This past Friday was going to be a difficult day—I knew that going into it. I had prepared myself, weighed all the options, the “what ifs”, the “maybes and maybe nots”, and steeled myself to present to the public a calm and professional front. Friday was a day I had seen coming for a while now, like watching the approach of a slow moving train. I was dreading Friday, as Friday would be Guapo’s last day on earth.

He was found a few months ago in one of our large metro parks. The ranger who found him was certain he had been dumped there. Our deputy warden took custody of him, and brought him to the Shelter, where he was examined by our medical staff

He was missing most of his hair, was covered in sores, scabs, and growths of all sizes. Our medical staff, a team of the kindest people I have ever met, treated him for alopecia and a host of other severe skin problems. They also noted how sweet and friendly he was.

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In short order his skin began to heal, and he took his place on our adoption ward, where everyone who met him fell in love with him. We categorize our dogs into four basic levels of behavior—this is mostly for the benefit of our volunteers, who receive training for each level. Guapo ( which means “handsome”) was listed at the Blue level, which is the easiest level to work with, and one that our newest volunteers train on, As we were in the process of onboarding a large class of new volunteers, this meant they all got to know Guapo—he got four and five walks a day, during which he played with toys and scarfed snacks, and got loving attention from some of the kindest people on earth (in my opinion). This was a long way from being dumped alone in a park.

I had been following his case from the day he was brought in to the shelter, and determined that he could be a good dog to help me host visiting groups who come to the shelter to spend a few hours volunteering. And he was a champ! The sight of him could be a little startling at first, but his gentle disposition overcame any initial hesitation. He especially loved women, and if they got down on the floor with him he would back up onto their laps, encouraging the butt scratches he loved so well. Because I kept him in my office a lot, I was trusted by him, and he loved to pop his paws onto my lap as I sat in my office chair, and stretch his face up to where his lips touched mine. His eyes were a sort of greenish hazel, and he had a way of looking at you as if he were just this side of speech. I would run the tips of my fingers along his back and flanks, scratching him without using fingernails, because I figured that might be too intense for his healing skin. He would lift his head and crane his neck from the pleasure of it.

In short order, he became a Shelter favorite. Volunteers and staff began taking him home for sleepovers, and day trips, and he met many visiting groups, greeting each person with a wag and a lean. He was the star of several social media posts. And his hair began to return quickly. At one point, when I was walking him, I looked down at him and said “ Why Guapo, I had no idea you were a gray dog!”

His mange-like appearance gave way to blue-gray and white markings—but he still retained growths, along his legs and flanks and throat. Sometimes these would bleed, but he didn’t seem that bothered by them. The vets biopsied a few of the growths, as their appearance—and seeming expansion—warranted some concern.

Then, on Wednesday, the results came in. Cutaneous Lymphoma. Advanced. The prognosis was dire. I looked up the disease as it relates to dogs, and learned that, untreated, which had evidently been the case prior to his coming to the Shelter, death occurs within four to six weeks. I noticed he had slowed down a bit from when I first began keeping him as my office dog…he would start to frolic with a toy and then stop, and lay down with it instead. He didn’t seem to be in any pain, but that wouldn’t last. The vets elected for humane euthanasia.

Wednesday night word went round the volunteer corps of his diagnosis, and they were told if they wanted to, they should give him the best day on Thursday…and boy did they! There were tons of photos of different volunteers giving him hugs and treats, and laying with him the grass of our walking yard. Thursday was my day off, and it was all I could do not to go to the shelter, but I didn’t want to deprive anyone of time with him. One volunteer took him home for a sleepover.

I came to work Friday especially early, and went right to his room, where I found a volunteer laying on the floor with him. I asked her if she was going to walk him and she said yes, and I asked her to bring him to my office when they were done. He had stood up when I came into the room, and popped up on his hind legs and stretched his face up as high as he could, and I bent down and kissed his nose, which was sort of our thing.

I had a group coming that morning, and I decided to give him one last visit. I didn’t tell the folks that he’d be gone after lunch—I didn’t want to ruin their day—but I told them he had some significant health challenges, and could use all the “sugar” they could give him. And they did, in spades. They hugged him, gave him lots treats, one guy played fetch with him with his favorite stuffie ( though he tired out fast).

After they’d gone, I took him to McDonalds, where I got him a cheeseburger, and we came back to my office, and I broke it into pieces and fed it to him. We snuggled a little, and then he lay on the bed under my desk, at my feet. I had a meeting in our conference room, and I brought him with me, and everyone in the room loved on him a bit. Then, halfway though the meeting, an attendant came for him. He trotted right to her, greeting her as he did everyone he met, and left the room with her without looking back. I really didn’t say much for the rest of the meeting, and when it was over, I went into my office and shut the door for about 10 minutes

Then I had to get ready for an afternoon group—I went to the kennels and brought out a 10 month old puppy named Storm, who is adorable and playful, and has this habit that when you pick her up, she wraps her paws around your shoulders and buries her face in your neck, in a very human-like hug. And I needed one of those right about then. The women in the group oo’d and ah’d as she hugged me, and they took lots of pics, but they had no idea what was behind that hug.

Some dogs at the Shelter stay with you. I have a phone full of pictures of dogs whose names I’ve forgotten, but Guapo won’t be one of those. He’ll stay in the hearts of a lot of us, and especially in those of the new volunteers for whom Guapo was their first Shelter dog.

The visiting group all competed to hug Storm, and she rarely touched the floor during their visit. And they were enthralled by the work of the Shelter, and they visited every dog in the wards, and sweet-talked them and treated them.

The Shelter goes on. Life goes on, and in my life, on hard days like Friday, it is often in the form of a frisky puppy who likes to hug.

This is Ola… a 12 year old poodle, with a big heart murmur and multiple subcutaneous tumors… due to this and other medical issues, she is not a candidate for adoption, but is awaiting a rescue organization to select her, likely for hospice care… she’s my current office dog, and spends her time either on my lap or on the bed under my desk…she’s already taken ownership of the office, and is my official greeter…

I learned that among her many talents, Ola can do a wolf howl… I left her in my office to go down the hall to the copy room, and suddenly a long mournful howl filled the whole wing of the building… she prefers that I don’t leave her behind, so now she goes with me to the copy room, the break room, the bathroom, my supervisor’s office, the supply closet, and in the car with me to pick up lunch…I can hear her tonight, howling in my mind’s ear, and I’ll go to work early tomorrow just to keep her quiet…

Sweet little Ola, the senior poodle I posted about earlier this week, has found a home! I had her with me all day yesterday, where she helped me host two visiting Community Groups. During the first group, she greeted all the participants, but stayed focused on me, begging to be picked up. I kept her on my lap most of the time, where she trembled and buried her nose in the crook of my arm. I think it was probably due to be alone overnight.

After the first group was finished, Ola and I went to Tim Hortons, where I got a coffee and a sandwich, and she got a pup cup, then we hosted the second group, an adorable troop of girl scouts and their moms. The girls immediately hit the floor, and Ola went from lap to lap, and accepted as her due all the hugs and kisses. The girls made treats, and slipped the greedy little poodle a few tasty morsels from time to time, and then when it was time to go to the wards and toss the treats to the dogs, I took Ola to my office, and left her there, where I knew she’d begin howling pretty soon.

While leading the troop through the ward that houses our newest strays, I was intercepted by our rescue coordinator, to ask if Ola was in my office. I said yes, and she said her rescuers had arrived. If you remember, Ola wasn’t available for adoption, due to severe health issues, but a rescue group that specializes in senior littles, agreed to take her on.

I asked the scouts if they’d like to say goodbye to Ola as she goes to her new home, and they were enthusiastically down for it. We went directly to the lobby, where the troop waited while I went to my office to collect Ola, (who let me hear about leaving her alone in the room). I picked her up for a few kisses, then walked her out to the lobby, where all the girls were on the floor in front of the elderly couple who had come to take Ola to her last home. The girls swarmed her, and they told the couple how sweet she was, and each one said goodbye to her, and we put a new collar on her and hooked up a new leash, and the smiling couple thanked the girls, and then walked Ola out of our lives.

As I stood there watching her go, one of the little scouts tugged on my sleeve and looked into my eyes and asked, “ Are you going to go back to your office and cry now?” I looked at her for a few seconds and said “ Mmmmaaaaybe.”

A few elementary school-aged girls were walking home from school a few weeks ago, on the city’s near east side, when a man approached them with a large dog on a leash. “ I’m tired of him”, he said, and handed one of the girls the leash and then he walked away. The surprised girl took the dog home, where he stayed for a few days, before the mother brought him to the shelter.

He is not a full Great Dane—there’s something else mixed in there, maybe lab, maybe pointer—he’s smaller than the typical Danes you see, who might be 2X dogs, whereas as Donnie just wears a large, maybe extra-large coat. His carriage, his long but surprisingly graceful legs, and that distinctive rectangular snout identifies him as a member of the Dane tribe.

A medical exam found a large subcutaneous mass at the base of his tail, close to the spine, and the decision was made to anesthetize him and remove it for testing. His back end was shaved, and after the operation he was left with a three inch surgical scar. The tests revealed it was a cancerous mass, but the vets feel they got it all, though there was some concern because it was so close to the skeleton.

But he rose above it all, and was as sweet and gentle as could be. And he seemed to be all things to all people—by turns playful and spirited, and calm low-key. He helped me work with several Community groups, and was a champion greeter and host.

I had him with me when we hosted a group of special needs middle-schoolers, and he was very easy-going with them, intuitively seeming to understand that the best approach was to be gentle and calm. He accepted all the pets he was offered and didn’t force himself on the kids who were a bit reluctant to engage. There were a boy in a wheelchair, the kind of rig that is computer-guided, and the boy’s caretaker led Donnie over to meet him, and the great Great Dane very gently nosed him on the cheek, and gave him a soft kiss, which raised the brightest smile, and the loveliest chuckle, and this only encouraged more kisses.

A small Bengali girl ( I know she was Bengali because in the course of our conversation, I asked her what her favorite thing to do was, and she said she was learning Bengali dancing) was very nervous to be around Donnie, so I made sure to keep him from coming near her. But I could see she was interested in him, and in the way her classmates were petting him and hugging him. She began to edge toward him, taking two steps forward and one step back, wringing her hands. I told her it was ok if she didn’t want to meet him, but that he was very sweet, and seemed to like girls, and especially liked it when people gave him scratches on his back. She reached out tentatively and touched his back, and he shivered a little and she withdrew, but then she reached out again and gave him a soft scratch. He turned around and leaned into her hand, and she scratched again, smiling.

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Long story short, by the end of their visit, she was walking him around the room, handling the leash like an expert, and even though he was almost the same size as her, he followed her lead and went wherever she guided him. As they were leaving, we got word that someone was interested in meeting him, with an eye toward adopting him. This person had seen me lead him to the room where the class was waiting, and liked the cut of his jib. I asked the girl if she’d like to take him to the woman and say goodbye to him, and she said yes. I invited the potential adopter into the room, and the little girl walked him over to her and handed her the leash.

I couldn’t help but reflect on how he had been handed to a young girl on the street, by a person who didn’t want him anymore, and now a young girl was handing him to the person who wanted him so much she would give him a home for the rest of his days.

She and a few other kids spent the rest of their time with us coloring pictures of dogs, and as they were leaving, she handed me her picture, which was of three dogs—she had colored one of them blue, one of them red, and one of them green. She pointed out that she was the red dog, Donnie was the blue dog, and I was the green dog. I have the picture hanging in my office as we speak.

