Birdbaths as Adoption Tools

Oklahoman Larry Flick was in his garden when he heard a splash. He turned to investigate and photographed this in his birdbath:

What a find! I can’t entice so much as a sparrow into my artful birdbath, much less a spotted pooch.

Turns out the dog was homeless as well as overheated. Until, of course, he paired up with a birdbath—a cute-as-a-button PR strategy that quickly got him adopted by Mr. Flick.

Saying Goodbye, Saying Hello

It’s been puzzling to me that 2012 is already over. I’m not sure I was ready to say goodbye to it. Not that it was a particularly spectacular year for me (though I did find that four-leaf clover). On the contrary, pretty much NOTHING happened—no personal tragedy or loss, no personal monumental achievements or failures. It was a year of the Small and the Quiet. I can’t recall another year like it.

Sure, the world around me swirled with unrest and catastrophe, and it affected me emotionally. But for the first time in this millennium, I have no personal high or low points to report, no milestones, no markers that will forever chisel 2012 into memory.

Instead, I have moments with insects, trees, horses, and family to cherish. And then came this:

This is a Mountain Bluebird, “adopted” through the National Audubon Society for us as a Christmas gift. (You, too, may adopt one and become a member of Audubon.) We haven’t named him yet, but I like to think of him as our Little Bluebird of Happiness. And with the Bluebird of Happiness at my side, how can 2013 NOT be a splendid year?

May your 2013 be all you wish it to be. And if not that, may it at least be filled with the Small and the Quiet.

[Goodbye pic from V3; bird photo by David Speiser.]

A Tale of Two Nubbins

If it were a movie, you wouldn’t believe it. This local news story is as uplifting and melodramatic as any Hallmark Hall of Fame program. And it all started with a feisty little dog named Nubbin.

The first half of the tale started on November 28, when Nubbin chased a groundhog and ended up caught in a fence. Nubbin is the only companion of Jessie Brothers, an elderly man who survives on disability with a host of health challenges while residing in a house he may soon lose. According to a neighbor, Brothers has no family (and, may I add, no perceived purpose in life) other than Nubbin.

Somehow Brothers managed to get his Jack Russell to a nearby clinic, where a stark diagnosis would change his life: Nubbin’s leg, broken in three places, would require complicated and extremely expensive surgery. If Brothers couldn’t afford it (and we already know he couldn’t), the only other alternative was to euthanize little Nubbin.

“My dog, my dog,” Brothers moaned as he crumpled in grief to the floor. A 911 call was placed and firemen (as the first responders) arrived on the scene. When one of them, Anthony Johnson, realized the tragedy that had prompted this emergency, he made the unusual choice of getting more deeply involved.

Johnson couldn’t begin to take on all of Brothers’ problems, but he could spare Nubbin’s life by paying for the surgery, and he knew just who to turn to for the best medical care—a veterinarian he’d met during a fire inspection. The vet agreed to take Nubbin’s case as part of an instructional component of his vet students’ classwork. And when an employee of the vet clinic recounted this story to her father, a retired fireman, he offered to pay for half of Nubbin’s medical care.

While Nubbin underwent surgery, Brothers was recovering at the aptly named Good Samaritan Hospital. His neighbor, the one mentioned earlier, picked him up from Good Samaritan and vowed to help him care for Nubbin during the dog’s crucial recuperation period. (If Nubbin’s leg doesn’t heal properly, he might need it amputated.) After surgery, the clinic staff began worrying about Nubbin, though: He seemed depressed, which could impede his healing. But as soon as the pooch caught sight of Brothers, Nubbin regained his vigor. Fireman Anthony Johnson stood by to witness the heartwarming reunion, and gratitude flowed in all directions.

End of story?

Not by a long shot. Across the country in Oklahoma was a woman who had a dream.

On December 1, Carla Kinnard dreamed that she and her husband, Jessie Kinnard, had at last found the biological father he’d spent years searching for online. Thinking the dream might be significant, Carla took one more stab at trying to find Jessie’s father, whom he hadn’t seen since he was a child—a child nicknamed “Nubbin.”

