Devil Dog

A long time ago, my stepfather owned many gas stations, a heating oil business, a lumberyard and a hardware store.

He also owned a big lot on the outside of town where he kept his delivery trucks (lumber and oil) and had a large shop.  This shop was part woodworking shop, part garage for fixing the many vehicles he owned for the businesses.

This big lot had a ten foot high chain link fence around it with barbed wire at the top, but still determined people could get in.  He had a lot of expensive stuff on that lot.

One day, he went to the SPCA and told them, "I want the meanest son of a bitch you have here."  He's not a man who minces words.

Back then, I don't think the SPCA had as many regulations or rules about what they adopted out to who.  If a man wanted the meanest son of a bitch they had, well that was his lookout, clearly he knew what he was getting into.

The dog they brought him was a male German Shepherd who really was about the meanest son of a bitch my stepfather had ever seen.  Ask and you shall receive.  This German Shepherd was on his last day, slated for euthanasia first thing on the morrow.

So, my stepfather adopted him, and took him to live at "the yard" as we called it.

He was christened The Devil Dog.  Actually, he earned it.

I'm not sure what it is about saving a dog who's time is running out, but they know it.  Somehow, they always do.  The Devil Dog didn't start out having any sort of relationship with my stepfather beyond a "You leave me alone and I'll leave you alone," sort of agreement.  By all accounts, this was a much better relationship than he'd had with anyone else who had ever tried to work with him.  If you want my opinion, I think it was the combination of my stepfather being the person who took him out of the SPCA, and the fact that at the yard he had as much room to run as he wanted, and could do it whenever he wanted.  He had a dog door into the heated shop, where he had a bed and food and water.  Other than my stepfather, nobody went on that lot.  Devil didn't have to answer to anybody about anything, ever, he just had to live up to his reputation as the meanest damn dog anyone had ever seen if somebody tried to go over, under, or through that fence.

And he did that job, admirably.  After Devil came to live at the yard, very few people tried to go over, under, or through that fence, and the few who did had nasty looking mug shots and probably lived in fear of German Shepherds from that moment forward.

Devil could have gotten out of the yard if he'd wanted to.  It wouldn't have been any job at all for him to dig  a small hole under that fence and be gone.  He never did.

Who knows what his history was, what ordeals he went through that took him from a puppy to the dog who earned the moniker "The Devil Dog" (which is always, still to this day, spoken in our house in capital letters). Whatever his history was, he wasn't a stupid dog.  He knew he had it good at the yard.  He was safe from all scary unknown people.  They were on one side of a fence, he was on the other, and I really think he preferred it that way.  He got fed every day and had warm place to sleep and nobody to bother him.  Life was good.

The Devil Dog was the scariest of all yard dogs, because unlike most territorial dogs, Devil wouldn't patrol the yard and bark at people who came near the fence.  Unless you had had a run-in with him before or worked for my stepfather, you'd never know he was there.  He was quiet.  He gave no warnings to intruders of what was about to happen to them.  Most of the people who tried to break into the yard afterward said, "If I had known there was a dog there.."  But they didn't, and they never saw or heard him coming until it was too late.  Word must have gotten around though, because by the time the Devil was too old to live up to his name, nobody dared go into that yard.

My stepfather never made any attempts to train Devil.  The only things Devil needed to know (don't bite my stepfather or anyone with my stepfather and don't eliminate in the shop) he could sort out for himself.  Once given control over his own life, Devil was an amazingly docile animal.  In the yard, he had enough room to retreat away from anyone he didn't feel like interacting with, and as long as someone didn't try to force him to interact with them when he didn't want to, nobody was in danger of being mauled.  My stepfather made it clear to anyone he took into the yard with him, don't touch that dog and he won't touch you.  You've been warned.

I was about 7 years old before I first met Devil, who was five or six at the time.  My stepfather was making me bookshelves for my room, and we went to the shop every evening so he could work on them.  Devil usually stayed out of the shop when other people were in it, and I was dying to see the notorious Devil Dog.  He stayed out of seeing range.  The bookshelves for my room were massive, and took many trips to accomplish.  On one of them, I was coming down with some illness, I was very tired, and I decided to go lay down in the empty dog bed.  I didn't know where Devil was and I wasn't concerned about it, because he had kept himself out of sight every other time I had been there.

I fell asleep in the dog bed for I don't know how long.  It was one of the nice big overstuffed round LL Bean variety.  I came awake to people excitedly talking, and the first sentence that made sense to me was my stepfather saying to my mother, "Gretchen I wouldn't do that if I were you."  Then I heard growling, and I opened my eyes.  When my stepfather saw me open my eyes, he said, "You lie still.  You stay right there and don't move."

Devil was in the bed with me.

My stepfather made my mother retreat to the other side of the shop with him.  As soon as they were both about ten feet away, Devil relaxed and put his head down.  My stepfather poured food into his bowl and called him, but he didn't get up.  It took a few times of my stepfather rattling kibbles around in his pan and yelling, "Devil!  Let's go," before he finally got up and left the bed, and I could get up too.