As I walked the kids to their bus, I told the young lady I was very proud of her, and that I thought she was very brave, and she grinned and agreed with me. The adopter brought Donnie outside for a walk, and a bunch of the kids waved to him as the bus got underway. I gave him a hug, and a scratch, and his new owner brought him back inside to start the paperwork.

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He was found in a dumpster in late January, on the city’ east side. He was emaciated, dehydrated, covered with what were later determined to be chemical burns. Some of these burns could be classified as 2nd and 3rd degree. A good Samaritan brought him to the shelter, where he was immediately dispatched to a veterinary emergency clinic. There was some discussion about euthanizing him to relieve him of his obvious misery, but in spite of everything, he was friendly and waggy.

The vets cleaned his wounds as best they could—one of the folks working with him reported a burning sensation in her hands, likely from the unknown chemical on his skin. The emergency clinic kept him and treated and tended to him for a week, and then our deputies picked him up and brought him to our shelter’s clinic, where his care continued, and he was given the name Byron.

The wounds were treated with creams and salves, and he was put on a high caloric diet, and prescribed antibiotics and pain meds. A medical foster was found for him, and they picked him up and brought him to their home, where his care continued on a one to one basis. After a few weeks, the medical foster had to return him to the shelter, due to change in their work schedule. They reported that he was friendly, loved toys and treats, and was as playful as his condition would allow.

He was given a room on our adoption floor, and his behavior category was listed as the easiest one, which made him available to all our volunteers, on every skill level. He quickly became a shelter favorite—our front desk clerks kept him with them for a day, and he was happy to greet everyone who came to the shelter.

I had been following his case from the beginning, being alerted to him by one of our volunteers when he first arrived. I was itching to get my hands on him, and keep him in my office as an office mate. A few days ago I was finally able to, and we spent a whole day together, getting to know each other. He loves to pop up in my lap, and snuffle all over my chest, and throw up stealth kisses when I least expect it. Sometimes he pops up and just looks long into my eyes. Then I return the favor and give him stealth kisses as well.By the latter part of the day, he lay sleeping under my desk, with his chin resting on my shoe, so as to be alerted should I get up. I let him rest.

Over two days with me, he couldn’t decide between all the toys in my office—he’d pick one up, then drop it in favor of another one, and another, and another. He was grateful for every treat, and did not discriminate—some dogs has preferences, and will turn their nose up at some treats, but not this boy. He liked every treat and every toy—it’s all good to him.

And that really is his watch phrase—it’s all good. If ever there was a dog who had a strong reason to reject humans, it’s Byron. And yet he keens to us. He greets everyone he meets with wags, and will rear up to you to solicit all the pets you have. Yesterday I had him in my office again, where he loved on my two interns, and was excited to be greeted by every volunteer who stopped by my office. I had a group of corporate volunteers late in the day, and brought him into the community room with me. I had a small debate with myself about whether I should, as his physical appearance can be shocking at first sight, but I finally decided people needed to see what the world of humans had done to him. I admit to a small bit of sadism in this thinking—I wanted people to feel ashamed at belonging to the same species as the monster(s) who did this to him. But that was a small part of my thinking— my larger motive was to expose Byron to all the kindness he could handle

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And boy did that group respond! Every member gently petted him so as not to aggravate his healing wounds, and kissed him, and gave him treats. They tossed toys with him, and hugged him when he asked for hugs, which was constantly. There was never a moment when he wasn’t fussed over, and he loved it. When the group was ready to go out into the wards and toss treats to to all the dogs in the shelter, they took a group photo with him, and then he and I remained behind to clean up. He lay down on the cool floor and dropped off almost immediately, exhausted from all the love and attention.

Back in my office, he lay on the dog bed and quietly worked on a frozen Kong filled with peanut butter. He is still in survival mode—constantly hungry. When I was ready to go home for the day, I took him back to his room, where he was delighted to see his dinner had been delivered, and completely forgot about me and tucked in.

Vets have a body condition scale when they perform examinations—1-9—1 being emaciated and 9 being obese. Byron was a 2 when when first brought in, and after his recent exam he was upgraded to a 4, as he’s putting on weight steadily, so much so that now he’s on a regular feeding schedule. You can still see ribs, but much less so than before. He has a a small amount of muscle wasting still, but he’s only about 2 years old, so there’s every reason to believe he’ll fill out to a strong and healthy good boy.

One of my new volunteers stopped by my office yesterday, met Byron, and I told him about Byron’s story, ending with my constant refrain— “ People suck”. The volunteer had a different take—he said it was a case of confirmation bias: there could be a thousand good and decent people, but the one awful person colors our perception of the whole. There are many more good folks out there than bad.

And he was right. Byron’s is a good case in point. Our saga with him began with horrific abuse by maybe one individual, but his life since has been filled with nothing but tenderness, from the initial vets and techs, to the deputies, to our vets and kennel attendants and clerks and volunteers. My time with him has been just 2 days so far. But there is a constant stream of people giving him love, and reinforcing what he already knew instinctively, that, by and large, we humans are the bees knees. I try to take a lesson from him.

He will be going home with a volunteer this weekend for a sleepover, and then home with his new medical foster on Monday. With any luck, his time under our care will be short—there has been great interest in him in recent days, and this means that one out of many compassionate people out there will be lucky enough to take him in, and give him a safe and loving home for the rest of his long life.

I have been gradually easing myself back into the swing of things at the shelter, since my knee replacement surgery 2 months ago. The pain is much less constant than before, though now and again, after I’ve overdone it, it comes roaring back to remind me I’m not 20 anymore. Or 30. Or 40. Or 50…well, you know where this is going.

One thing I really miss is having an office dog. It’s too hard right now, encumbered as I am with this cane. Walking them is problematic, especially on unsteady ground, and a number of our shelter dogs are pullers. Even my home dogs yank me around when I try to walk them, and this recent Snowmaggedon has made it even more dicey. My 8 pound Yorkie nearly took me down the other day—it’s like having a miniature husky, mushing through the snow.

But I decided to brave it at work, and pick a dog to hang out with a group of middle school special needs students, and after their visit, to chill with me while I worked in my office. My intention was to pick a little poodle mix, and when I went to her kennel, she backed away and actually began screaming. Screaming! I thought, well, I don’t want to stress her anymore than she already is, so I let her be, and on my way out of the ward I passed a smallish husky mix. She sat calmly at the front of her kennel, looking up at me with serene eyes, her tail slowly sweeping the floor behind her. It was as if she was thinking, if I want to get picked, I need to be the opposite of that little drama queen down the hall.

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Her name is Ivy, and in researching her in our system, I saw that she’d been brought in to the shelter a few days before by a member of the public, who found her wandering around the west side of town. She was noted as gentle and easy-going, sort of counter to most high energy huskies I’ve met. I decided to take flyer on her, and leashed her up and brought her to the room to meet the students.

I kept hold of her for a while, as I didn't really know her, but my caution was unfounded. She was sweet and gentle with all the kids, nosing them for pets, climbing onto laps of anyone who sat on the floor. A couple of the moms and teachers who accompanied the kids on this field trip fell profoundly in love with her, and competed with the kids for her attention. She was very accommodating, and now and then just stood next to the adults, leaning against their legs.

After their visit was over, I took her outside for a pee, and she didn’t pull at all, and immediately completed her tasks, and led me back inside. We went to my office, where I set her up with a new dog bed, and some toys, which she ignored. She came to me as I sat in my office chair, and popped up onto my lap, and stretched up to give me some gentle kisses, and look deep into my eyes. She has one and half brown eyes—the iris of her left eye is divided into two colors—a half-circle of brown on the top half, and a half-circle of blue on the bottom half. Never seen anything quite like, the perfect division of color.

After snuggling with me for a while, she moved on. She eschewed the comfy bed and instead stretched out on the floor beside it, and napped away the rest of the day. From time to time someone would drop by the office, and she would rise and easily greet them, then return to her nap. She’s only a year and a half old, but has the chill of a much older dog.

I haven’t been able to see her since. While I was off for the weekend, she came down with an upper respiratory infection—kennel cough, to use the old-fashioned expression—and so has been quarantined in an isolation ward while she works through a course of antibiotics. I suspect she’s not long for the shelter. She’s the perfect dog, and someone is going to luck into meeting her.

Yesterday morning I was reading about our newest “residents”, and saw that one of them was a small poodle mix, who was brought in by a Good Samaritan —apparently, just before the big snowstorm, this little dog evidently selected a random house, and ran inside when when the owner opened the door. Unfortunately, there was already a resident dog, who resented the intrusion, and who felt the little thing would be of best use as a quick snack. The owner was able to snatch her up before the resident dog could enact his plan, and she brought the little thing to the shelter.

Her name is Marie, and she’s a year old and beautiful and spunky and friendly. The early encounters with our staff were less than friendly, however—she was frightened, and defensive, and no doubt still spooked by her close call with the big home dog. I saw her in one of our open puppy pens, and quite counter to the shy and defensive behavior that was entered in her file, I found her to be absolutely delightful. She was wiggly and eager, and so I brought a chair into her enclosure and sat down, and she sprang onto my lap, and began some serious kissing. She focused on my lips, and no matter how much I turned my head away, she stayed on them. She second-based me for about ten minutes, and then curled up and buried her nose in the crook of my knit-sweatered arm, and dozed off. I sat there for a good while, as people passed by and smiled at the scene.

She isn’t spayed yet, so she is unavailable for immediate adoption until she is. Meantime, as I expected, three people have already added their names to a waiting list to adopt her. She’s going to have a great life.

I have trying to get to know the dogs in the shelter—it’s mostly a new crop since I was on recovery leave. I was reminded of a short story by my college mentor Jack Matthews, in which an old man, staying at a summer resort camp for seniors, has many annoying encounter with his fellow residents, and then he falls ill and is in the hospital for a month, and when he return he can’t wait to tell everyone about his medical adventures, but everything is different, different staff, different residents, not one person who knew who he was. None of our current dogs know me yet.

I’m going to have to spend the next week or so introducing myself to our new residents, and when I do I’ll pass along to you what I learn.

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I have had several office dogs over the past month, and all have been adopted after spending a few days or weeks with me. It always seem to happen on my days off, so I never get a chance to say goodbye to them, which may well be the way it should be. I fall in love easily, because I see the need in them to be loved, and I respond without thinking about it. I think about them when I’m home, even as I’m buried under the neediness of the three knuckleheads on my couch. I often wish I could bring a dog home for a respite from the shelter, but I fear my resident dogs would not be as agreeable as I’d like.

A dog I wrote about previously, Sprout, was adopted right after I published the article about him, and he was missed by not only me but a number of others in the shelter. When I would walk him around the lobby, he would be greeted by passing staff members—” hello Spout, how’s it going?” or “ there’s Sprout, hi there little buddy”.