You see where this is going, don’t you? Carla found the news article about Nubbin the dog. Immediately, the cast of characters expanded to include some long-lost and unknown siblings; the plot thickened to reveal a tragic past; the string of coincidences twisted into a brief time years ago when the two Jessies, father and son, actually lived within two blocks of one another. And a reunion of epic proportions was in the making.

But the story still isn’t over. Many questions are yet to be answered: Will Nubbin’s leg have to be amputated? Will the siblings accept one another? Will the old man lose his home?

Time will tell. But no matter how it unfolds, the bond between Nubbin and his companion certainly sparked the compassion of a lot of people and pulled them together, if only for a short time. If not for one little dog, one lonely old man may never have stumbled upon the happiness he experienced when his first Nubbin returned home.

[Photos by Charles Bertram.]

Look Who’s Behind the Wheel!

One of the stories I heard while visiting with my family last week involved car trouble. My sister was travelling in her powder-blue vintage VW Bug (similar to the one pictured) with her trusty terrier when the trouble began. A tow truck was called to get the Bug to a repair shop, but the driver refused to allow a dog in the cab of his truck. What to do?

The solution must have turned a lot of heads as the convoy made its way through town: Manning the wheel of the vintage vehicle (which attracted attention all by itself) was a small, buff-colored terrier—who looked for all the world as if driving a car was no different for him than fetching a ball.

But maybe driving really isn’t all that extraordinary for dogs. Check out this video from New Zealand:

Granted, it’s a crazy gimmick. Yet I hope it gets the message across about the intelligence of shelter dogs. After all, my sister found her accomplished chauffeur when he was but a pup abandoned in a parking lot.

Spread the word: Shelter dogs rock…and drive!


[Pic from Das Blog.]

Take Advantage of Black Friday Adoption Specials

Did you know that black cats and dogs, like old or disabled dogs and cats, are the last to get adopted from shelters? Here are a few reasons why they get ignored:

1. Their online pictures don’t look like much—black coats are difficult to photograph—so they’re overlooked by potential adopters.

2. Black fur and faces are difficult to read, so people can’t easily understand the intentions or emotions of black animals (even some canines have trouble reading black dogs).

3. People are idiots. I mean, SOME people can’t get past their belief that black is bad luck, especially when it’s on a cat.

Today is Black Friday at shelters across the country. They’re offering special deals and deep discounts on black critters of all ages. If you’re in the market for a pooch or kitty, go BLACK today. I guarantee their ebony coats won’t bring you bad luck.

[Top pic from Healing Rescue Dogs, middle pic from Petfinder, and bottom pic from I Can Has Cheezburger?]

Old Dog, New View

Since enjoying Tom Ryan’s Following Atticus—a memoir about identity and leading a meaningful life set against a background of Ryan hiking the White Mountains with his unique Schnauzer, Atticus—I’ve been following his blog. This May, Ryan got wind of a 15-year-old Schnauzer on Death Row.

The dog was left at a kill shelter by the very family who had cared for him all his life. The facts are a tad murky, but it seems that for some time they had been keeping the pooch in a crate all day for the sake of convenience, for the Schnauzer had become deaf and mostly blind. He was also extremely arthritic, making mobility a challenge, and the family had given up on him.

The Schnauzer’s health, not surprisingly, quickly declined at the shelter and euthanasia was looking like his only future. That is, until a Schnauzer rescue and Tom Ryan stepped into the picture.

Ryan believed the pooch deserved to be loved and to live in comfort. Judging from the dog’s health and age, he had only a couple of months left before reaching a natural end. Ryan wanted to give him dignity for those two months. So he adopted Will.

Will wasn’t an easy customer. He’d grown to distrust humans and bit Ryan repeatedly. But Ryan knew all about betrayal and distrust, knew relationships take time to develop; he didn’t hold it against Will.

Ryan did whatever he could to give comfort to Will: “Will likes to be tucked in and feel secure against the night. He likes flowers. He likes music playing near his head where he appears to get more out of the vibration than the actual sound. So we get him flowers, cover him at night, and play music for him. If all it takes to make someone feel loved is to give them a few simple pleasures in life, why not do it?”

What surprised Ryan was how much Will began to change, physically as well as emotionally. With proper medical treatment, his pain was managed, his mobility stabilized, and his personality started to emerge. Will wanted to live.