From that time on, Devil wasn't wary about me.  We weren't friends, exactly, but he was more at ease with me than with any one else except my stepfather.  I'm not sure what happened that night.  I really don't think Devil took it into his head in ten or twenty minutes or however long he'd been there to protect me from all comers, even my mother and the man he respected.  He didn't even know me.  I think he just decided that I, as a kid and not an adult, wasn't a threat (especially not asleep), and wanted to lie in his bed so he did.  When my mother realized it and went to wake me up, he growled at her because that was his bed, and she shouldn't be reaching down in his direction.

It scared the bejeezus out of me though.

By the time that German Shepherd was an old Devil, my stepfather had gone from describing him as the meanest son of a bitch in town to the best damn dog he'd ever had, status that Devil kept for ten years until my Sainted Labrador.  My stepfather never set out to get a German Shepherd.  If the SPCA workers had brought out a Heinz 57 mix as the meanest dog in the place at the time, he'd have taken that dog just as well.  It just turned out that way.

Devil eventually had to be put down at 13, when his hips gave out and he could no longer get up on his own.

Some people might think that Devil Dog had a pitiful existence just because he was a yard dog, and not a house pet, having limited human contact even though it was daily.

I think Devil would never have made a pet, he would have killed somebody or been killed by somebody eventually if someone had tried to force him into it.  Maybe if he had gone to a different home as a puppy, things might have been different.  Who can say.  All I know is that he was happy being his own master of his own house in his own yard and having nobody to answer to and nobody making demands on him.  He got fed at the same times every day, rain, snow or shine, and he could depend on it being the same person.  That's all Devil really cared about.  If he wanted human contact, he certainly could have received it, but until he was a much older dog, he never sought attention or affection, even from my stepfather.

When he got very old, and nobody expected him to do the job he was originally obtained for anymore, it was talked of bringing Devil to the house in town to live with us for the remainder of his days.  I was all for it, but the adults (my mom and my stepfather) after careful consideration, decided to leave him as he was.  Not because they were afraid of him or what he might do, he was fairly feeble at that point, and I was a teenager and not a child who might do something stupid around a dog without thinking.  It was just decided that he simply wouldn't like it.  He was old, and used to just being master of his own days.  We honestly didn't know if he was technically house trained or if when given the choice he just preferred peeing outside in the grass to peeing on the concrete floor of the shop.  All angles of the scheme were looked at and debated, and the final conclusion was that Devil in a new home around people day and night, deprived of the freedom of choice he had enjoyed for the last 11 or so years would emotionally upset him more than making him that little bit more physically comfortable could justify.

He could have been killed by lethal injection at the age of two, instead he lived to the ripe old age of 13.
He could have died with people knowing only that he was vicious, instead we gave him the space and freedom to show us that he could be noble, dignified and loyal.  We gave him a job that fit him and an environment in which he could be himself and free reign to do that job.

He could have died as a number and been a statistic, mourned by nobody, with nobody remembering him fondly today.  Instead, he will never be forgotten by my family, and we all remember him with laughter and joy.

In memory of The Devil Dog:  We're all grateful for the time we had with you and the work you did for us.

The Ones Who Get To Me Part 4: Beretta

Once upon a time, there was a black German Shepherd puppy who came to our store.  She was a little shy, and had a case of diarrhea that would not clear up, in part because of a tricky stomach, in part because of a parasite.

I was on a kick of naming dogs after guns at the time (I find I often name in themes, though I don't realize it sometimes), and looking at her perfectly erect ears and pointy snout, she just looked like a Beretta to me.  I think the main reason I named her Beretta is because, like a gun, she was only going to reflect the spirit of the person handling her.  She was just a smidge timid, just enough to be worrisome.  Handle her the wrong way, and that timidness, coupled with a GSD's natural tendency to be wary of strangers and highly reactive, would make her just as dangerous as a loaded gun with the safety off.  With the right person and a dose of confidence building, she would be only dangerous to people who thoroughly deserved it.

I started working with her on that confidence issue while she wasn't for sale due to the diarrhea issues.  She was a gem.  Eager to please, it was a snap to teach her anything.  She was smart, she was beautiful, and she wanted to be worked with.  She got "sit" in a day, and after that I started the "treat any time they so much as glance at you" to teach her that keeping her attention on me got her great things.

She recalled with precision, heeled perfectly around the store, and very quickly decided that the toys belonged in the puppy room and not anywhere else.  Should a toy find it's way out of the puppy room, she would pick it up and put it back in the puppy room.

I really wanted Beretta to be my dog.  Really, really.  She had that special something that made her stand out from other dogs, that certain spark.  It's extreme intelligence coupled with plain common sense and something else that's an undefinable quality you know when you've been around dogs long enough.  She was just full of possibilities.  She could be anything, excel at anything.  She could have been the world's best police dog - the kind that has an "off" switch not many police dogs have anymore - who could throw her heart and soul into the job when she was working and go home and be a regular old, let-the-kids-lounge-on-her dog when she wasn't.  She could have been a superb search and rescue dog, a seeing-eye dog, a therapy dog - anything, and she would have been the absolute best at it.  I have not worked with a dog like that since my Sainted Labrador passed away.  She reminded me a lot of the Bay dog.  Same soul, same heart, different expression of it all.