I have taken to walking my dogs through the lobby to take them out the front door to do their business instead of out back in the walking yard. I do this intentionally, I want customers who are in the lobby to see the dog walking with me, friendly and eager, with no kennel bars between them. I got the idea watching the film The Master, directed by Paul Thomas Anderson—there is a sequence in the beginning, set in a 1950s department store, where a model walks around the store wearing a long fur coat, stopping now and then in front of small groups of shoppers to show off the coat, spinning around, opening it to let them see the lining, then announcing “ Only 39.99 “

I walk my office dogs through the lobby, slowly, and watch people light up when they see how sweet the dog is. I stop and give him a scratch, or a treat, and talk to him, which makes him respond happily. Often people will ask his name, and I will walk him over to let them pet him, and I tell them about some of the things I’ve learned about him. I don’t try to sell—I don’t say “ only 39.99”. I just let them imagine themselves walking this good dog. I have no stats to prove anything, but nearly all my dogs get adopted after I’ve had them in my office for a few days. Maybe it’s because they are seen as a companion, rather than one of many in rows of kennels.

After Sprout was adopted, I took on Chrissy, who was a pocket pit who came to us severely malnourished, and shy, but after a month of good feeding, and some TLC, she bloomed into a very sweet, happy girl. She was great with people, and during our Shelter Trick or Treat event, I walked her through our Community Room, which was full of kids in costume playing games and doing activities, and I sat for a while with Chrissy at my feet, and people would pass by and ask if they could pet her. If a dog can actually beam, Chrissy did with each kind word and soft scratch. One woman came to me, pushing a stroller, and asked how she was with babies, and I said, I don’t know, let’s see. I held tight to her leash just in case. The mom eased the stroller up to her, and Chrissy sniffed the baby all over, and then gave her a soft lick on the cheek. Then she sniffed down the length of the baby till she came to her feet, where she gently pulled a sock off her foot. The mom laughed, and I handed the sock back to her, and said I have the feeling Chrissy is a sock dog, and like a dog I had once, will collect all the dirty socks in the house.

Chrissy was adopted a few days later.

My most recent office dog was Armadillo, a big galute of a boy who loves his toys. He could never settle on just one, and would carry one till he saw another one, drop it, and scoop up the next one. When he came to us, he had no hair on his back end, due to a nasty skin infection. We healed him up, and the way to his heart was through a butt scratch—he would lift his head, and curl his body into a horseshoe shape, and would stay there all day if you scratched him all day.He was very loving, had little sense of personal space—he’d pop up on my lap, his 70 pounds landing hard as he gave me my daily ration of kisses. Groups of community volunteers loved him—he was a great greeter, and if he felt he wasn’t getting enough attention, he would give out a low, throaty woof, that in a vacuum sounded scary, but he wasn’t scary at all. One volunteer said his bark sounded like Shaquille O’Neil, and I thought hard about changing his name to Shaquille.

I had badly injured my knee at the end of the summer, which limited a lot of the play time I could do, but I was lucky in that he was not a puller—except to get out of the building. He was very housebroken, and would yank me through the door, and would often pee just a few steps into the yard. Then he would stay with me, walking slightly in front of me, looking back to check in every so often. When dogs check in with you, it’s always good to praise them, just to reinforce that behavior.

Shortly before Thanksgiving I had to go out on medical leave for a total knee replacement, and I haven’t been back to the shelter since. I check up on the dogs through our computer system—I also reach out to colleagues now and then to get updates on them. Armadillo was adopted about the time of my surgery, so I didn’t get to say goodbye to him. We have such a high turnaround with our dogs, that when I return to the shelter at the end of the month, most of the ones I knew will be gone.

But Armadillo stayed on my mind. I reached out to his new owner, just to ask how he’s doing, and to congratulate her on lucking into such a capital dog. She very kindly wrote back, almost immediately, to say that he has quickly taken his place in their hearts and house. She sent me some pics of him living his best life, and I’ll admit to getting a little verklempt thinking about his happy ending. She also offered to have me visit him, or meet up somewhere, just so I can give him a goodbye hug. I just might take her up on that

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Last week, Furry Land Mobile Grooming came to the Shelter to give some of our dogs a spa day! And man, did some of our dogs need it! Most of our dogs come to us as strays, and as such aren’t in very good fettle, as far as deportment is concerned. They’ve been living out there on their own, in survival mode, and the days and weeks of neglect can add up in their appearance.

A few of our volunteers gave me a list of our stankiest dogs, and it was difficult to “rank” which ones needed it most ( pun intended). Our Animal Care Manager also created a list, which included a couple of mops that used to be Yorkies, and a golden doodle the size of a box truck.

Furry Land contacted me a few months ago, to propose a visit to our shelter to volunteer their services. One of their colleagues had passed away in early summer, and they had met to discuss ways to best honor her memory. As she was a fan of shelter dogs, they asked if would be helpful to us for them to volunteer their services for an afternoon, and give some of our dogs the pre-red carpet makeovers they deserved. It took me maybe a millisecond to respond in the enthusiastic affirmative.

They arrived this past Monday at noon, with five mobile grooming trucks, and parked them together as a fleet at the back of our parking lot. All their staff wore teeshirts bearing the sweet picture of their fallen colleague on the back, and messages of hope and comfort on the front. Several of us shelter staff members, and several of our volunteers began shuttling dogs to their vans.

They started with the hairy dogs, the ones who would need grooming as well as bathing. These were the Yorkies, and a few Shih Tzu mixes.

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These scruffy littles were soon turned in four-legged showpieces, and in fact, one of the Yorkies so charmed the groomer that she adopted him at the end of the day!

There were a variety of breeds that went out to the vans to get spiffed up. I mentioned to our volunteers that maybe I was anthropomorphizing a bit, but it seemed to me that when the dogs returned, wearing new kerchiefs and in some cases looking vastly different than when they went out, there was a extra spring in their step, their heads held maybe just a little bit higher than before. They quickly agreed, and it’s not hard to reason why. These dogs, unlike home dogs, spend a lot of their days in need of love and attention. I think we’re always a little surprised at how much attention our home dogs get on a round the clock basis. I was thinking the other day that my wife and I have become like those stewards who service the english royal family—our days are spent discussing canine bowel movements, dinner times, walk schedules, medication distribution, wondering if their moods are a little bluer than usual, and what can be done about it.

Shelter dogs get love and attention from our staff and volunteers, but they are not in 24/7 proximity to people who love them, like home dogs. When they are taken to the groomers, they are pampered, scrubbed, and praised and when they come strutting back, some necessary part of their souls have been satisfied for a while.

Philbert ( pictured above), a bulldog of uncommon integrity, presented a particular challenge to his groomer’s skills. His many facial folds concealed a prodigious amount of grime and even mold. His appointment lasted longer than most of the others. In fact he had to be bathed three times, as each time the rinse water was applied, it ran brown with dirt. Finally, he emerged as the stellar example of doghood you see above.

Barley (pictured above) was slightly nervous meeting the groomers, and alarmed barked at them at first, but when they started petting him he became wiggly and waggy. He also barked at the daughter of one of the groomers, but then covered her face in kisses. Even when being nervous, he is still overall a very friendly dog. He really enjoyed his time in the van, and all the care and attention, and as you can see, came out looking like a shiny new toy.

Furry Land also started a GoFundMe in honor of their friend, and most of the donations were made by the young woman’s former dog grooming clients, a lovely testament to the regard in which they held her. All in all, $1800 was raised for the Shelter!

By 4pm, 20 dogs had been bathed and groomed and pampered and loved on. The shaggy dogs got trimmed, and the pit mixes got warm baths and nail trims. Furry Land live-streamed several of their sessions, and the Shelter’s media team recorded video of the event.

It’s days like this that make me believe that in spite of our polarized society, there is a strain of decency in people that rises above petty concerns. We—staff, volunteers, contractors, are here for the dogs, and welcome others who feel the same way.

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Sprout knows how to selfie!

He was found in an alley on the east side of town, emaciated, wounds all over his legs, barely able to keep his head up. The deputy warden who responded to the call of a stray dog in the neighborhood, noticed that his stomach looked strange and disproportionate— extremely distended. The dog was easily captured, and the warden took him directly to a veterinary emergency clinic.

There they determined he was only about 8 months old, starving, and after an x-ray of his stomach, discovered that his belly was full of garbage. Not just old rotted food, but inedible material, trash. He was so hungry he was eating anything he could find. The problem was, they weren’t sure if he was too far gone already. They contacted our shelter, who authorized them to do what they could for him. The vets pumped his stomach, and induced further vomiting, and were finally able to get the bad stuff out. They dressed his wounds, kept him overnight, and they next day he was transported to our shelter clinic.

He was placed on a special feeding regime to help build up his strength. Our behavior specialists named him Sprout, and categorized him as a Shy Dog, meaning he was experiencing fear, or anxiety, or stress. With him, likely all three. They noted he was flinchy when you touched around his head, and for several days he “ kennel-surfed”, bouncing off the walls, and barking non-stop. Volunteers reported he was sometimes hard to leash, because he was so excited to get out he would swing his paws into the loop of the harness lead leash.

One volunteer took a particular interest in him, and knowing that I like to keep dogs in my office, especially ones that are feeling anxious in their kennels, she emailed me about him, and I replied with the wrong information. It turns out we had two Sprouts in our system that were “active”—the one I looked up was a little brown puppy who had miraculously survived Parvo, and was being looked after in a foster home. We finally straightened things out, and she asked me to look in on him last Saturday, but I wasn’t able to until the end of the day, and when I visited him he sat on his side of the kennel door, just calmly looking up at me, wagging a tiny bit. I made a mental note to bring him to my office when next I was in the shelter.

A few days later we were in my office. He was a bit aloof, not really sure about me. I didn’t rush anything—I gave him some treats, which to my surprise he took gently—he had been reported as taking treats hard, but can you blame him? He was in survival mode. I sat on the floor against the back wall of my office and waited for him to come to me. That wasn’t easy—I have a injured knee what will likely need surgery, and I was wondering if I’d even be able to get back up of the floor, but I figured I’d cross that bridge when I limped to it.

Sprout paced around the room, smelling the ghosts of all the other dogs who’d taken over my office. He would circle back to me, look me over, and then pace some more. All the while I spoke to him as soothingly as I could, telling him he was a good, good boy. He eventually came closer and closer to me, and finally put a paw on my thigh. I’d rub his back at little, and then he would make another pass around the little room, and come back for more. After about 15 minutes of this, he curled up in my lap. I continued to rub his back and legs—which were healing nicely—and then began gently rubbing his face. He didn’t flinch, but rather leaned into it. I kept murmuring and rubbing and scratching and he leaned up and licked my chin.

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I had asked one of our behaviorists is she thought he’d be ok with groups, and she said maybe, worth a try. I had a group of community volunteers coming in, so I brought him into the room to meet them. I explained a little bit of his story, and asked that they take it slow with him, which they did. By the end of their visit, however, he was giving and getting kisses, and inhaling as many snacks as he could steal. Still in survival mode.

Sprout is going to make somebody a great house dog someday. He comes out of his cocoon more and more each day—his nature, like that of many dogs, inclines toward play and connection with people. When he’s in my office, he checks in now and then, and gets his rubs and his praise, and then spends a lot of time just chilling on the dog bed. When I walk him, he tends to stick close by me, until some interesting scent gets up his nose. Once in a while, he asks to be picked up, and I haul him up onto my lap, and he nuzzles around my neck and hugs in hard against my chest. He’s smallish for a pit mix, and still very skinny—only 29 pounds as of this writing—but he is aptly named, because he is going to Sprout someday.