It’s now well past that two-month mark Ryan originally thought he was dealing with, and Will is a new dog. He nuzzles rather than bites, hangs out with Atticus, attends book signings with Ryan, and has even taken up mountain hiking (albeit in a stroller) with his new tribe. This month for the first time, he showed interest in sleeping with the humans in their bed. He’s proof positive that old doesn’t mean done, that a meaningful life may be achieved even at the geriatric stage of life, that love is always worthwhile.

November is Adopt-A-Senior-Pet Month. If you’re in the market for another critter or in a position to foster one, please consider an elder animal. They have so much left to give to those willing to recognize it.

Watch a video (second from the top left) of Will romping in the yard. If you want a “pawtographed” edition of Ryan’s book, here’s the info.

[Top photo of Tom and Atticus by Ken Stampfer; middle photo of Will and bottom photo of Will and Atticus by Tom Ryan.]

Rescuerama: A Mystery in Progress – Part 4

Note: As I wrote earlier, Djuna wasn’t crazy about having her photo taken. What’s more, her true color never showed in the pics. So instead of reusing the few photographs of her I have, I’m relying on famed (and unknown) artists to illustrate my tale. In case you missed a previous installment of this series, here they are:

Part 1            Part 2            Part 3

The next morning I searched the Lost/Found category on Craigslist. It doesn’t make for cheerful reading. I wanted to run out and search for every dog and cat listed—especially Abby, the old Great Dane whose family placed a new ad every few days, begging for sightings of her. How does anyone see a Great Dane on the loose and NOT do something? Or not even think it odd?

As for Djuna, one ad was hopeful—the photo looked like her—and I wrote to the family. If they weren’t the right match, I’d post an ad of my own.

But it was time to return to the vet—with the cat in case we had to start the whole scanning process over again. Once more, Djuna took it in stride—no wiggling, no whimpering, no howling. I held her in my arms, swaddled in a bath towel, and she watched out the window, taking everything in and enjoying the ride.

Indeed, Djuna had to be scanned again, but we left the vet’s office with the name of the last known guardian (a phrase I will be using repeatedly, so going forward, I will refer to the last known guardian as “LKG”). We were on our way, I thought. I’d just search out all the people in Lexington with that name, then contact those who lived within a couple of miles from us. Surely we’d be able to find out whom Djuna belonged to.

Of course, things are never as simple as we want them to be. Though the guardian’s name wasn’t exotic or even unusual, it wasn’t common either. At least not to me. In Lexington, however, it’s a popular name and can be spelled a variety of ways. I tried them all and came up with a short list of addresses to visit.

We left Djuna at home for this mission. Instead, I took a flyer that had her picture and description on it and the name of the LKG. I explained the situation and asked residents to call or e-mail me if they even recognized the name of the person I was looking for. Oddly enough, I didn’t have to leave the flyer on any doors because everyone was home! But no one got me closer to Djuna’s family.

When we returned to our apartment, there was a message from the family I’d e-mailed earlier. I was so excited I could hardly comprehend what was written. I had to read it again: Their cat wasn’t microchipped and hadn’t come from a shelter. Djuna wasn’t theirs, for both were true of her, and now I had to write back saying as much. I felt awful for them.

At this point, another day had passed and we were no closer to getting Djuna home. I’d created some flyers on her behalf, which we got out before being stymied by the weather, but they were by no means enough to get the job done. The shelter was closed on Sundays, so Djuna would stay with us through the weekend. (Yay!)

When I finally accepted that the microchip was getting us nowhere, I changed course. I made a list of a handful of Web sites on which to advertise Djuna’s story and, after searching on each of them for a report of her disappearance and finding nothing (Why? Didn’t anyone miss this little jewel?), I posted a FOUND CAT report on each.

Then I reworked my flyers to include the name of the LKG. I hoped someone might recognize her name and let her know that Djuna, whether still the woman’s or not, was homeless once again. If nothing else, I hoped that I would get a lead on the person who last had Djuna.