One day after she had been put up for sale, I noticed people loitering outside the kennel so I went out to ask if anyone needed help.  Everyone declined my help, but I went to stand back by the desk anyway, because no matter what people say, they always have questions.

Two big burly guys were looking at Beretta, and I heard one say to the other, "Well if you ever want them to be good guard dogs you have to make them mean."

That was my worst fear for Beretta come true in an instant.  I felt my heart drop through the floor.  They asked me a few questions about her, and I told them she was a good dog, very easy to train, loved absolutely everybody, and had a horrific problem that was likely to cost a lot of money to fix.

Which was a blatant lie.  She didn't have any health problems since her giardia had cleared up.  They expressed regret, quickly lost interest, and left the store.

The entire time this was going on, two ladies had been standing a few feet away, quietly.  After the two men left, one approached me and said, "I couldn't help but overhear what you said to those men about the black German Shepherd, and I had a few questions of my own."

I smiled at her.  "The health issue I made up.  I heard him say something about making dogs mean and I didn't want him to have her," I told her.  Something about this lady made me decide, almost unconsciously, to be open and honest with her.  I think then and there we became friends when she smiled and said she'd overheard the same thing and been worried about Beretta.  She asked how I knew she was easy to work with and gentle, and I told her everything about Beretta.  Then she asked if they could take her out and play with her, and I said sure.

"Just know, she takes a minute to warm up to people.  That's a GSD trait, they're not supposed to be mean, but they are supposed to be aloof with strangers.  She'll open up to you in a few."

Beretta came out, and predictably didn't really want anything to do with the two nice ladies who had shown an interest in her.  She didn't shy away from them, she was just intent on me, what I might be doing, what I might ask of her, what I might want to play with.  They tried to call her and she looked at them and stood her ground, but didn't go until I told her it was okay.  I told them how she had learned by herself to clean up the toys, and to show them, I took one of the toys from the puppy room and dropped it on the ground.  Instantly, Beretta stopped what she was doing and stared at me with this reproachful look that said, "Of all people, YOU ought to know better."  She heaved a sigh, trotted over, picked the toy up, and put it back in the puppy room.  Everyone laughed.

The lady explained to me that they weren't looking for a dog for themselves, they were looking for a dog for her mother.  Her mother had cancer, was undergoing chemotherapy, having a tough time, had within the last year been divorced and had to put her beloved Golden Retriever to sleep.  She needed a new dog, someone to give her a reason to get out of bed and out of the house and do things, but considering her illness, not a dog that was going to be rambunctious or rough.

Beretta was playful, but not extremely hyper, and she was never rough in play.  Always gentle.  I was thrilled.  This sounded like a perfect match.  The daughter thought so, too.  They put Beretta on hold while they went to get her mom so she could meet Beretta.  Beretta would, after all, be her dog.

Mom came and met Beretta.  I showed off everything she knew already.  I explained how I felt about her - that she could be anything, do anything.  She was smart enough to judge a situation and react accordingly, a quality many GSDs no longer have.  Mom said she was happy to hear that, as she had an interest in doing search and rescue work.  Perfect!  Yes, I often felt Beretta would be a great search and rescue dog, and I've been involved in search and rescue myself and could put her in contact with the right people.

After about two hours spent talking with me, talking to and observing Beretta, they decided to get her.  I was thrilled.  I was so happy I cried, really.  I cried because Beretta was leaving, and also because I couldn't have dreamed up a better home for her if I had set my mind to it.  This was all just meant to be.  This lady was gentle, had the right ideas about training dogs (no Cesar Milan for Beretta), wanted to give Beretta and herself a job like search and rescue for both their sakes.  She was just what Beretta needed and Beretta was just what she needed.

While they were filling out the paperwork and we were going over warranties, I noticed the street name on the address and it was really familiar but I didn't give it any thought at the time.

We got Beretta outfitted with everything she needed, including her favorite toy, the training treats that didn't upset her stomach, a Gentle Leader, the works.

I helped them out to the car.  Beretta was confused when she hopped up into the car and the door shut without me in it.  I could see the wheels turning in her head when she realized that I wasn't coming with her, and it really broke my heart.  In fact, I'm tearing up just remembering that expression on her face.  I stood there in the parking lot and smoked a cigarette and cried a few tears and thought to myself, at least she's safe now.  I had a premonition that at some point, Beretta was going to save that lady's life.  I don't know how I know, but sometimes, as wonky as it sounds, I know things like that.

While I was standing there, a thought suddenly struck me.  The street name.  The street name sounded familiar because it was in the same apartment complex I lived in.  I ran inside to double check on the paperwork.  Yes!  Yes it was!  Beretta just went to a home I could literally see from my balcony.

There is a power at work in the universe greater than ourselves, and it didn't just hand me this once-in-a-lifetime dog to yank her away from me forever.  Things happen for a reason.