I often hesitate to write about how I behave around dogs. I don’t want to give the impression that I’m a dog expert, or even a “ dog whisperer” —I have no formal training like our behaviorists, and many volunteers. If I have any skill at all, it’s in being able to read a dog, and sense where it is in its behavioral journey. Dogs are extraordinarily intuitive and sensitive, and I apply something like an acting technique with them, something I learned late in my acting life, which is to sort of unlock myself and let my spirit ( or whatever it is) out. It feels sometimes as if whatever I’m doing on stage amplifies once I open myself up—I hope it reads with an audience—and I do the same with dogs at the shelter. I try to show them my heart and let them see I mean them no harm, and indeed, I mean them well. I welcome them, and no matter what hard times they may have experienced, most dogs respond to that sprit.

I did not “cure” Sprout, or even unleash something in him—I was merely present when he was ready to open himself. Our volunteers have definitely been an integral part of that process, getting him out for walks and spending time with him, and letting him see there are humans who wish the best for him, and will treat him with kindness and compassion. You’ve heard of “ It takes a village”—well, with dogs like Sprout, it takes a shelter.

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Sad Pedro

He was found wandering in a field, slow and trembling, apparently abandoned. The owner of the property called the shelter and when our Deputy Warden arrived, he saw instantly that the dog was in trouble— emaciated, fly-blown, covered in festering fight wounds—one on the top his head so bad it was filled with maggots. His leg muscles were severely wasted. He couldn’t lift his head up. It was astounding that he was still on his feet, sore as they were. He looked a hundred years old. He was three.

The Deputy led the dog to his van, and instead of bringing him to the shelter he took him instantly to a veterinary emergency clinic. There they cleaned his wounds, fed him and bathed him, gave him life-saving antibiotics, and took gentle care of him until he was ready to come to the shelter. The warden placed a note in his file that if someone comes to reclaim him, contact Columbus Humane, to begin an investigation into possible abuse. He was seen by our own medical staff who put him on a special diet of double feeding, and then by our Behavior staff, who pronounced him as adoptable, once the veterinarians decide he’s out of the woods. They named him Pedro.

A few days later, I was working with a group of community volunteers from Children’s Hospital. Seven women and one man, and they threw themselves into their work, making various treats, getting creative with the ingredients to make things that looked so good it made me start to think about lunch. They were all very good-natured, and enjoyed each other’s company, and especially the company of my current office dog, Patrick Star, who was in the room with us. Patrick is a brown pit bull, on the smallish side, though his big square head looks like it was meant for a dog one size larger than him. He has never met a stranger, it seems—he is as benign a presence as I’ve ever met. He greets each person, and when they sit down, he tries to squeeze his 45 pounds onto their laps. and if they sit on the floor, he curls up between their knees, and hunkers down. When I take him out for a walk, he actually walks to heel, staying by my side the whole way, never once yanking on the leash ( unlike my doodle at home, who drags me all over the neighborhood). The ladies of the group fed him tons of treats, and hugged and snuggled him. They, and he, had a great afternoon.

After about an hour of treat making, I put Patrick back in my office, where he usually naps on the dog bed till I return, and I took the group through the wards to toss the tasty treats to the dogs in their kennels. Usually, I tell groups that treats are 50% of the experience, that many times the dog ignores the treat because he wants their attention. I didn’t have to tell this group any such thing. From the outset, they crouched in front of each kennel, talked to the dogs in tones I’m sure many of them missed from their days as someone’s home dog. Some of them may never have heard such tones in their lives. I hung back, and watched them slowly work their way through the different wards, and I answered questions about different dogs, about shelter operations. It occurred to me that people working at a children’s hospital are by default compassionate people, and their treatment of our dogs was moving to see.

After we completed all the wards on the adoption side of the shelter, I took them to the stray side, where our newest dogs are. They continued treating and sweet-talking, and I turned them loose, telling them I had to get back to my office to see what damage Patrick may have wrought. I thanked them for sharing their good will with our dogs, especially Patrick, and they promised to begin a drive at work to collect donations of dog food and other supplies. They continued on through the stray wards, and I went back to my office, where I found Patrick snoring on his bed.

After about an hour, one of our volunteers stopped by my office to take Patrick out for a walk. The ones who know him love walking him because he’s so gentle, and will snuggle with them on the grass. I went out to our lobby, and saw four of the women from the group still at the shelter, sitting together in the waiting area. I went over to them and asked, what are you guys up to? One of them pointed to another and said, she’s going to adopt Pedro.

The adopter was a very pleasant woman in her late 30s, who sported a number of very colorful tattoos. She had been chatty and funny in the group while treat-making, but now was silent. It was obvious she had been crying a bit. I asked her if she’d heard about his history and she nodded. One of the others said, those two clicked. They said they were waiting for Pedro to be brought out to a meet and greet room, where they could get their hands on him. I wished them luck, and went on to other tasks.

But they stayed in my mind. After about 45 minutes, I went to the stray wards, and found Pedro’s kennel, but there was another dog in there. I went back through the lobby and asked someone if Pedro had been adopted, and they said he was still being seen. So I kind of hustled to the meet and greet rooms, and found the four ladies sitting on the floor, in the four corners of the small space. Pedro was between them, head still hanging a bit low, moving in slow motion from person to person. But the woman who said she was going to adopt him, who we’ll call Sandy, was his main stop. When he came to her, he pressed his head against her chest and she hugged him gently, but completely. The others were talking about how they could help with him, whenever she needed it. “It takes a village” crossed my mind. These people could have gone home, but they stayed to support their friend.

Sandy said she lived alone, had a good-sized house with a fenced-in yard, and Pedro will have plenty of space to heal and play and nap and live a comfortable life. She said something passed between them when she saw him in his kennel. In fact, she just stayed with him at his kennel for the rest of their shift with us, and told him his new name would be “Sturgill”. I told her it’s pretty obvious she’s become essential to him, in just this short a time. She looked up at me from her spot on the floor, and said, Are you crying? Because if you cry, I’m going to cry. I actually wasn’t crying, but I started to tear up when she said that. And so did she. She said she’s confident she can bring him back to his best self. I told her it seems as if she were brought here to be that very person.

She wasn’t allowed to take him home that day, because he needs to be neutered—shelter policy is all adopted dogs are spayed or neutered before finalizing adoption. And because of his health struggles, the vets are waiting for him to get a little stronger before they perform the procedure. She has a hold placed on him, meaning no one else can adopt him. He’s hers. She’s been to the shelter a few times since then just to visit him. I hope I’m there when she comes to take him home. I won’t promise I’ll be dry-eyed.

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Alex, preparing to jump onto my lap

My current dog love is an American Bully named Alex, underweight at 80lbs, but as strong as any dog I have ever handled, and just as sweet.

He came to our shelter a few weeks ago, unchipped and unlicensed, but had evidently been somebody’s good boy once, as he is gentle, housebroken, knows sit, shake and down, and takes treats softly. He had no collar, which tells me he was probably dumped, and all identifying marks removed.

Every day I read the list of intakes we’ve received, and will often dig into their files to read of the circumstances that brought them to us. Alex caught my eye, because of a note from the deputy warden that said he was SUPER friendly ( his emphasis). In the deputy’s narrative of the incident, he wrote that while on patrol he was flagged down by a person who said there was a large dog who had parked himself on someone’s porch nearby, and had been there for hours. The resident of the house said he was sweet, and she had fed and watered him, and that he was gentle to her kids, and her cat.

The deputy called the dog to him and he came, accepted a lead around his neck, and walked easily to the van. He was a bit underfed ( the dog, not the deputy), and had some sort of skin issues.

At the shelter he was seen by our medical staff, and was pronounced healthy enough for adoption, and evaluated by our behavior staff, who noted that he sought out attention from everyone, and liked to roll over to get his belly scratched.

I had been looking for a large dog to engage with visiting groups, and wanted a pit bull, as I want people to see them for the sweet dogs they are, and not the monster they are often made out to be. I went to his kennel in the stray wards, where the newest dogs are, and leashed him and brought him out, whereupon he drug me down the hallway, through the lobby, to the front door, where he waited for me to open it.

Once outside, he peed for a very long time. This is a good indicator that he’s housebroken, as he was holding it all this time, waiting for a chance to get out. After the pee, the length of which might interest the Guinness Book people, he stopped pulling, and instead walked along with me, pausing to sniff here and there, and do a little surplus peeing.

I brought him to my office, where he explored everything, and then came calling for his scratches. I gave him treats, and did lots of sweet-talking.

I’m a firm believer in sweet-talking dogs— people could use a little it too, for that matter. But I think it produces endorphins in dogs, and makes them feel safe and connected.

In my four years at the shelter, that’s one of my main takeaways— at their core, every dog needs to feel safe and connected to us. Nature has not engineered them to go it alone. They crave attention and seek to live in a state of Good Dog.

By the end of the day, Alex and I were tight. We’d done a fair bit of canoodling— he would come to me while I was sitting, and pop up to place his massive paws on my chest, and look long into my eyes. I scratched his face and sides and he would place his head on my chest, and press.

That was something I’ve missed since I lost my doodle Scout a year ago. She liked to lay on me and tuck her head under my chin, and nap.

Most of the time Alex lay at my feet under my desk, and just sort of chilled. A great office mate!

I brought him to meet a group of community volunteers who were coming to make treats for the dogs. We were in the Community Room, and as the people came to the door, they paused, because what they saw was a large, scary looking American Bully on the other side of the glass door. I waved them in, and as they entered, he began wagging his entire body, and greeted everyone, rolling over for belly rubs. Several of the young women fell instantly in love, and wanted to know all the details of his life, as far as we know them. They got on the floor with him and hugged and kissed him. One woman said he’d be the perfect companion for a young single woman… she could take him out running and feel perfectly safe, knowing no one would bother her with such a scary dog at her side. I added that he’s also the kind of good boy who would a great couch dog, a “Netflix and chill dog.”

He had a great day, getting all the treats and all the rubs. When it was time to take him back to his kennel, he went easily, which I had been a little concerned about. Others had reported he often puts on the brakes, reluctant to go to his kennel. But no problem for me.

We have been hanging out for a week now, and he’s met several groups and charmed them all. He’s also very smart and has learned to open my office door, which I means I have to take him with me on a leash, if I leave the office. I discovered he had this skill when I left the office to go down the hall to the copier, felt a nose on my back and turned to see him standing there, wagging and wiggling. So, now he goes everywhere in the shelter with me, even the bathroom.

Just by the way Alex looked for a household that would take him in, I could tell he needs people to attach to.. The shelter moved him up to a large featured room in the front of the adoption area, where more people could see him, but he began to get anxious, and bark and pace. They had to put him on Trazadone and move him back to his old kennel in Ward A. I’m pretty sure I know why he became anxious—in that front room, a lot of people passed by, and they could see him, but he could see them too. He likes people too much, and was most likely frustrated that he could not engage with them all.

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I often worry that I’m not doing the dogs a service when they bond with me, because it will only be a temporary bond— once they get adopted, we never see each other again. Some of my colleagues keep a professional distance, but I’m not built like that. I sense they all crave love and attention from us, you can see it in their eyes as you walk through the wards, and I’m happy to give them some for the time they are with us. Alex will make someone a wonderful companion someday soon, but until then, he’ll be mine at the shelter.

