Today is the 2-year anniversary of my beloved HRH the Kone’s
death, and it still feels as if no time at all has passed. His last days haunt me, as does the guilt
that I did the wrong things, and the end was terrible. I’ll never not be bitter that he was stolen from
me so early and in such cruel fashion. And I still cry every time I think of
him; Kone was my heart, my soul, everything.
I recently had an epiphany of sorts, realizing that getting
a dog in general makes absolutely no sense, as it always leads to certain
heartbreak in the end. Always. Given lifespans, there can be no other ending:
it’s like an endless loop of Logan’s Run, where everyone dies at the age of 21.
Or 35. Whatever, it’s fuzzy. But this is one part of why I’m anti-dog, for
myself at least.
Having said all that, rattling around in a big house with a
big fenced-in yard alone seems churlish, so at the beginning of the year I started
fostering for the Marion County Dog Shelter in Salem. It’s been…..interesting.
Let’s take a look back, shall we?
January
I offer to foster Enzo, a stray who they have little info on
other than that he’s not good with other dogs, so he needs a no-pet foster
home, and he’s too skinny. Miss Tasha’s Fatten ‘em Up Camp it is! Sweet Enzo is
a devilish little rascal who wastes no time in making himself at home. He loves
to snuggle, play with all the toys, and has no manners whatsoever. Thankfully
he’s a quick learner. He’s adopted by a wonderful couple that I stay in touch
with.
March
I….who….what….why, why did no one ever tell me black Labs
are insane? Aster is the sweetiest, smushiest, cuddliest black bear of a
Lab…and she’s insane. Or at least my definition, where she does. Not. Stop. At
all. Ever. There’s no off switch. No matter how much I throw the ball, she
lopes back to me happily, waiting for me to toss it again. And again. I bribe
Thomas and Allen to throw the ball for her, but they prove themselves to be an
unreliable workforce. (Note to self: avoid hiring cheap labor ages 5 and 7.)
I develop chuck-it elbow. I get two, and rotate throwing.
It’s not enough. We go to different dog parks in my foolish hopes that a new
venue will get her excited and tire her out. Hahahahaha!
She too goes to a wonderful couple, after I query multiple
times about their previous Lab experience. They know. Whew.
September
I haven’t had a chance to foster all spring/summer due to
bike stuff, travel, then the aforeblogged medical stuff. Somehow I randomly
decide the week before I’m going out of town (again) that it’s a good time to
get another foster, so I offer to take Zeek, a Dobe mix of some sort. I’m
schedule to pick him up that afternoon, when I get an email.
Shelter person J.:
I just learned that Zeek is on hold to be adopted, sorry about that! Could you
possibly take Opie? He’s a 10-year-old Chihuahua who’s stressed out in the
shelter.
Opie? A geriatric Chihuahua? I’m bemused by the thought of
me, the quintessential big dog person, with a wee pup named Opie. Okay then!
Then, another email.
Shelter person J:
I’m sorry again, I just learned that Opie is going to a rescue! How about
Murphy? We don’t know much about him and could use some additional info.
Me: Sure! And I’m happy to take a different dog as well,
just let me know what’s needed.
I go in, and A. tells me about Murphy.
A.: Honestly, he
seems kind of feral – we actually had to catch him in a trap since he was
eluding us for so long. So far I’m the only one who’s been working with him.
A. and another employee D. and I go outside with Murphy – or
rather, A. takes him to the outdoor fenced-in yard, and D. and I follow at a
distance. Murphy looks at us only to look displeased at our presence.
A.: I’m the only
person he’s really been in contact with, so he might only trust me. We think he
might have some wolf in him?
We all gaze at Murphy and his big black shaggy wolf-eyed
self. Murphy now refuses to look at any of us but has his tail down and exudes
unapproachability.
D.: Look at him!
He’s so BEAUTIFUL!
I look at Murphy, who looks like he wants to eat anyone who
isn’t A.