A week later, I saw the lady walking Beretta while I was taking out some trash.  I have to admit, having done the paperwork with them, I knew the exact address and had been keeping an eye out for them, but I wasn't about to be creepy enough to go knock on the door to see how Beretta was doing, though I longed to.  Besides, Beretta had been very attached to me.  She needed time to get used to the fact that she was not my dog.

Seeing them on the street, however, I went up and said hi.  Beretta was happy to see me.  We talked about Beretta and how she was settling in.  She asked me, "Why did you name her Beretta?"  I tried to explain as best I could.  I asked, "And what name is she known by now?"  The lady smiled at me.  "Her name is still Beretta.  It suits her.  I couldn't change it."

That's when I knew, this was meant to happen.  Without a doubt.

I still see Beretta frequently.  She has grown into a beautiful lady, quiet and dignified, and everything a GSD should be.  Intuitive and intelligent, she is perfectly behaved and knows what is called for in all situations.  Within two weeks of being in her new home, her person had to move the alarm clock in the bedroom onto a high bookshelf or Beretta would hit the snooze button repeatedly and it wouldn't wake her up.

Beretta is in search and rescue training now, and as I always knew she would, enjoys and excels at it.

I am proud of her, and proud of the part I played in her life.

Pet Store Thieves

People steal the dumbest stuff.  I'm sure it happens at every retail location, the employees never cease to be amazed by the ridiculous items people will put themselves at risk over.  In a pet store, it's usually really really dumb stuff.  Silent dog whistles that cost 1.99.  Little cans of fish food.  Multi-colored catnip scented ping-pong balls.  Really?  Seriously?  Most of the thefts from our store are items under five dollars and completely unnecessary.  Sometimes we get the people who open packs of spot-on flea control (not the expensive stuff, that stuff is kept in the office) which I can understand, but not agree with.  Your dog's got fleas and you got no money, well.  I'd rather think someone was stealing for the good of their animal than stealing just to steal.  Of course if you walk into the clinic at the SPCA and say, "Hey, I only have five dollars and my dog's got fleas really bad," they'd probably give you a single dose of Frontline that they usually sell for 8 dollars for the five you have on you.  They're awesome like that.

Every once in awhile, we get the person who decides, for whatever reason, to steal an animal.

In our store, we have cameras everywhere.  Literally, everywhere, except in the kennel, which is one of the reasons why we don't let people use our bathroom.  It's in the kennel.  Where there are syringes, prescription meds, and no cameras.  No, sorry, you cannot use our bathroom.  (People can get really belligerent about this, too, by the way.)  I know petty criminals usually aren't the sharpest tools in the shed, but you'd think they'd look up and see the cameras everywhere and think, "Hm.  Maybe this isn't a great idea."  I mean, they're even protected under the little black domes so you can't see which direction they're pointed.

Still, people do it.

The first time an animal got stolen when I worked there, it was a Maltese puppy.  About four years ago.  I wasn't working at the time.  (It seems like I'm almost NEVER working when an animal gets stolen.  I'm not sure why this is.)

We take EVERYONE'S state issued ID before we let them handle a puppy.  No ifs, ands or buts.  No, I don't want your Bank of America ID card.  I don't want your community college ID card.  I want the one that the state gave you.

This guy gave up his ID, took the Maltese puppy, waited around for things to get busy and then walked out with it.  Dumbass.  State trooper showed up, took the ID, ran the guy through the system and found out this guy had JUST gotten out of prison a week prior.  Whereupon he immediately goes out and commits a felony.  Way to go, justice system.  Recidivism, for the win.

What I can't understand is why steal the most expensive dog in the store when the ONLY reason it's expensive is because it is a purebred dog that can be registered?  You can't re-sell it for that amount, because you don't have the paperwork proving it is what you say it is since you frickin' stole it.  So what is the point?  You could have gone and gotten a free puppy out of the paper.  I dunno.

So they go to the guy's house and the dog (predictably) isn't there.  Due to some loophole in our local laws, apparently the cops can't do anything about animal thieves unless the animal is physically in the person's presence while the cops are also physically in the person's presence.  Guess how often that happens.

This guy got arrested on other charges (big surprise) and locked up again, but we never got the Maltese puppy back or even heard a peep about whatever happened to him.

Last Christmas Eve, while running errands that included doing last minute shopping for my little boy, I stopped by the store to pick up a paycheck I'd neglected to pick up.  Meaning to only be a second, I leave my SO sitting in the car.  It never fails, though, that when I'm in a rush and I know he's going to be irritated if I'm not quick, the store gets busy with needy customers who want every employee's attention and I end up standing around for 15 minutes until someone who can open the safe for me has dealt with them all.

While I was milling around waiting for someone to open the safe to get my paycheck this Christmas Eve, I meandered past the small animal petters.

Less than five minutes later, another employee went walking past the small animal petters and noticing one empty, asked, "Did we sell a ferret?"

I said, "No.  It was there two minutes ago, I just saw it, and nobody has been at the register."

They checked all the day's paperwork just in case.  No ferret sales slip.