Affection is his middle name

Share Dogg Mann

(Pippi’s original shelter intake photo)

Share Dogg Mann

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I forgot to post this back in January…a few of you read it on FB, but there are a number of you gentle readers I am not FB friends with, so…I was looking at earlier postings on this Substack account, and saw one I’d made about Pip, and decided to add this update about that estimable little dog…

We had to put down our 15 year old terrier Pippi the other night… she was deaf, mostly blind and suffering from dementia, and had started to lose her housebrokenness…

She was lovable in her unlovable approach to the world— didn’t like snuggles, kisses, any affection, really— hugs longer than a few seconds usually produced growls ( she and I were similar in that)… she decided when to sit with us, when to play with us—

she demanded strict adherence to her feeding schedule, and God help you if you were late—

she used to hump our doodle Scout’s head every evening, just to remind her who was boss…

we got her from the shelter back in 2012, shortly after she’d been hit by a car and had to endure traction, seated in a harness to realign her hips…

She went from a very spry high- jumper to an old dog seemingly overnight, so that by the end we were carrying her outside to do her business, where she would resist being picked back up, preferring to attempt the deck stairs herself, with ever-lessening degrees of success…

She was the last of the previous generation of pets— our three remaining dogs have all come to us in the past few years… I’ve learned, to my sadness, that you can mostly measure your decades in dog lives, and as of a few nights ago, the 2010s finally concluded

One of the first changes I made was covering the two fluorescent overhead light panels with autumnal woodland scenes which turns the usual debilitatingly stark office glare into a skylight-effect, as if we are looking up at the warm yellow canopy of early October leaves. These panels come in a variety of scenes, and attach to the light frame by magnets, and are inexpensive and easily available online. I highly recommend them.

I’m told my predecessor in the job was very neat, almost OCD in his attempt to keep the space organized and at right angles. I am, most decidedly, not OCD in my approach to my surroundings. In fact, I’m not really sure what that even means anymore, as many people describe themselves as such in an almost amused, oddly proud sort of way, which is not the generally life-crippling condition I learned about in college psychology courses.

The only concession I make to order in my office is that I constantly wipe down the room with Rescue, a veterinary-grade disinfectant, that we have in pre-treated wipes and spray bottles. I try to make my room as germ-neutral as possible so that any visiting dogs are not exposed to anything catching left behind by a previous officemate.

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In recent weeks, I have had three different dogs share my room with me, all of whom came to us in sad circumstances. Being a man of the stage as well as the page, I suppose I am drawn to tragedy and drama in an empathetic way, and feel driven to reverse these circumstances, however briefly.

A former theatre student of mine recently reminded me of something I used to tell the kids, something she said she still thinks about. I, in my usual meandering and bloviating style, would remind the casts that as artists it is incumbent upon them to put something good out into the universe. I don’t mean “positive”, which can feel falsely upbeat and reductive— I mean bringing your talents to bear to create a moment of artistry that is worth adding to the universe. Even if it isn’t seen or read by many, or at all. The act of creation itself is an act that is added to the good side of the great ledger.

I feel this way about my time with our shelter dogs. Many have come to us in extremis, as strays, or mistreated, or neglected— to define it most broadly, perhaps the word “ lost” best applies. I feel it is my duty— indeed, everyone’s duty— to add something good to these small lives, who are genetically predisposed to need our affection and protection, and to look to us hopefully for even something as effortless as a soothing word, or a gentle scratch on their backs.

Lucille came to us three weeks ago, brought in by a Good Samaritan who saw her being shoved from a car, which then sped off. She is a small pit mix, dark gray, barely a year old. She absolutely loves people, especially kids, and grateful to play with any toy you hand her, and crawl into all available laps. I bring her into the room when I have groups of community volunteers, and she is a perfect greeter. I had a troop of visiting Girl Scouts last week, who were supposed to be making treats and learning about things to help them earn a Pet Care badge. But I gave up early on trying to teach or organize them— they all lay on the floor, and Lucille would crawl on top of them and lick their faces, and they would squeal with laughter. They were having fun, but later I told them they were actually making Lucille’s life just a little better by their kind treatment. Their affection, and receipt of Lucille’s affection, would ultimately help her get adopted some day. She is still at the shelter, but I’m hopeful that the notes I’ve added to her file will help an adopter make the right call.

I discovered early on if I stand over her she tends to cower and pee, in a submissive display, which makes me suspect she was not treated well by some man. Side note— I will occasionally see notes in a dog’s file indicating it is afraid of men, but I have NEVER seen a note saying the same about women.

So I’ve learned to approach Lucille from a low position…I will sit in a chair, or on the floor, and call to her with open arms, and then she will come wiggling and happy, and crawl into my lap, and use my beard as a pacifier. I will cradle this loving dog and wonder about the deficient human who tossed her away, and admit to myself that I hope, really hope, karma deals that person a life-defining check.

Cricket came to us last week, a terrified 9 month old puppy that was found shivering under a house during a recent thunderstorm. She is a tiny Maltese mix, who I had seen just after she’d been processed and placed in a kennel on our Stray side, where all the newcomers first land. I was on my way out the door at the end of the work week, but told myself I would look her up after the weekend. She reminded me of Penny, a tiny Maltese/Yorkie mix who came crawling on her belly out of the neighborhood woods one day while I was outside working on my car. We kept her for 2 years, until she passed. The vet suspected she’d been a puppy mill mama, who was dumped after she’d been essentially used up.

When I next came to work, I went looking for Cricket, but she wasn’t in the kennel in which I’d first seen her. I later discovered her in a puppy pen on the adoption floor, and snatched her up.

She only wanted to be held— if you put her on the floor she begged to be picked back up, and whimpered until you did. The sound of that whimpering is something a coworker told me tugs hard at your ovaries. Having not the benefit of her bodily insight, I nevertheless completely understand where she’s coming from. The whimpering of puppies draws their mothers on a molecular level— they can’t help but respond. It’s an evolutionary imperative.

So Cricket spent an entire day on either my lap or my high school intern Dakotah’s. In fact, I let Dakotah keep her while she studied for her physics final. The bedraggled little thing draped over her lap, and slept hard and deep. I told Dakotah that in addition to providing food and shelter and affection, a dog, especially a puppy, needs to feel safe. This little thing probably hasn’t had a deep sleep in a long time. So, I told her, your job for the rest of the day is to make Cricket feel safe so she can sleep. And she performed that task admirably.

Cricket is now in a foster home, which I suspect will result in a foster fail situation. That puppy has a lot of whimpers in her, and that foster home has a lot of ovaries.

Sammy came to us yesterday. He was surrendered by his owner, a homeless woman who was no longer able to care for him. He is a very chonky Poodle mix, between 12 and 14, blind in one eye due to cataracts, has weak hind legs which are probably arthritic. He has a lot of problems. He’s been living rough, out on the streets with his owner. When I first saw him I was angry— a 12 year old dog shouldn’t end its days in a shelter. But when I learned that his owner was homeless, I realized what a selfless act she’d committed. She didn’t have much in her life except him, and had owned him for a long time, and now had to give him up so he could get the care he needed.

Our Rescue Coordinator has reached out to a few Rescue organizations, and one seems interested in taking him on. Fingers crossed.

I brought him to my office, and held him in my lap for a good while. I trimmed the jungle of matted hair around his face, figuring that if you can see his face, you might be moved to adopt him.

He stank to high heaven, so I carried him back to our grooming room, and gave him a long warm oatmeal shampoo bath. He kind of struggled against it at first, but the massaging jets from the warm water felt good and he settled in. I scrubbed him for a long time, getting down through his tight poodle curls to his skin. The water that ran down the drain was pretty dirty, for a long while.

After rinsing him off, I set him on a grooming table and toweled him down. Then I did a bit more trimming. He was a new man.

Back in my office, he settled against my feet on the floor under my desk. I put a blanket there for him to lay on, but he preferred to lay beside it. Not used to the comfort, I guess. Periodically he would ask to be picked up— his legs were too weak to pop up, but I got his message. I would haul that bulky body up in my arms and hold him like a baby, and he would look in my two eyes with his one eye, and lick my face with that stanky breath of his that was so bad, it made my sense of smell shut down.

So, that’s all the news from my corner of the dog shelter. I’m off for a few days, but I’m gonna snag Sammy the minute I get in. He needs a desk to lay under. And I need an officemate.

He is beautiful, timid (but spunky when he feels safe), and very intelligent. He was also intact, meaning he had not yet been neutered. They estimate he is around 4 years old, which puts him in his prime—little guys like him will easily be around another 10 years.

Today I was taking a group of community volunteers through the Stray side of the Shelter, where the newest dogs are kept while they are on a stray hold ( a period of time we keep the dog before it becomes available for adoption). They were tossing treats they’d made to the dogs, and were sweet-talking them, which is something I firmly believe is just as important as a treat. It’s all part of enrichment, engaging the dogs, who are genetically predisposed to seek our good opinion. Oftentimes, we’ll toss a treat into the kennel, and the dog will ignore it, preferring to come to the front of the kennel, and seek attention from the treater. I tell our visiting community folks that it costs you nothing to pause a while and speak to the dog, and tell her what a good dog she is. Give it a try, and see how it feels.

I notice that some people are a little tentative at first, perhaps embarrassed to speak in such a manner in front of their co-workers ( often these groups are employees of some company that offers paid volunteer time to its staff, as a form of team-building). But quickly they warm to it, and the walks through the wards take longer and longer, the visits with the dogs stretch into deep conversations between two souls. Nearly every group has a person who is eventually overcome with emotion, as they connect to a dog that is yearning to have contact with them.

As we were finishing up in a ward, one of the shelter kennel attendants came by, carrying this little Papillon wrapped up in a towel. She told me he was panicking in his kennel, at all the noise and the unfamiliarity of his surroundings. She didn’t know what she was going to do with him, she just knew he needed to get out there for a while. She said he was blind, and that she called him Stevie, for Stevie Wonder—not only he was blind, but also because he swung his head from side to side when trying to figure out the source of a noise, the way Stevie Wonder moves when caught up in his music. I asked if she would like me to take him to my office, and she, relieved, said “ would you?” I said sure, as after this community group was finished, I would be spending the rest of my day in my office, dealing with about a thousand emails and other tasks. I could use an office mate.

I had intended to have a small pit bull named Trinity in my office for the day. She was very sweet and friendly, but she learned in the first five minutes how to open my door and escape into the hallway. I realized I couldn’t keep her as I would be going to different parts of the shelter on errands throughout the day, and couldn’t trust Trinity to stay put.

So, I had a vacancy. I took Stevie in my arms and cradled him, and he wriggled happily, and began to lick my wrist. The community volunteers were instantly charmed by him, and took turns holding him and taking pics. As they were leaving, one of them told me she was sure he would be a new version of Heaven, the famous chihuahua I’d had as an office mate for 3 months, of whom I’d written several months ago.

I brought Stevie to my office and set about trying to make him comfy. I wanted to keep him in a bed on my desk the way Heaven had spent a lot of her time, but he was a little restless, and I was afraid in his blindness he would fall off the desk onto the hard floor. So I set up his bed on the floor beside my chair, and watched him explore the office. He would walk straight into walls and various obstacles, and gradually, throughout the day, learned the geography of the room. But mostly, he wanted to be in a lap. I watched him weave his way around, and end up at my leg, begging to be picked up. When I cradled him he calmed down and was very affectionate, rubbing hard against my hand, and licking my arms, and returning kisses when I craned my neck down to kiss him.