A.: You know, I’m
not sure it’s the best idea to send him to a home with a brand new person,
given he’s only comfortable with me so far. We should try getting him used to
other people at the shelter first.
Collectively: So,
maybe another dog?
We head back inside, and I tell A. to just let me know what
other dog needs to get out of the shelter most, if only for a week before I
leave town. She’s about to bring me back to meet a couple, when we’re informed
that apparently that’s a no-no, A. can only describe them and then I can choose
from that. Okay then.
A.: Well, there’s
Pongo who’s a pit bull mix, very sweet, stressed out in the shelter, around 80
pounds. Then there’s Tommy, a Thai Ridgeback, REALLY hates the shelter, around
45 pounds.
Me: I….damn. I
really really love the pibbles, but…I can’t walk very well and have an upcoming
surgery, so I should probably take the smaller dog since he’ll be easier to
handle. Okay, I’ll take Tommy.
Later
What the hell is a Thai Ridgeback? Time to do some research. Hmm. “The Thai Ridgeback is a primitive dog breed that originates from
Thailand, dating back at least three thousand years, and while it is common
there, it is very rare in other parts of the world. In fact, it is estimated
that there are only a thousand Thai Ridgeback dogs outside of Thailand, and
only about 300 in the U.S.”
Okay, so clearly this isn’t a Thai Ridgeback, because how
would one of these end up in a shelter in Salem? Granted, he does have a ridge,
so that must have prompted the guess at a breed by the shelter.
Then I look at some pictures of actual Thai Ridgebacks.
And…..he’s the spitting image of one. Then he yawns. And….his tongue is black
and blue, like it is for TRs. I guess that’s what he is then. They’re stubborn,
extremely smart, very active, escape artists. This should be interesting.
The next day
This is the most ridiculous dog I’ve ever seen. I take him
out to explore the big yard, and suddenly, it’s zoomie time! Whee! Except
whereas most dogs get the zoomies once in a blue moon, for Tommy it’s a
non-stop thing. Which isn’t BAD, of course, as he’s tiring himself out, but
it’s unusual.
And he leaps like a springbok.
And he’s perfectly potty-trained. Not one single accident –
he waits until he’s outside to pee. He also has a perfect sit and shake. Wth? I
find out that he kept escaping his house, and this last time, in August, his
owner didn’t want to pay to get him back. Escape artist – check.
That week
“Tommy” is a completely inappropriate name for this guy. He also has zero name recognition with it. I’m not sure what else would fit, but one day as I’m calling him, it just pops out: Kingsly. Yes. Kingsly. That fits. I’ve also learned that the TR is considered the “Royal Dog of Thailand.” Royalty, really?
Well, he may be royal, but he’s certainly nothing like my
Kone. Kone was the most chill, laidback, fearless, happy-go-lucky little man
ever. He assumed everyone was put on earth to pet him and that naturally he was
welcome everywhere, because everyone adored him, which was basically true.
Kingsly is skittish, inscrutable, aloof, wary, and the
shelter has said he’s “dog aggressive.” Awesome
Friend Peg and I meet at the dog park so that Kingsly can meet her pups, and
yep, he doesn’t like them very much. There’s no biting, but lots of snarling
and teeth. I start to wonder if Kone sent him to me – since Kone came along
when I was diagnosed with cancer the first time around, and now I might have
cancer again, and here I randomly wind up with this funny rare little dog under
very convoluted circumstances. But I don’t want another dog ever, so that’s
that.
The breed overall is one that every article notes –
repeatedly – needs “an experienced owner,” and I can see why. Some fool trying
the “alpha male” routine would get his face bitten off. I worry about the
likely idiots who might want to adopt him, just because he’s a rare and exotic
breed. Before I take him back to the shelter as I’m getting ready to go out of
town, I try to find another foster who’ll take him, with no luck. I bawl as I’m
taking him back – the guilt is overwhelming. No wonder he’s wary; people keep
letting him down. I’ve already told them my view on potential adopters:
“He should ONLY be placed with very experienced dog people.