Djuna enchanted me every time she sat up on her back legs like the
cat in this photo. And like this cat, she wanted to be part of everything.
Whenever food or drink was involved, she insisted on “deep sniffing.”
Never tasting, just breathing in the aroma with her nose a hair’s breadth
away from the fare.

Meanwhile, little Djuna was swiftly taking charge of our home.

She still didn’t talk. Except during that moment when I first introduced her to the windowsill. No sooner had her paws touched wood than she raised her back and hissed. And growled—tiny, nearly inaudible growls. I assumed she was intimidated by the pumpkin outside. “It’s okay, Little One,” I assured her. “It’s just a pumpkin—it won’t hurt you” and WHAM! The pumpkin flew off the ledge and in its place, after slamming into the window, stood the very tomcat I’d rescued her from the night before. Djuna had not been afraid of a silly little pumpkin; she was upset about the lurker outside! I promptly closed the blinds and scooped her up. The neighborhood cat didn’t bother her again and she didn’t utter another word.

We did whatever her stare demanded. If she wanted the blinds open for bird-watching, open they were. If she preferred tuna to the new kibble I’d bought her, so be it. If she wasn’t following us around, she was luxuriating on the shearling (it had belonged to our pooch once upon a time) we’d placed under the coffee table for her—which became her “fort.” If we were on the couch, she was between us for belly rubs. If we were in bed, she cuddled up beside us (but NOT—no no no!—under the covers; her choice, not ours). And if someone dared to shut the bathroom door, she made quick work of getting it back open.

As she relaxed in her surroundings, we caught her playing with an acorn a few times; otherwise, she wasn’t interested in interacting with toys. Who needed toys when you had an overactive imagination? Djuna held sudden bouts of play with imaginary friends—chasing, stalking, pouncing, twirling, and flying across the room. These bursts ended as suddenly as they began and they cracked me up every time. I’d forgotten what great entertainment furballs are.

Oh dear. The very thought of precious Djuna ending up in a cage disturbed me. I didn’t have the heart to turn her over to the shelter, and I couldn’t keep her. I HAD to find her family. I couldn’t let her distract me from that goal.

On Monday, with a list of stores and intersections in hand, we posted our new-and-improved flyers around.

On Tuesday afternoon, as I headed to a friend’s house for a previously scheduled get-together, I stopped at another neighborhood clutch of stores to post more flyers. When I returned home later, I found a voicemail waiting for me.

to be continued…

Rescuerama: A Mystery in Progress – Part 3

“Hello?” asked a female voice through the phone. “You left a note on my door about a cat?”

Well, I’d left a note on the only front door of the duplex, which opened into a foyer between two apartments. “Yes—”

“I don’t have a cat. You’ve got the wrong address. I’ve lived here for a long time and I’ve never had a cat.”

Hmm. The cat isn’t very old; her lodging at this address couldn’t have predated the woman’s residence there. Was the microchip info a sham? Who adopts an animal and lies about their identity?

Oh, right. Students do. This is a university town and, as in many other university towns across the U.S., students miss their pets at home, pick out new pets at local shelters, then bend the truth a bit in order to get around restrictions for adopters. Later, each spring when students return to their parents’ homes for the summer break, they leave behind (read: abandon) their adopted pets. But that’s another story.

“—moved in two months ago and her cat is always getting into my side of the basement…” The woman on the phone was talking again and I was trying to make sense of it. Next I heard, “She let the cat out and told me she hoped it would find a new home.”

Excuse me? Did I hear that right? She didn’t WANT the cat anymore so she simply opened a door and nudged the cat OUTSIDE?

The woman on the phone warned that if I returned the cat to her neighbor, the “rehoming” process would just start again. She needn’t have worried. As far as I was concerned, her neighbor shouldn’t, and wouldn’t, get the cat back.

Now what? As I wrote earlier, the shelter the cat came from would take her in again. But my new focus was the woman who put her outside. Should I report her to animal control for endangering an animal? Should I report her to the animal shelter for reneging on her commitment to care for the feline?

Furious, I stewed over this for the better part of the evening. I wanted to scream at that woman just as I’d screamed at the fellow who slammed his pooch onto the ground, back first.