The owner then runs up to check the footage on the cameras, and we see a young girl, maybe 20 years old, with a guy, bend over and pick up the ferret out of the petter, put it under her shirt, and proceed to walk out of the store.

Well Merry effin' Christmas.

The girl who was at the register said she went to high school with the girl who walked out with the ferret, but can't remember her name.  She is promptly dispatched to go home and get her yearbook so she can find out who this girl is.

I get my paycheck and feel like an ass wishing the owner a Merry Christmas right after 150.00 dollars gets yanked right out from under him, and then I leave.  When I get back out to the car, I expect to get an earful from my SO who has been sitting there now for closer to half an hour than the five minutes I promised.  I immediately launch into an explanation:  It got busy, then someone stole a ferret..

"Was it a girl with brown hair tied up sort of sloppy?"

"Yeah.."

"Here, I wrote down her license plate number," and he hands me a piece of paper on which was written '2007 orange Mustang GTO,' and a number.

"OMG, are you serious!  This is great!  Holy shit!  OMG!  What made you write that down?!"  This was the best Christmas present I could ever think of giving the boss man.

"Well, she came out of the store with something moving under her shirt, and she was just looking shady, so.. I mean I felt stupid after I wrote it down, but I figured I wasn't doing anything anyway, so I might as well.  If it turned out to be nothing, then it was nothing."

It was definitely NOT nothing.  I ran back into the store waving the piece of paper and yelling, now feeling like a million dollars when I tell the boss man, "Here, cheer up, Merry Christmas for real this time," and hand him the paper.  Talk about mood swings.

The police were called, the information, including her name which the part-time girl at the register got, were given them, and they headed over to her house where they found her and a ferret.  Score.

I've always wondered what this girl's parents felt like when they got the cop knock on their door on Christmas Eve.

Whatever they felt like, her dad did the unthinkable and just came in and paid the boss man for the ferret.  I couldn't believe it when I heard that.  My mom would have let me face the consequences of what I'd done if I ever had pulled some dumb shit like that.  What has happened to parenting?

She didn't get arrested, but our store has it's own justice.  Anytime someone steals something, we take the clearest still frame of them actually in the act, along with others of the face and profile if we can, print them out, and stick them up on our Wall of Shame.  Yes, we have a Wall of Shame.  It's actually called that, with big bubble cut-out letters above the posters of stupid people stealing dumb stuff.  The girl who prints these things out comes up with unflattering nick names for the people if we don't ever find out their real names (The Pig Lady, The Muzzle Bandit, The Test Tube Baby), and we post them all over the store in prominent places for a few months before they get retired to take their place on The Wall.  It might not deter them from stealing in another store, but they sure as hell don't come back in ours once they hear we have their picture posted all over the place.  Also, anyone who might know them now knows that they are thieves.  The way I explain it to people is this:  If we can't trust them in our store, you probably can't trust them in your house, either.

This girl got her spot on the Wall of Shame, although since she was caught that day, we didn't have to wall paper the store in her mug in the hopes that someone who knew her would give us information.  About a month later, she heard through some friends who saw her picture that she was on the Wall of Shame and had the temerity to call up and raise hell about it, because, "I PAID for the ferret!"  Yeah, sweetcheeks, AFTER you got caught.  The fact remains that you stole it, and had no intention of paying for it if the cops hadn't come looking for you.  Don't want the humiliation of your sorority sisters finding out you steal shit?  Here's an idea:  Don't steal.

On June 23rd, SaintTawny took an ID from a girl who wanted to see a tiny blue Chihuahua puppy we had at the store.  There was already someone in the puppy room with a dog, so the girl loitered around in front of the kennel with the puppy in her arms.  SaintTawny got called away from the immediate area to deal with a customer's questions, and the girl with the Chihuahua puppy went around the corner into the dog food aisle, put the puppy in her purse, and walked out of the store.

As soon as I heard, I knew exactly who it was.

This girl had been coming into the store since the day we got the dog, wanting to see the puppy every day.  Every day it was in the middle of the afternoon, when we are slow customer-wise, and when I was working, so I always took her ID and dealt with her.  The first time she saw the puppy, she immediately stuck out in my mind because she had a lot of tattoos and a piercing right under her lip, but the ID she gave me was an Emergency Vehicle Operator's license.  Typically, emergency responders, even the volunteers, are discouraged from having numerous piercings and visible tattoos because it can make people uncomfortable.  Then I figured, eh, she probably takes it out when she's working.  A co-worker at the store is an EMT, and she covers all her tattoos with makeup or clothing and puts a clear place-holder in her tongue piercing when she's working.  But I had stood there and looked at it and looked at her for a long enough pause that she smiled at me and said, "It's real.  It's an Emergency Vehicle Operator's license."  I know what an EVO license looks like, I know a lot of first responders.  I just felt this niggling feeling that something was off.  An EVO license really has no pertinent information on it.  It's literally a picture, a name, and the name of the firehouse or emergency unit that the person works for and that's it.  Nobody had ever given me one as an ID to see a puppy before;  even cops don't pull shit like that when they're not working.  But it is a state issued ID, so I felt stuck by our own rule.  I just said, "Yeah, I know," and gave her the puppy, but I decided to stick around until she was done.