I also learned he was an inveterate humper. Now and then, he would hump my forearm, and when on the floor he would roger my ankle senseless. He never tired of this. He had been neutered two days before, but still had hormones in his bloodstream. Also, I believe the humping was less a mating thing, and more a dominance thing—he was trying, in his blindness, to establish some control in his life. He has spent a lot of his recent days in fear, a tiny six pound sitting duck in a world where he can’t see the dangers that might be coming for him. This is why he preferred being swaddled in my arms and on my lap—it was safe there.

As the day wore on, he calmed down, and found his little soft bed, and curled up in it, and napped from time to time. I researched Papillons, and was surprised to learn they are not terriers—even though they are very Yorkie-like—but spaniels, the smallest spaniel there is.

I also found that he was supposed to go to a foster today, but the foster had backed out. I suppose I understand—fostering a little blind dog is a lot of extra work. But I was sad for him—his main need right now is to feel safe, and the shelter environment must feel very dangerous to a blind little. I saw in his file that he is being sponsored by Friends of the Shelter, a local volunteer organization that pays for extraordinary medical care for some of our dogs. They are footing the bill for an ophthalmology consult to learn more about his blindness. I also found out his real name is Levi, but he seems more like a Stevie to me. I thought about bringing him home for the night, but Molly, our crazy goldendoodle, is too rambunctious, and would hurt him unintentionally while trying to play. No, he needs somewhere quiet and gentle, and above all, safe.

I hated taking him back to his kennel at the end of the day. I brought along the little bed and a blanket, and some soft treats for him. Tomorrow, I will pick him up first thing in the morning, and introduce him to the two groups I have scheduled through the day, and in between time I will carry him around our lobby, back and forth, like a fishing lure, and see if anyone nibbles. They’ll just have to be ready for some fast kissing, cozy snuggles, and some really determined ankle humping.

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I think the same about young Wally. He is a Wally through and through. He’s the Walliest Wally I have ever met. And I have met a few Wallys in my day. He is a 6 month old pit mix, dark brown and green eyed, with the craziest looking feet I’ve ever seen. They look like duck feet. They are large, and webbed, and the toes splay outward and to the side. When he walks, his gait reminds you of a diver walking across a boat deck with his flippers still on.

And while it’s cute and a little bit funny to watch, it’s origins are anything but. He was found by the police department, who brought him to the Shelter about a month ago. His was an obvious case of neglect and malnourishment. His intake photo is about as sad a picture as I’ve seen. The vets assigned him a BCS ( Body Condition Score) of 3/9, with 1 being emaciated and 9 being severely obese, and he was put on a regimen of extra feeding. One of the results of his malnourishment was that his leg muscles had atrophied some, and were very weak. And so were his toes, which weren’t strong enough to bear his weight, and so they spread out to the point that he walks more on the back of his paws than the front. Hence his duck feet.

He was cared for in his first few weeks with us by a foster, who kept up with his feeding schedule, and who was in love with his sweet nature. Even in his initial vet exam, they commented how sweet and snuggly he was, even in the throes of his bad condition. The foster became concerned that keeping him with her was keeping him from being seen by potential adopters, and so she brought him back this week.

In the month that he’s been under the Shelter’s care, he has gained nearly 8 pounds. The vets discontinued the extra feeding schedule, and they say that with constant good care his legs could continue to gain strength, and his feet could straighten out and function normally. In every other way, he is a normal 6 month old boy—playful, and a bit bitey with his puppy needle teeth. He is very bright, and loves to be with people. I have had him with me to host several visiting groups, and he is a great greeter. He is happy to see everyone, and is a real treat monster—obviously. His legs are still too weak for him to pop up and put his front paws on you to beg to be picked up in your lap, but if you get down on the floor with him he is all over you. He is a great kisser and loves to get get face massages ( which is my secret power over dogs).

I had him with me during a meeting with new prospective volunteers, and whenever I left the room for moment, they reported that he whimpered at the door till I returned. In just two days he’s starting to get attached to me. It’s a funny dichotomy— dogs fall in love with me, while over the same two day span humans decide they’ve had enough of my company.

In my office he plays with a number of toys, and loves to nap in the new dog bed I have next to my desk. Yesterday, while I was busy in my slag heap of emails, I heard a commotion behind me and turn to find he’d pulled a puzzle feeder off the bottom shelf of my credenza. I decided to test him, and loaded it up with treats. The feeder has a bunch of sliding doors that you have to move to find the treat under underneath, and he took right to it. Either he’s done it before, or he is just that smart. He went to work, rapidly sliding the doors with his snout and paws, and found every treat. He gets tired easily, so on the third puzzleful, he picked it up and carried to his dog bed, and lay with it while he worked his way through it.

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Wally is going to make someone a wonderful companion, someday very soon, I hope. He is getting stronger in his legs, and sweeter in his disposition. Soon the duck feet will be a thing of the past, and the back legs will carry him on long walks, and propel him on zoomies in his backyard. It never ceases to amaze me how, even with a beginning of neglect and malnourishment like Wally’s, a dog is often slow to give up on us humans, even when they have every right to. He has a puppy’s certainty that we all only want the best for him. And most of us do.

Wally—a good, good boy.

We are closed to the public for adoptions on Wednesdays and Fridays, so if I am going to meet a little dog, it’s usually on those days. If the little seems anxious or fearful, I’ll bring it into my office, where it can chill on a dog bed and play with toys, or more often, curl up on my lap as I burrow through the daily emails. On days which we are open for adoption, I don’t bring littles into my office, as I prefer them to be in their pens to be seen by potential owners.

Last Wednesday and Friday I met two little dogs who spent the day with me. On Wednesday, I met Waffles, a Jack Russell mix who was very chill for the breed. Usually those guys are on constant 78 rpm ( younger readers will have no idea what I’m talking about), but Waffles was very tuned in to my speeds. I had a busy day, with 3 different corporate groups coming to the shelter to make treats and engage with the dogs. I brought Waffles into the room with me for each group, and he charmed everyone. I noticed that as the day drew on, he became more and more focused on me. He started out going from person to person, soliciting pets, and getting treats, climbing on laps, and playing chase with people who wanted some real play time. By the time thre second and third groups had arrived, Waffles greeted them perfunctorily, and kept running back to me, begging to be picked up. I carried him around for most of the last group’s visit.

I am a notorious introvert, but one who is able to engage with people (groups are better for me than individuals). I have what I call a “monkey dance” that I do at the beginning of each group’s visit, in which I tell them about the shelter, the process a dog goes through when first brought to the shelter, and general information based on the questions they ask. But like most introverts, these engagements take something out of me. I feel drained of energy, especially when, like Wednesday, I had 3 different groups to “perform” for. There are times when, after such days, I’ll come home and not say a word for a few hours, and my wife knows me enough to know it isn’t anything to do with her. I’m not angry with her, or sad, or anything. It’s just that I’ve been “ on stage” too much that day. I envy the folks who get energized by engaging with people. I don’t understand it, but I envy it.

I recognized the same feeling in Waffles. By the end of the day, Waffles and I were both drained with too much contact with members of the human race. I carried him into our administration suite and put him on the floor, while I covered a few things with Olivia, our administrative assistant. After finishing a few tasks, I walked by the small sofa in the reception area, and it just drew me. I flopped down on it, intending to just rest my old bones for a second before packing up and going home. Waffles had the same idea. He leapt up on the couch, and on my chest, and within seconds we both nodded off. (See photo) I could, as if from far off, Olivia laughing at our napping carcasses.

I woke up, forced myself up off the couch, carried Waffles to his pen, kissed him goodbye ( I knew he’d be adopted before I was next in the shelter, as I am off on Thursdays), packed up and went home. And indeed, Waffles was adopted about an hour later, and no doubt is at present napping on someone else’s chest, and will get to do that for the rest of his life.

On Friday, with Waffles being gone, Chico took his place. He was a lap sitting machine, and took to me right away. He liked to bury his snout under my arm and doze.

He moves like a fox, and sort of looks like one, which fed into my lifelong dream of having a pet fox. Chico also liked visiting groups, and we had one from Chase bank, and I noticed Chico curled up in a woman’s lap while she made treats, his nose buried under her arm. Suddenly, I felt less special. After the group left, Chico and I went for a walk, where he happily marked everything in sight, and then we settled in my office where he feasted on a can of soft Beneful, then conked out on my lap. At the end of the day, I took him back to his pen, kissed him goodbye, and went home. The next morning his pen was empty—he’d been adopted as soon as we opened that morning.

This week I had a group from the county IT department, and we had Harley in the room. He’s a white pit mix, lovable and goofy, and totally deaf. He’d been brought into the room by our marketing people to pose for a few new pics for our social media, and the group fell in love with him, and so he stayed. He played and bounded around the room, waving a few stuffies in his mouth. Several members of the group didn’t bother to make treats, they just played with Harley. And he was down for it.

Harley has been in the shelter for a long time. He was taken home for a weekend sleepover over the holidays, and the family that had him fell in love with him, but the resident female dog didn’t like him, so they had to return him. The entire family brought him back, and all cried as they said goodbye. Last week he was adopted, and again return because the female dog in the house didn’t like him. Clearly, Harley has a problem with the ladies. That family also came en mass to return him, and also cried. Harley has that affect on people.

One of our volunteers specializes in deaf dogs, and trains them in doggie sign language. We usually have two or three in the shelter at any given time, and she works longs hours with all of them. After the group left, Harley stayed in the room with me and my two interns, and he stretched out on the cool floor and napped. Periodically he would cry out with a strange vocalization—I imagine, since he can’t hear himself, he makes these sounds to feel them on the floor as he lays there.

He’s going to make the right person a great Netflix and chill dog. He loves snuggling—if you sit on the floor in his kennel, he will drag himself lazily off his bed and crawl to you and lay his head on your lap, where you have no choice but to massage his big floppy face. As you can see from the photo, that face is lopsided—he has some sort of paralysis on the left side of his face, though it seems to cause him no trouble.

If you happen to be at the shelter and see Harley, remember to give him a thumbs up, which is doggie sign language for “ good dog”. It won’t be a lie if you do.

A few weeks ago, Heaven’s owner came to the Shelter to reclaim her. It was a sad day for all of us who loved her, but it’s always good when a dog is reunited with her owner. I suppose. They say that 95% of a dog’s dreams are of its human, so I have to believe that over the four months she was with us, the poor thing dreamed every night of the woman who brought her up from puppyhood, and was surprised and happy to see her again. I hope, a little selfishly, that she dreamed of me on occasion, somewhere in that left over 5% .

I knew her owner was coming to get her on a Thursday, which is my day off, so on Wednesday I stayed very late in my office, holding her and letting her lick my face all over. We played tug of war with her tiny rope toy, and played zoomies around the room. I stuffed her with her favorite treats all through that day, and served up her favorite dinner, a roast beef slider from Arby’s, sans bun. She also cadged a few fries from my dinner as well. I know, I know, people food yada yada yada, but on my last day with her I was determined to spoil her rotten, as my mom used to say.

When I could stay no longer, I carried her back to her puppy pen, and tucked her in her bed under her favorite blanket. I returned to my office, and packed up her little bed that spent 3 months on my desk under the warm desk lamp bulb,. I bagged up her blankets and toys and leftover Cesar food, and carried them to our Community Room, where I had dedicated a table upon which the many volunteers who loved her could leave donated items as a care package for her owner. I placed my bag next to other bags full of food, toys, leashes, collars, warm sweaters of all types and colors.