On the other hand, the cat in my arms was healthy and sweet and clean. She may not have known how to play with toys, or didn’t care to, but that’s hardly a sign of neglect. She couldn’t get enough of our affections, yet that doesn’t mean she’d been deprived of attention before. It appeared the only wrong move her guardian had made was sending her outdoors.

As I puzzled through the possibilities, the phone rang. It was the cat’s neighbor. Again.

“You’re not going to believe this—”

Try me, I thought.

“But my neighbor’s cat came back.”

Hunh? “Excuse me?”

“Her cat—his name is Piper—just came home, so the cat you have isn’t hers.”

“Oh.” Geez. Now what? I still had to find the guardian of the cat in my house AND I felt compelled to help poor Piper. “Please tell your neighbor to take Piper to a shelter. If she can’t or won’t do it, please tell her I’ll do it for her. But she should NOT put Piper outside again.”

“Yes, I’m going to have a talk with her after she gets her kids in bed.”

“Okay. Call if you need me. And thank you so much for letting me know about Piper.”

I was still angry. I know I’m bucking an age-old mythology* that cats want to be outside, that they can survive fine on their own. They do, and they can. But unless we—as the guardians responsible for keeping our cats safe and healthy—can protect our cats while they’re outside, we owe it to our cats to keep them inside.

So how did Djuna get outside? Was she put there or had she escaped? I wouldn’t know until I found her guardian, and that meant getting a name. We would have to return to the vet and beg for more information.

Until then, more lollygagging was in order.

to be continued…

* I’ve since learned from a retired animal cruelty investigator that letting a cat fend for itself outside is legal in the Bluegrass. (Not so for a dog, but that doesn’t stop people from doing it.) So apparently anyone can adopt a cat and then turn it outside to make its own way. No food, no water, no interaction, no medical care. We have responsibilities toward dogs but not cats? It may be legal, but it makes absolutely no sense to me.

Rescuerama: A Mystery in Progress – Part 2

After much discussion, my husband and I agreed to keep the cat overnight and take her to a vet the next morning to be scanned. We gave her water, which she eagerly lapped up. Our food options were less successful.

We tried treats (i.e., food we had on hand) that our own cats had loved—yogurt, cheese, eggs, halibut. Finally, the obvious came to my husband: tuna. The cat tried it and gave me a look that could only be interpreted as “You figured it out! I’m so very grateful.” In contrast, had our old Burmese been in the same situation, she would have shot me a look that meant “Now how bloody hard was that, hmm? Pathetic human…”

My husband set up a litterbox with sand, which we had in preparation for making luminaria for the holidays. The cat used it and we were grateful. It looked as if we’d all make it through the one night together.

I’m not sure how to describe the little lost cat (whom we shall call Djuna from now on for the sake of practicality). She’s unlike any other cats I’ve known. She immediately acted comfortable in our home. Or perhaps she is simply self-assured regardless of location and situation. She is exceedingly polite; that is, she seems to wait for permission to do anything she wants—whether it’s sitting in my lap or wandering into another room. She doesn’t meow. Her communication style is completely nonverbal. Djuna either stares at us until we comprehend her wishes or she touches us with a paw. She’s a startling amalgamation of our previous animal companions: tiny with a plush coat like our Tortie, intelligent like our Burmese (sans the ’tude), calm like our special-needs cat and, like our pooch, not interested in having her photograph taken. She follows us everywhere, cleans herself every few moments, and delights in bellyrubs and cuddling. We started wondering who sent her to us, what she was trying to tell us, whether the souls of our other animals were, indeed, all crammed together inside her… But then she took the trip to the vet in stride and we knew she was her own, singular self since none of our other creatures enjoyed traveling.

 A vet tech scanned Djuna and found—EUREKA!—a microchip. We waited in a small room of the Victorian-house-turned-animal-clinic for news of the cat’s guardian. As much as we loved having a cat in our lives again, we were relieved that soon she would be in the arms of the person who no doubt missed her terribly.

The vet tech returned to our room with mixed news. The phone number listed with the microchip was defunct, but we could try the address listed. The cat had been adopted from the Paris Animal Welfare Society (P.A.W.S.), which said it would take Djuna back and re-adopt her.