Like I said, this happened every day for a week and a half.  I never really talked to her, that niggling sense that she wasn't right just wouldn't leave me, and in fact increased the more she tried to engage me in conversation, which she did more and more every time she came in.  She practically told me her life story with absolutely no encouragement on my part, I answered her with a forced smile and a monosyllable every time.  She lived right behind the store, she told me.  (I used to live there, too, it's NOT a nice neighborhood.) She usually didn't like little dogs, she has a Boxer.  She really loved this dog, she really wanted this dog, but she didn't have a thousand dollars.  She repeated this over and over the last few times I saw her.  "I LOVE this dog.  I HAVE to have this dog.  But I don't have a thousand dollars."  It irritated me even more.  It was like she was waiting for me to say, "Oh, well in that case, I'll let you have her for.." and name a lower price. After she would leave, though, I would get busy and forget all about her until the next time I saw her.

So on that Thursday morning when I came in and heard the blue Chihuahua got stolen, she was the first person that popped into my head.  The girl who told me said she had given a fake ID to SaintTawny, but when I saw the ID I said, "No, that's real.  That's a real ID.  I've been taking it from her for a week to see the same dog she stole.  That has to be her real name on the ID, call the cops."  The boss man didn't believe me until the EMT co-worker came in for her shift later that afternoon and confirmed that it is, actually, a real state issued ID.  Then, finally, the police were called.

The cops tracked her down, where she gave them a story about how that ID had been stolen from her.  The dog (predictably again) was not in evidence at her residence.  She had also covered all her tattoos with makeup and taken her piercings out the day she stole the dog, so the pictures from our cameras didn't show them, and she had them all visible when the police talked to her.  She had also cut off her mid-back length hair and dyed it an unnatural shade of red, probably within hours of the theft.

I remembered what had happened with the Maltese, which was, in effect, a lot of nothing.  I was not about to let that happen with that sweet little Chihuahua puppy who loved everyone and was a happy cheerful little soul.  I immediately made up a Facebook post with the girl's name included and all pertinent information and sent it out.  I'm not kidding when I say I know a lot of first responders, I come from a very small rural town where the most exciting place to be on any given night was the firehouse.  My high school Bio II class literally emptied every time the town's fire whistle blew.  First responders all tend to run in the same circles, and everyone's theoretically separated by only six degrees right?  Somebody knew this girl.  She had friends, family.  Somebody somewhere knows who she is, and that she suddenly came into the possession of a blue Chihuahua puppy.

Sure enough, within minutes of sending it out, a friend of mine from high school sent me a Facebook chat message.  He knew this girl.  She had been recently married, so her last name was now different.  He gave me the new last name, and we used it on the posters we put up around the store, which included a color copy of the ID with her picture on it.

I Googled her and found her myspace page, which hadn't been updated in months, but had other pictures of her with various hair colors and styles.

Someone else saw the posters in the store and called the store anonymously to tell us that she kept the puppy at her neighbor's house because the police kept randomly showing up at her house.

I kept urging the boss man to tell the guy to tell the tip to the police directly, but the guy didn't want to deal with the police.  So make an anonymous tip via text message, or even on the Internet from the local library if you're that paranoid, I argued.  The boss man wouldn't press the guy though, because he was afraid of scaring him off.

Over the weeks, the guy kept calling the store to keep us up-to-date on what she was doing.  He claimed to be her brother-in-law, and said that he hated her and wanted to see her arrested for stealing the dog.  One week he called and told us that her husband was getting upset that she still had the dog, and was making her get rid of the puppy.  Another week he told us she was trying to sell the puppy for a thousand dollars but she was being super shady about it, not letting anyone who was interested in buying the puppy see the dog before she had the money.  This made me fear very much for the puppy's well being.  Another time he called and said she was going to give herself away because she kept bragging to everyone about how she stole it, and how slick she was claiming that the ID had been stolen and dying her hair.

One evening, the store got a phone call from an agitated woman who told the manager, "If you want your dog, you better come here right now and ID it, because I have it."  I'm not sure of all the details on this bit of drama, but apparently the neighbor who had been keeping the puppy found out that it was stolen and had a fit, as well she should because she could be charged, too.  An argument between the neighbor and the girl who stole the dog ensued in which the police were called, and she called the store trying to give the dog back.  The inventory manager wouldn't let the general manager run out into a bad neighborhood on this errand by herself, so she had to wait for the boss man to get to the store, and when they finally showed up where the girl said she would be, the puppy wasn't there.  A police officer was there, taking the neighbor's statement that she had been keeping the dog, not knowing it was stolen, and that right before the officer showed up, the dog thief sent her husband out, who had a physical fight with the neighbor, got his hands on the dog, and ran off somewhere with her.

We had a dry spell for awhile.  No tips coming in at all.  And the dog thief got wise to the fact that she could be googled and made her myspace profile private, so we couldn't check it every day to see if people she knew made any comments about the theft on her page.

