowing that no matter how crazy the dog was he needed a real home, not
just fifth owners. And really, my look said, you can’t leave him with these
people. We went home with the dog, who managed to sit still in the backseat. It
helped that Bruce sat with him, holding the dog on his lap the whole ride home.
Dexter loved our dogs and they loved
him. And at night he’d sit still in the house, if you pet him continually. Long
runs each day, a lot of attention, and Dexter finally calmed down when he was
about twelve. But of all our dogs, he was the one that always came when you
called, always stuck close on walks. Because he never quite believed he wasn’t
going to be given away again. So, he made sure he didn’t get left behind.