Our hopes weren’t dashed. It was too early to surrender Djuna to P.A.W.S. First, we would visit the address listed on the microchip.

It was a duplex not far from our neighborhood—IF you were travelling by car. But a tiny cat? We shuddered to imagine how many busy streets she had crossed to find her way to our bushes. We wondered how direct her path had been and who had noticed her along the way.

No one was home at the duplex. So I left a note, explaining that 1913 __________ Road was the address given to P.A.W.S., that we had no current phone number or name, yada yada yada.

Late that afternoon, I received a call I wasn’t prepared for.

to be continued…

Rescuerama: A Mystery in Progress – Part 1

A cat fight erupted in our bushes Thursday night and I dashed outside to break it up. A bit of loud clapping did the trick.

I looked around to see the perpetrators and in the quiet came high-pitched, muffled mewing. Turned out to be the young pit-bull mix across the street, who was showing his concern for the action in my yard.

As I walked down the sidewalk and continued looking for the cats, one of them came running toward me and threw herself down on her back in my path—hinting at a bellyrub. She was certainly friendly, but I’d never seen her around the neighborhood. I obliged her wish for contact, yet I felt like someone was watching us. Sure enough, a neighbor’s cat was staring at me with dagger eyes. Ah, now I knew both parties behind the altercation.

The neighbor’s cat typically follows me around and comes running to me whenever I call his name. Now I’d betrayed him with a tiny, inconsequential female who had trespassed his turf. Or whom he was romancing. He stalked toward us and I scooped up the female, telling the male to go home.

I felt terrible. Whether he wanted to fight her or woo her made no difference to me. As far as I was concerned, they sounded the same and both sound terrible.

I walked up the street to check with a neighbor whose indoor cats sometimes escape for an outdoor spree. Unfortunately for the sprite in my arms, the neighbor’s cats were all present and accounted for. Now what?

I returned toward my home and a concerned party guest from across the street stopped me to see the cat. She’d heard the commotion and wanted to make sure the cats were okay (she has four of her own). Since neither cat was hurt, she suggested I simply put the cat down so she could find her way back home. I would hear this same suggestion from someone else later.

Without a plan of my own, I tried it their way. I didn’t feel good about it. My husband distracted the male cat in the front yard while I released the female in the back. But when she started to follow me, I knew I couldn’t abandon her to the night and the multitude of dangers that lurked there.

She would stay with us until the morning, when we’d get her scanned for a microchip.

to be continued…

Take A (Doggelgänger) Break

If you’ve finished all your tasks for today and are looking for something to do, why not take a peek at your canid doppelgänger—that is, your Doggelgänger.

Doggelgänger is “human to canine pairing software” that analyzes a photo of your choosing—which you upload to the site—and finds a pooch who not only looks like the person in the photo, but is available for adoption. Upload your own mug and find the perfect matching companion for your life.

[This adorable boy is available through Bad Rap.]

Hangin’ with the 1%

Sorry for my recent absence. I’ve no excuse, really. I was simply distracted by dogs and ponies and kettle corn.

The Bluegrass annually hosts a Really Big Show for eventing enthusiasts. (For those of you outside the equine sports community, “eventing” is an equine / equestrian triathlon combining dressage, jumping, and cross-country.) This particular contest—the Rolex Three-Day Event—is fiercely competitive and demands the utmost skill and athleticism from its participants, both equine and human. It is also dangerous and has taken the lives of horses and riders in the past.

At this point, you may well wonder why I’d watch such an event. I didn’t. I watched some world-class, gorgeous horses warm up before competing, but that was it. And that was enough. The rest of the time I served as a volunteer for the local humane society, walking a homeless dog through the crowds and telling everyone I could that she needed a home.

I met some great people from around the globe and heard oodles of rescue stories about both dogs and ponies. I also heard tales from the Dark Side—the cruel and unjustifiable things people do to animals because…

(I don’t know how to finish that last sentence, but I’m working on it because I want to fix it/stop it/prevent it.)

