Dog - Free to a Good Home

            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.