We had two posters about the theft on each of the front doors, and one morning when I came in, I noticed that they were gone.  I was dismayed.  Don't give up on it, I thought.  Don't.  Then I noticed that the corners of the papers were still taped to the doors, like someone had just ripped them off.  Nobody who worked for us would have done that.  As soon as I got in the store, I went to the general manager and asked her, "Did you take the posters off of the door?"  "No."  "Well someone did, because they aren't there anymore."  We gave each other significant looks.  Hmm.  The general manager printed up two more, taped them to each of the front doors, and questioned all the employees about it.

The posters on the doors kept disappearing, and then finally we heard back from our mystery tipper, who called up to tell us that the dog thief's husband was the person ripping them off of the doors.

The general manager promptly printed up about 12 posters, and literally plastered the front doors with them. It was the funniest thing I'd ever seen.  When I pulled up that morning I laughed out loud, a good belly laugh. I thought, Yeah, try to rip all those down without someone noticing you, asshole.  The husband apparently got the message, because the posters remained unmolested afterward.

Of course, customers noticed.  It's hard not to notice the front door of the pet store plastered in the same poster.  For some reason, people kept thinking it was some sort of a joke.  Customers kept asking, "Is this for real?"  No, we get bored and make stuff up like that just to make you ask questions.  Yes it's for real.  Some people who didn't even know the dog thief were offended on her behalf.  "That's not right.  You shouldn't do that."  Well, she shouldn't be stealing dogs.  One offended customer said, "And what if the police see that?"  Um, the officer handling the case already saw them.  He laughed, and said, "Nice posters." So that's what, if the police see that.  Mostly people were just astounded that someone would willingly hand us a state issued ID and then run out with a dog.

Things went on that way for about a month when one day, in the middle of August, one of our regular customers finally got fed up with the state of things.  "Why don't the police just GO over there and GET the dog back?"  He asked.  Good question.  We don't have an answer for you.  "Tell me where she lives, I'll go get it," he said.  So they did.  And fifteen minutes later, he came back with the puppy.

True.  Story.

I couldn't believe it when I heard it either (I was on vacation at the time), but it is entirely true.  He went to her door and banged on it yelling, "GIVE ME MY DOG BACK!" until she did.  Who knew it was that simple?  Here we were trying to do things in cooperation with the police and getting no place fast, and this guy just goes over there and demands the dog and gets her.  Go figure.  According to him, she did put up a bit of resistance, first.  He said he could hear the dog barking in the apartment when he started banging on the door, and after awhile she claimed she didn't have the dog, to which he replied, "BULLSHIT, I HEAR IT IN THERE BARKING!"  She said, "That's not your dog, that's MY dog, that's my Boxer!"  He laughed and said, "LADY, I KNOW WHAT A BOXER SOUNDS LIKE AND THAT AIN'T IT, GIVE ME BACK MY DOG!"  Eventually she unlocked the deadbolt on the door, put the dog down on the floor in front of him, closed the door, and locked it again.  Knowing him, he probably told her he'd stand out there all day and night beating on her door until she gave the dog back, and knowing him he probably would have.  What was she going to do about it, call the police with the dog barking her head off in the background?  Hardly.

When I saw the puppy for the first time, I was absolutely shocked by the condition she was in.  Her fur was coarse, dull and rough, she had scabs all over her, and she was scrawny.  When she came back she was so covered in fleas, and her hair had been bitten off so short from chewing at them, that you could see the fleas just crawling on her.  Ugh.  Poor baby.  A dose of Capstar, a flea bath, ear mite treatment, a couple of wormings and back to a high quality diet.  All this, and the dog thief had been bragging to her acquaintances that she had stolen the dog to "save" her.  If that's your idea of saving dogs, please never do it again.  Leave them all well enough alone, very few dogs would benefit from that version of rescue.

I named her Felony in honor of her ordeal.  Her original price when she was stolen had been 997.00, which is actually three dollars short of a felony charge, lucky for the little dog thief, who was promptly arrested after the statement of the guy who got the dog back from her.  The police officer called us to tell us she had been arrested, and, he added, "She was not very nice to deal with."  I don't know what he was expecting.  I guess you get all kinds as a cop.

Felony stayed with me for about a month before she was fit to be seen again by customers, at which point she was purchased by a woman who had wanted to buy her before she was stolen.  Happy ending for everyone.

I hope this victory encourages them to aggressively pursue the next person who steals a dog, which they hadn't before.  All other cases ended with nobody getting arrested and never getting the dog back, so it took a LOT of encouragement and amateur sleuthing to keep them from a sense of absolute hopelessness about the situation.

It's back to stupid stuff being stolen for now.

Felony, high alert, checks out who's coming through the kennel door.

Felony liked to put all her treasures in bed with her.

Still a happy little soul, she may have been neglected, but
thankfully didn't seem to have been physically abused.

Felony's cage card.  This one was printed out as a price drop
the night she was stolen, and was never used.

Revolving Door Puppy

.. or, as my co-worker says, Rent-A-Dog.