Have they had dogs? Have they had primitive dogs? Have they had a THAI
RIDGEBACK TAN IN COLOR WHO WEIGHS 53 POUNDS? No? That’s a CLEAR no then.”
End of September
I’m planning on picking him up as soon as I get back, but I
get back on Monday the 23rd, and because there was a cancellation,
my surgery was moved up to the 25th. I let the shelter know that
I’ll get him after my surgery date, and they tell me that I should know that
he’s deteriorating in the shelter. My poor little guy. Surgery is Wednesday,
and on Thursday, since I can’t find a good Polish Fest or Oktoberfest to go to,
I decide to head to the shelter to pick up Kingsly. Makes sense to me.
Trainer/Behaviorist
Day
Purely so that the shelter has more info, I’ve found a
behaviorist who’s going to come by to assess Kingsly to see if his dog
aggression is manageable, if it’s a breed thing, his upbringing, etc. She does some really interesting tests and
sees how smart and wonderful he is. He does his usual zoomies and this time bowls
me over, and I’d be falling over laughing if I weren’t already on the ground.
The shelter has people who might be interested in him, and
they want to know if I want to keep him and I don’t know what to do. No dog can
ever replace my sweet Kone, and my heart is too broken to let another pup into
my life.
On the other hand, how did I wind up with this odd
ultra-rare royal dog if Kone didn’t
drop him into my life? Or is that just a lie I tell myself? I ugly cry, as
always.
Kingsly is starting to settle in a little, as he shows me
his tum to be scratched, and goes upstairs for sleeps.
I hear Kone’s voice in my head as I keep dithering:
“Momma, come ons. I sent you the most ridiculousems dog I
could finds. Really, you need to thinkums about this?”
He does have a point. To wit:
- Kingsly LOVES massages. If I start massaging his back, within 3 seconds his eyes droop and suddenly his bones disintegrate and he topples over, falling like a tree.
- He bounces like a kangaroo…..but won’t jump up
on the bed at night. Yes, I have to lift him.
- He loves ranch dip.
- He’s SCARED OF CLOWNS.
- He does yoga poses.
- He snores. Loudly.
- I cook special treats for him for training:
steak, chicken livers, roast chicken. When I give him one, he sniffs at it suspiciously. Curls his lip back, touches a tooth to it, lets it drop to the
ground. Sniffs it some more. Sometimes he leaves it (roast beef, really??).
Other times, in the absence of the royal taster he desires, he’ll think “mayhap
I shall deign to try the foodstuff the peasant is offering” and will delicately
eat it. Then the other day I idly picked up a bag of store-bought treats I had and
offered him one. What did he do? Suddenly omg it was the HAPPIEST DAY EVER as
he gleefully snatched it out of my hand, tossed it into the air, danced around
in jubilation, then triumphantly pranced off with this oh-so-special of sacred
treats. What was this treat you ask? A BEGGIN’ STRIP. No lie. Beggin’ Strips. I
shake my head.
I’ve done some sleuthing, and have found out more about his
background, from the original owner having him shipped from NYC, then him
somehow winding up with this other person in Salem, him escaping and being on
the lam back in April for almost 2 weeks and being hit by a car, then in the
shelter, then with loony Salem person, then escaping again and her not getting him
back and him being stuck in the shelter again.
I’m not surprised he’s slightly broken, wary, and highly
suspicious. We’re kind of a perfect match that way.
I signed the adoption papers last Friday.
That same day, I
took a pic of him as he was going into the back foyer. When I looked at that
picture later, I saw that Kone had given Kingsly his pawstamp of approval. A
slightly goofy pawstamp to be sure – “Momma, I did the bests I could!” – but what
else would it be? Message received, Mr. Handsomes, message received.
I believe HRH the Kone has just welcomed you to The Manor, little Kingsly.