I had put my name in as adopter if for some reason the owner decided not to come, but I had little hope. All Thursday I resisted the impulse to check the database to see if indeed she was gone. I didn’t really have a plan for her—I imagined I’d adopt her and then give her to some friends who I felt needed a loving little presence in their lives. That way I could still see her.

When Friday came I went to work and immediately walked back to her puppy pen, but there was another dog in there. I checked with the front desk, and they confirmed the owner had indeed come for her. I was glad I’d packed up her stuff on Wednesday, as it would have been too sad to do it then.

I have thought about contacting the owner, whose living situation is challenging at best, and offer to keep Heaven until the woman gets situated, but after a long think, I decided against it. Best to move on. Hard as it is. Clean break and all that.

Heaven had been with me in my office for three months, and every day I brought her into the Community room to meet countless community volunteers, all of whom were charmed by her. For several weeks, people would ask after her, and I’m afraid I usually failed to hold back the lump in my throat as I recounted her story. I tried to spin it as a happy outcome, but I wasn’t very convincing, I’m sure.

Last week, one of our recurring volunteers came to the shelter and handed me a gift bag. Inside was a framed photo of me holding Heaven ( see above). I croaked out a thank you, and left the room for a while. It was a gentle and generous gesture, from someone who understands these kinds of bonds. The picture sits on my desk as we speak, underneath the lamp where she used to lay and warm her belly.

Since then I have a had a few other dogs in my office, all adorable, all loving and wiggly, and I try not to make comparisons. All dogs are special, and deserve someone give of themselves a little bit. So I move on, and will continue to fall in love constantly, and root for them, and help them get a second start in life.

For about a month now we have had a little long-haired Chihuahua mix named Heven at the shelter. She’s about 6 years old, and a misspelled name is only one of the challenges she’s had to face in life. She was brought to us by the police, after her owner was taken to a mental hospital and there was no one else to care for her. She was brought to us in a dirty cat carrier, and had some heavy medical issues.

For starters, she had a hernia so large it actually dragged the ground. Her hernia was filled with her intestines. Our vets performed surgery, and repaired it, meshing everything back into place. She was also spayed, and a number of bad teeth removed. Then she got an upper respiratory infection—I had heard from some that it developed into pneumonia, but I can’t confirm that. But she was a sick little girl.

After she recovered in the clinic she was moved to a puppy pen, which is just a nice sized open enclosure with access through a clear half-door. It’s for puppies, and small dogs who might be afraid to be in a regular kennel surrounded by large barking dogs, some of which have a pronounced prey drive, and for whom a small, squirrel-sized critter would be a steady trigger.

I don’t know all the details, but she was entered as an “emergency boarding” situation, meaning she isn’t available for adoption, and we are giving her owner time to organize her life to be in a position to reclaim the dog. We do that on rare occasions—a few years ago there was an apartment building fire nearby, and we took in 6 or 7 dogs who were displaced, and took care of them while their owners found new places to live. We also have a few who were brought to us when their owner was checked into rehab, and had no place for them to go. It isn’t something we typically do—we aren’t a boarding facility, and there’s always the potential for some jerk to say he has to go to a “hospital” in Barbados or Cozumel for 10 days and could we please “emergency” board his dog while he’s gone (and provide free food and medical care). As I say it’s a very rare instance, and must be approved by our director.

But Heven is a very rare little creature. She was depressed when she came to the puppy pen, and just curled up under blankets on her little bed ( you notice the word “little” appears quite a bit in this substack). She didn’t eat for about five days, but then slowly began to come out of her shell. I met her a few weeks ago when I went into her pen and sat on the floor, and she looked at me doubtfully for a while, then came over and crawled onto my lap. We canoodled for a while, then she walked over to her dog dish, got a small mouthful of kibble and carried it back to my lap, where she dropped the food and then began picking it up one at a time, and crunching it, while looking me in the eyes. In that moment she owned me utterly.

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For several weeks now I have kept her in my office, picking her up as soon as I get in, and carrying her to my desk, where I have placed a little dog bed under my desk lamp. After many kisses, she settles down onto the bed, and gets warm under the bulb. From time to time she gets up to insist I pick her up, so I cradle her like a baby under one arm while I type with the other on my computer. Occasionally she’ll walk across my keyboard, and if it’s an interoffice Teams conversation, I’ll let my colleague know the extra characters were typed by Heven, who was just weighing in with her opinion.

She has become something of a shelter mascot. Everyone loves her. Even folks who don’t like me swallow their distaste to come into my office to visit her. People bring her treats, toys, blankets, and such. She gets walked a lot. Different volunteers stop by to ask if she’s been out lately. I always say “she’s due” because I don’t want to deprive anyone of some Heven time. And she’s always happy to go.

When I have groups of community volunteers in for treat-making, and I bring her along with me, setting her on the table top and watching as she visits each person, offering them a Heven opportunity. More than one person has commented that she looks like Scrat, the squirrel-like creature in Ice Age. And by god, she does! She has an overbite like none I’ve ever seen!

She has trained me as regards feeding time. I buy her expenive little wet food, the type with shredded chicken and veggies. She requires me to spoon feed her, and god help me, I do. Everyone does. When I’m not at the shelter, someone else is handfeeding her. Some dogs don’t thrive in a shelter situation, but I think she is having the time of her life. She’s doted on by all.

As often happens, I worry that she’s getting too attached to me. This past week, I was out of the office a lot, and didn’t get to see her till Friday, and when I came to her puppy pen, her excitement was almost more than I could bear. I picked her up and she covered me with kisses, and nipping at my lips with that overbite, and making little baby noises. I was never really drawn to chihuahuas—they always seemed too trembly and yappy and ill-tempered, but this little thing has changed my mind about the breed. She’s trembly, to be sure, but that’s because she’s cold a lot ( hence the lounging under the desk lamp), but she’s not really very yappy or neurotic. She’s actually pretty laid back

Her emergency boarding period is up soon, and then decisions will have to made. If her owner isn’t able to reclaim her, she’ll be available for adoption, and I’m sure she’ll get snapped up within 10 minutes of her availability. And I’ll miss her. Terribly. But if I’ve learned anything in my three years at the shelter, it’s that there is always another dog that needs the attention. And I’m just the sap to give it to them.

It was when I snatched the large piece of ham off Mark’s plate, and his subsequent hysterical—to my way of thinking--response to it, that I decided I needed to explain my side of things. So I have taken over his Substack newsletter this week, and I will illuminate for you the many things I’ve learned since coming to the Mann household, not the least of which is that Mark and Dani seem to have strong opinions as to the theft of food from their plates.

I’m sure Mark has told you that I am the product of a bad breeder type of situation, and was kept in the basement and not exposed to the outside world, until said bad breeder was evicted from his house, apparently for being a bad renter too. I was left behind, and found and taken in by a kindly neighbor, who made sure I received proper veterinary care, and who fed me and cared for me, but who ultimately wasn’t able to keep me due to circumstances beyond her control. That’s when Mark and Dani come into my story.

When Mark and I first met, I wasn’t very sure about him, but I noticed he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of treats in his pocket. This piqued my interest, as I have an inexhaustible love for eating treats. I felt this could be the basis for a relationship: he had this pocketful of Milkbones, with no one to help him by taking them off his hands. I felt pity for him, so I volunteered my services. This is one hard fact you all should know about me—if you have treats, and are at a loss for how to get rid of them, I’m your huckleberry.

Where Mark and I differed on the day we met is that he had a harness lead leash and was apparently stubbornly laboring under the misapprehension that I was going to allow him to place it around my neck. I was not. I had never had a leash around my neck before—in fact, I’m hard-pressed to remember if I’d ever even seen a leash before. The lady I was staying with had a doggie door leading to fenced yard, so I just went outside on my own whenever I –you know—felt the call. Or maybe I didn’t bother going outside. This will factor later in my story.

Long story short, I had to be carried to Mark’s car, leashless. I didn’t even have a collar. I wasn’t crazy about being carried—I am a year old Golden Doodle and I am nobody’s swaddling little baby. All he had to do was ask me to go to the car, and if I’d known what a car was, I might have gone. I know what they are now, of course, but judging by the condition of the interior of Mark’s car, I am not impressed.

I lay on the backseat, trying to pretend I was invisible, as Mark drove us to my new house. Being invisible is pretty easy for us dogs—all you have to is close your eyes and tuck your nose under your tail and poof!--no dog!

Anyway, we get to the house, and Mark slips the lead on me while I was invisible, which surprised me, frankly. How did he know I was there? He coaxed me out of the car with more treats—damn me for loving them so much! I’m sure he felt pretty proud of himself, but I had a few surprises up my sleeve (or they would’ve have been if I’d actually had sleeves, or knew what they were). As soon as I came out of the car I began bucking like a bronco, leaping and twisting in the air. But no matter what I did, there was that goddamned lead (pardon my French poodle). I couldn’t shake it. Then Dani came outside, and I took a breath. She is tiny. Maybe my size. I noticed she didn’t have a leash around her neck either, but she didn’t run away. She took the end of my leash, and Mark disappeared, and she and I stood in the yard, and after sniffing a few things ( I could smell out that they have a squirrel problem). Then she and I took our time and came slowly into the house.

They had three other dogs in there, little things—so thoughtful of them to provide these furry playthings for me to worry and annoy. I could tell the three didn’t seem all that pleased to see me, but I didn’t care. I’m sure they thought I was going to steal all their stuffies and chewies, and guess what? They were right. Almost from the start, I took all their toys and claimed them as my own. And whenever Mark brings home new toys, I take those too.

Toys for Molly: 47

Toys for the Three Amigos: 0

It’s as it should be.

The past few months have been challenging for me. Training Mark and Dani has proved more difficult than I imagined. For example, from the start, I began carrying Dani’s pink house slippers with me everywhere I go. Both of them in my mouth. Then Dani got herself new pink slippers, and I took them as well. Four slippers in my mouth. I keep waiting for the third pair, but she stubbornly keeps them in the closet where I can’t get them. Yet. Working on how to overcome that whole opposable thumb thing.

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Mark seems to have an obsession with keeping me from counter-surfing. Apparently his previous Doodle counter-surfed all her life, and his Golden Retriever before her did as well. 20 years of counter-surfing he’s endured, and now all of a sudden I’m not allowed to? I don’t think so. The fundamental flaw in his thinking is that he doesn’t realize I am aware of every morsel that is left on the counter. Mark forgets about it, but I never do. He has many things to think about, but I have only one. And I can wait him out. Eventually, he moves on to the tv or his phone or a hundred other things that occupy his scattered brain. And that’s when I make my move.

Over the months I have eaten cheese, crackers, chips, a squeakie that I pulled out of a stuffie, a sandwich he made the mistake of leaving on the counter while he went into the living room to tell Dani about some stupid thing he just thought of, and dozens of other items, some edible, some not so much.

Mark has learned not to give me any of those hard Nylabones. Some dogs chew them endlessly, just to entertain themselves-- which seems pointless to me. I go to work! I actually broke one down in small bits, and was swallowing the hard plastic pieces until Mark took the rest from me. Side note—they passed a few days later, and it wasn’t pleasant. Apparently they had jagged little edges. Hey, you learn. I blame Mark for giving it to me in the first place, and I blame him even more for not giving me another one.

I’m having a bit of trouble housebreaking the two of them. Apparently, the previous dood gave them very clear signals about when she needed to go outside. She even had different moves for when she needed to do a number 2 as opposed to a number 1.