We had a lot of foot traffic in the store today because of the elections.  There is a major polling place at the library next door.

Around 11:00ish this morning, a sweet looking blond girl appeared at the puppy window.  She's looking for a puppy.  She and her boyfriend want to get a puppy.  Her boyfriend has constraints, though.

"No Beagles, no Beagle mixes.  No Pugs, no Pug mixes.  No big dogs.  Nothing that's hyper.  Nothing that sheds.  Nothing with long hair, or a lot of hair."

For some reason (I'm a little bit autistic, I mis-read social cues all the time) I think she's saying this with a slight tongue-in-cheek tone, so I laughingly reply, "I guess he really doesn't want you to get a dog," thinking she'll be right there with me on the joke.  I mean, clearly, he doesn't, that's just ruled out almost everything I can think of off the top of my head.

She looked at me with this expression of bewilderment and said, in a hurt tone, "But he does.  He loves dogs."

Except the ones that like to move, shed, or have hair.  Or are otherwise dogs in any way shape or form.  So, really, he loves all theoretical dogs.  Virtual realty dogs.  Maybe he was thinking of Nintendogs when he said she could get a puppy.

Her brother, who is there with her, asks me about the Puggle, and she quickly interjects, "No, he won't like that, that's part Pug, right?  Yeah, Pugs do that snorting thing when they breathe, he doesn't like that.  And he said no Beagles.  They bark a lot."

I said, "Well, at least he knows what he can and can't deal with."  I like that in a person who is looking for dogs. No, I respect that in a person who is looking for a dog.  She shoots me another bewildered look, and says, this time slightly defensively, "He can deal with it.  He just.. doesn't like it."

Instead, she asks about the Chigle (we don't make this stuff up folks, they come in with those names).  A Chigle is part Chihuahua, part Beagle.  I fight the urge to point out that He said "No Beagles," and just focus on the fact that the Chigle is rather hyper.  "Really, they're all hyper," I tell her.  "They're puppies.  Puppies have a lot of energy."  She knows that.  She didn't have the Chigle in the puppy room for more than 2 minutes before she gave him back to me saying, "Yeah, we're looking for something with a little less energy."

She ends up playing with six different dogs in the puppy room.  The Pekingese would fit the low energy qualification, but they have the pushed in faces and shedding and a lot of hair that He doesn't like.  The Maltese fits the no shedding rule, but Maltese have very long hair that requires maintenance, and He doesn't want that.  One by one, every puppy in the kennel fails to bear up under His standards.  If the puppy doesn't shed, that's because it grows very long hair.  He said no long hair.  If it isn't a Pug or a Beagle mix, it's a terrier, and terriers are too hyper.  If it it doesn't have very long hair and it's not a Pug or a Beagle mix, it sheds.  He said no shedding.  She really wants the Chihuahua, but he is not for sale right now.  She laughs about how she only really wants it because she can't have it.  I thought she was joking.

I was on the verge of suggesting that perhaps she look into retired racing Greyhound adoption when another couple came up and asked to see the Chigle.  I glanced at her when I took the other girl's ID, and I saw the chagrined expression that crossed her face.

As soon as the other lady had the Chigle in the puppy room, she decided that she wanted that puppy.  Because now, of course, there's a chance that she can't have that puppy.  Maybe the other couple will decide to buy him.

She's not going to let that happen.  A minute and a half goes by and then she informs me, "I want to buy that dog." 

Now I'm starting to feel sorry for Him, whoever He is.  He clearly stated what he did not want, and here she is about to do the exact opposite.

We get all the paperwork filled out.  She cuts me off in the middle of the reconsideration policy, telling me, "That's not going to happen," meaning they won't be bringing him back because they changed their minds.

I hate it when people do that.  They are always, without fail, the ones who end up returning a dog.

As soon as they go out the door with the puppy, I turn to the general manager and say, "That dog is coming back.  If he's not back by close tonight, I'd be surprised."

Two hours later, the boss man informs me, "I think I see that dog you just sold coming back."  

"Yeah.  I knew that was going to happen."

He said no Beagles, no Beagle mixes.  He made it pretty clear, I thought, considering how clearly I got the message.

As the girl stands at the counter, eyes brimming with unshed tears, she clutches the puppy to her chest and whispers to him.  A man standing in line behind her wants to know why she's bringing the dog back, if she wants it so much.  "My boyfriend said I can't have it," she said.  "So?  Get rid of him and keep the dog," the woman with the man standing behind her says.  At this point, the tears that have been threatening actually spill over, and she whimpers, "But he pays the rent and all the bills.."

I'm not sure what they said to her after that, but she sobbed at them, "He SCREAMED at me!  He's never SCREAMED at me before!"

That shut them up.

Meanwhile, I was thinking, man.  Your boyfriend sounds like a huge dick.  It was a pretty dick move to show up with a Beagle mix when he made it clear he did want Beagles in any way, shape or form, but there are more adult ways to deal with the situation other than screaming.

Of course, the way she was, maybe he couldn't get it through to her any other way.