For four hours on Thursday and four hours on Friday, “Peachy” (or Peaches as I more often called her) and I walked the grounds. It was a dog-friendly event, so she met lots of elite dogs and their people. She also met vendors (her faves, of course, were hawking fried fair foods) and police officers (she displayed more respect for the mounted variety), horses and equestrians. She never uttered a sound and she never passed up a potentially edible item without first tasting it (peppers, bananas, tomatoes, broccoli, a frog*—all was fair game). When we rested beneath shady trees together, she always ended up in my lap, nuzzling her snout against my face.

As my shift ended on Friday, I considered it a personal failing that she hadn’t yet been adopted. A couple of other dogs snagged new homes, but not Peaches. There had been plenty of interest in her, but I hadn’t closed the deal with anyone.

Some people would initially try to ward me off by saying they lived far away. “I’m from California (or Colorado or Florida). Otherwise…” But I never waited for them to finish. As soon as they named their state, I shot back with “That’s not an obstacle. I’ll personally drive Peachy to wherever you live.” Yes, I realize now that they were actually attempting to say No to me in a way that 1) Wouldn’t offend me, and 2) Let them off the hook for what they considered good reason. I just wasn’t very reasonable. And frankly, I looked forward to a road trip.

I was hot, my feet hurt, and I couldn’t bear to think of Peachy reduced to living in the shelter again—where she’d been for many months because she’s a neurotic mess while there (bloodies her paws trying to claw her way out of the cage, can’t calm down long enough for any potential adopters to get a good look at her) and nobody wants to adopt a neurotic mess.

Except one woman, who I’m pretty sure had some neuroses of her own. I should have been thrilled over her attraction to Peaches, but I wasn’t. I dreaded she would be the ONLY hope. My concern hinged largely on a single question the woman asked me repeatedly: “Can you guarantee she won’t run away?” She explained she planned to let Peachy roam her large farm with her other rescued dogs. I asked her how she managed to get the other dogs to stay on the farm. She said they simply followed her around. I said I couldn’t guarantee anything. I believed she’d need to work patiently with Peaches to educate the dog about her new home and boundaries.

I went home. Saturday passed. Sunday morning I returned to the park for my shift working Doggie Daycare (basically a boarding service for the dogs of the 1%). Several more dogs had been adopted since Friday. And Peachy?

“Yeah, we think she’ll get a home today,” said one of the humane society employees.

I cringed. “Is it the woman?”

“No. You’ll like these people.”

I couldn’t imagine who would meet the standards I’d suddenly set for my Peaches. There had been one family I wanted to belong to myself, but they clearly had enough animals and children and stuff going on already. I didn’t even try to push Peaches on them, but I enjoyed chatting with them whenever I ran into them.

Halfway through my shift as prison warden to a couple of elite dogs from Hell, I noticed my dream family standing outside the Doggie Daycare tent. I stepped outside to say Hey, but was rendered speechless and motionless when I realized why they were there: They had decided to adopt Peaches.

I couldn’t believe Peachy’s good fortune. I thanked the young father profusely and said I could just hug him. (I am NOT a hugger.) He hugged me. I’m sorry now that I didn’t get a pic of the entire dreamy blended family. When my shift ended, I celebrated by buying a bag of kettle corn and blissfully munching on it as I strolled around the park in a daze.

On Monday morning, I worried about Peachy. I sent her telepathic messages: “PleaseBeGood. PleaseBeGood. Don’t steal anyone’s food, leave the horse pies alone, cuddle with everybody. Do NOT make that family resent your adoption—they are the best home any dog could hope for. PleaseBeGood.”

On Monday afternoon, I received a follow-up e-mail about the event from the humane society. In addition to raising an impressive amount of money through the Doggie Daycare, the merchandise tent, and donations collected by the shelter dogs (they wore little coats with big pockets in which passersby would slip $10, $5, or $1 bills), eleven pooches shook free from their homeless labels and left the Rolex event with their new families.

I know what some of you are thinking: “Eleven? What’s eleven next to the millions still waiting for homes?”

You’re right, of course. Eleven is nothing.

But for Peachy, and for each of her ten canine pals, it’s everything.

* The frog incident was not on my watch, thank goodness.
[Pics of Peaches snapped in haste by yours truly; photo of Rolex second-place winner Allison Springer and her horse, Arthur (who won the coveted award for Best Conditioned Horse), by Nancy Jaffer.]