As the actor said in the joke about how many actors does it take to screw in a light bulb ( just one), “ interesting choice, but I’d do it differently”

She wasn’t subtle like me. I do more with less. She played to the back of the house, apparently, while I prefer the small moments, which even the front row might miss unless they are paying close attention. And Mark and Dani miss a lot. So I have chosen a spot on the carpet as my preferred pee place, and if they aren’t paying rapt attention to my every move, that’s where I go. Interestingly, both to me and to them, I won’t pee on a pee pad, but I will poop on it. Don’t ask me why. I am the wind and the fire—do not seek to know me.

It’s been a slow process, but we’re starting to get a handle on things, and setting a schedule. Usually, I need to go out right at the pivotal moment of whatever show they’re watching on TV. When the TV detective says “ the real killer is in this room, and that person is...”—that’s when I’ll start pacing. It’s just how I roll. I might add that I am terrified of being outside at night, and this time change thing is bullshit! Dark so much earlier. Goddamn humans! So, all things being equal, I’d rather just squat on the carpet, and be done with it.

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In other news, they also seem to have a little problem when I jump on them constantly and invade their spaces and refuse to be dissuaded, and tug at their shirts, and swarm all over them when they are sitting on the couch, and knock their glasses off, and try to eat their hearing aids right off their ears. I also have an intense need to get between them whenever Dani bends down to kiss the couch potato Mark goodnight before going upstairs. I need to be in on this. They seem to have given up on ever hugging each other, because I gotta get in on that too. What they don’t realize is that it’s much better to hug a doodle than a person. But I’ll get to them. They just need trained.

I’ve already altered, in many ways, how they conduct business in the house. They may have developed a routine over the years with the previous and current dogs, but my friend, there is a new sheriff in town. They’ll learn, and I’m here to teach them. I’ll keep you posted

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Earlier this week, the Shelter received three dogs who had been dumped in a metro park. Two were old pit bulls, one of them with a large red growth on his lower lip, that looks like he is carrying a ball until you look closer. Their health isn’t the greatest, and I believe they probably have a long road to recovery. The third dog was a small male terrier mix, all brown and wiry-haired, between 2 and 5 years old and in dire need of a bath and a groom, neglected but otherwise healthy. The metro park rangers have video of a yellow van cruising through the park, and dumping the three dogs, then speeding off. I assume there will be an investigation and a search for this lowlife.

A day after they arrived, I was walking through the Stray wards, where the new dogs are housed until they pass medical and behavior exams, and noticed the little guy sitting on a blanket in his kennel, trembling under the harsh barking of a couple of large dogs in neighboring kennels. I‘d been looking for a dog to hang out with a school group that was coming in an hour to the Shelter to make treats, and something about him spoke to me, so I opened his kennel door and scooped him up.

I don’t usually bring smaller dogs to meet community groups, especially if they are made up of lots of kids, because it’s been my experience that small terriers can get kind of cranky when surrounded by enthusiastic grade schoolers. So I thought I’d get to know him a bit first, and see what kind of personality he had. I took him for a walk, where he immediately did good business, which indicates a likelihood of being housebroken. He was only 11 lbs, and even if he pulled on the leash it wouldn’t have been any trouble, but he was very docile, and stuck by me as we walked around the yard. I sat on a bench and he immediately started begging to be picked up, so I sat him on my lap, where he stretched up and gave me a few licks on my face, then curled up and tucked his nose under his tail.

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He was a wonderful host for the schoolkids. He was spunky, and played with every little toy they tossed for him. He accepted most treats, showing a marked preference for soft stinky ones, and was very affectionate when kids got down on the floor with him. After the group had finished their stay, I carried him back to my office, put him on the floor, where he explored a little bit, then came to me asking to be picked up. I put him on my desk, and he settled down with his chin over my wrist as I used the computer mouse.

And that’s where he’s been all week. Each morning I pick him up from his kennel, bring him to my office where he helps me move the mouse as I answer emails. It was a slow process, getting through those dozens and dozens of emails, as it was my first week back to work after the passing of my mother. It felt odd, a little disconnected to be there—I received sympathies and hugs from the few coworkers and volunteers who knew why I was away—but most of my fellow employees just assumed I was away on vacation. HR rules being what they are these days, my supervisor wasn’t allowed to say what was going on, and I’d forgotten to tell her it was ok if someone asked. My mother wasn’t a secret, after all.

But I had the same feeling as two years ago, when my sister died. I felt underwater, like Benjamin in The Graduate, wearing his scuba gear in the swimming pool, as everyone partied above the surface at poolside. I kept to myself most days, and just communed with the little foundling in my office. Mid-week, when my high school intern came, she took one look at him, and when I told her he hadn’t been named yet, declared that his name was Rusty. No doubt. He was a Rusty. So I entered it into his computer file, and Rusty he became.

He has been on a stray hold all week, meaning he isn’t eligible for adoption until all his exams are completed. So I don’t feel bad taking him from his kennel each day, taking him from the gaze of someone who might choose him to be their life’s companion. For this week, he’s been mine. He gets me through the suddenly emotional moments of each day, and my wife and four-legged knuckleheads get me through the evenings. He’s a therapy dog and doesn’t even know it.

I worry a little that he’s getting too attached to me. I had him with me for a visiting group yesterday, and he had no interest in them. He just followed me around everywhere. People were begging for his attention, but he was only focused on me. This has happened before, with other dogs. I often say dogs and little kids like me a lot—it’s just grownup humans that don’t. Maybe he senses I kind of need him more than they do right now.

My hope is that a friend will adopt him, so I can still see him on occasion. He’s a merry little dog, affectionate when you want it, a silent companion when you want it, all in all just good company. It is beyond me why someone dumped him in a park. I try not to judge people—life circumstances can change on a dime, I certainly have experience with that-- but I do judge, harshly, the character of a person who casts to cold fate a little creature whose sole purpose in life was to be their companion.

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His stray hold is over tomorrow, and then he’ll be up for grabs. I work remotely on Mondays, so it’s very possible he’ll be gone when I come in on Tuesday. If so, I’ll do what I always do—return his toys to the toy storage area, and low-key mourn for a day or two, then find another new office mate. There’s always a dog nearby willing to engage in mutual neediness.

Ray was a special needs volunteer from one of the adult day programs that come every week to perform various tasks for us. Most of the time this involves taking full bags of dog food, and putting scoopfuls of kibble into gallon baggies, which we then give to people who foster our dogs, or to new adopters, or to shelter volunteers who take dogs home for a weekend sleepover. This way, the dogs eat the same food they get for breakfast and dinner at the shelter, ensuring their stomachs won’t get upset from a sudden change in diet.

Ray was a middle-aged Asian gentlemen, barely verbal, whose personality came through the front door long before he did. He was constantly smiling, and had a husky giggle, and greeted everyone he saw. He was, as far as I could tell, somewhat less advanced than his group-mates, who could easily converse and complete the tasks they were assigned. Ray had no interest in doing any of those tasks.

He was singularly focused on pens. He wanted all the pens. He always carried a clipboard with a few sheets of copy paper on it, which were covered in scribbles and swipes. He would come into the lobby, spot me, and thus would be our weekly conversation:

Ray: ( pointing at me) Eh!!

Me: Hi Ray, how are you doing?

Ray: Pen!!

Me: Hang on, I’ll find you a good one.

Ray: ( husky giggle)

Our front desk clerks learned to hide their pen cups when they saw him getting out the program’s van and hustling from the parking lot to the front door. They had about 10 seconds to secure any and all writing utensils--otherwise, he would go from clerk to clerk, trying to snatch every pen off their desk. His counselor would be trailing after him, saying “ no Ray, leave those poor people alone.”

I would usher his group into our Community Room, a large open multi-purpose space where there plenty of tables and chairs. There is a small kitchenette in there, with a microwave, and after the group was settled into their seats. Anne, the counselor, would take their packed lunches and heat up whatever items needed nuked. Then they would all tuck into their lunches, and I would chat with them, ask about their weekends, and they would ask me about mine.

When I first began bringing the adult special needs groups into the shelter, I was a little nervous about it. I have little experience with that population, and wasn’t sure how to approach them and engage. Turns out I needn’t have worried. I fell in love with these groups immediately—when they see me waiting for them at the front door as they descend from their van, they wave and call out my name, and I get tons of hugs and handshakes and fist bumps as they pass into the lobby. They are excited to be there, and I am genuinely happy to see them. The same people come every week, with a few additions and subtractions, and they have become an important part of my day.

Ray would never forget that I promised him a pen, and throughout his lunch he would look at me and demand “ Pen!!” I’d say “ I’m on it!” and he would giggle. He liked the click pens the best, so I would give him the choice between a click pen and a cheapie Bic pen. He always took both, but mostly used the click pen. His group-mates, once their lunch was finished, would settle into filling the gallon baggies, while Ray scribbled on his clipboard.

Ray was also intensely interested in my lanyard and badge. After he got his new weekly pen, he would point at my lanyard. “ Eh!!” he say, and I would take my lanyard off and hang it around his neck to wear during the time he was at the shelter. I was always careful to get it back before he left, because he would most certainly take it with him if he could.

I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me earlier, but I eventually decided to make him his own lanyard and badge. It took me way too long to get it right—I’m not much of a design guy-- but after many versions I settled on one with bright colors that read:

Ray Hong

World’s Greatest Volunteer

I put it in a plastic badge cover and clipped it to a red lanyard. I saved the file, because I was pretty sure I’d have to make another one, and indeed, I had to make him a new one several times. He wore them out. His counselor said he wore his lanyard 24/7, slept with it, and was very proud to have it. When he would come to the shelter I would ask him if he had it on, and he would reach down into his shirt and pull it out. Then I would click my badge against his, like toasting with drinking glasses, and he would giggle. Then say “ Pen!”

One day, he wasn’t with the group, and I asked if he was ok, and the counselor told me the program had decided to place him in a less advanced group, since he never really did anything at the shelter. I felt sad, and missed him. He was a lovable pain in the butt, as one of my fellow employees said. I felt he gave value, regardless of his effort.

After about a month, he returned. Apparently he did nothing at the other group either, so the decision was made to return him to a familiar place. I gave him a hug when I saw him, and he laughed, and I gave him my pen without his asking. He came for a few more months, and then his counselor was transferred to another division in the program, and some of the group went with her. Ray stopped coming, and I assumed he’d been transferred again.

I got a text from Anne, the counselor, a few months ago-- I hadn’t heard from her for quite some time—to say that Ray had passed away in July. Apparently there was a brain tumor, not discovered till far too late. It hit me hard. I don’t know how much of a family he had, if someone was with him at the end. I hope so. The alternative is too terrible to contemplate. Anne said the program was going to have a memorial for him sometime in the near future. I asked her to keep me posted, because I really wanted to attend.

And of course, his memorial was held Sept. 4, when I was out of town, so I missed it. I asked Anne for a photo of Ray, as I intend to make a little framed memorial to him, to post somewhere at the shelter.

He wasn’t interested in doing any work at the shelter—he wasn’t even that interested in dogs. I often had a dog in the room to hang with his group, and he never paid attention it. It was all about the pens and lanyards. I adore the folks in his former group, and look forward to their visits each week, but I can’t help but look at them as they exit their van in the parking lot, and think fondly of the one who won’t be stepping off the running board and rushing to the front door to get his pen.

RIP Ray Hong...World’s Greatest Volunteer.