Re-Homing Dogs Might Be Best Left To Professionals..

.. or perhaps the best alternative is to just keep your dog.

The Daily Bark is about a dog named Topaz, whose family gave her up when they had to move and for some reason thought they couldn't take her.  News sources do not reveal why.  Maybe they couldn't afford to put her on a plane, maybe the apartment they looked at said no dogs.  Whatever the reason, they found a new home for her.  They did not surrender her to a breed-specific rescue or a shelter, probably with the mistaken idea that if they did that, the dog would die.

Turns out, she might have died anyway.

Flash forward four years after the original owners gave her up, and a lady named Diane Stess-Kirschner found the little Lhasa Apso dirty and distressed, wandering alone.  She picked the dog up and took her in for a vet check, only to have the vet discover the dog had a microchip.  The microchip information still linked her to her original family.

Stess-Kirschner used Facebook to search for the family after internet searches turned up nothing.  Seconds later, Topaz's original owner sent a message back asking about Topaz.  Stess-Kirschner had the dog cleaned up and groomed, and bought her a plane ticket to California, to her original owners, who decided that they wanted her back.

They learned a lesson everyone who even thinks about obtaining a dog should know:  You have no idea what actually happens to a dog once you decide to get rid of it.  Many shelter dogs are surrendered by home 3 or 4, and by that time, nobody knows who original owners were, or what reason home #2 had for giving her up, or even how many homes they've gone through.  You might think you've given the dog to a great home that will love her forever, but the truth is, now that you've "gotten rid" of the dog, the chances of it landing in a shelter have just skyrocketed.  Topaz was lucky.  Most of them end up put to sleep.

I had just this argument with a lady one day in the store, and I was not sorry for the distress I caused her.  She stood in front of the puppy window while her teenaged daughter threw a temper tantrum about wanting a puppy she had only laid eyes on 10 minutes before, and she told me, "I've already gotten her three dogs that I got rid of because she wouldn't take care of them."  Her daughter was doing things like stomping her Ugg booted feet and screeching things such as, "I don't CARE!  Mooo OOOM!  I WANT her!  I don't CARE!  You HAVE to get her for me!"

I was aghast.  I couldn't believe she'd thrown away three dogs.  What lesson was that teaching her daughter about the value of life?  These are the types of people who can't believe it when their kid ends up terminating an unwanted secret pregnancy by throwing the minutes-old infant in a dumpster.  And they wonder why.  Anyway I decided right then and there that she wans't getting one of my dogs, because we all know what the outcome would have been.  Insipid Teenaged Daughter would have ceased to care about the puppy by week four, and when "You have to take care of your dog," was used as a reason for Insipid Teenaged Daughter to not go somewhere Stupid Parent didn't want her to go instead of "Because I'm your mother and I said so, damnit," the response would have been, "I don't want that dog."  And out the door the dog would have gone, supposedly to teach Insipid Teenaged Daughter a lesson about responsibility that would have been best taught when she was 5 using inanimate possessions in her room, not with a live being.

I was still mulling over how to get out of selling her dog when my loud mouth did the job for me.  I went to the register and told someone, I don't even remember who at this point, about what I'd just heard.  Something to the effect of, "This stupid woman has thrown away three dogs because her stupid daughter won't take care of them and she's about to try and do it again!"

Well, her son was standing nearby and heard me say it, and told Stupid Parent, who hunted me down to inform me that, "I cared about EVERY SINGLE ONE of my dogs!  I cared enough to find them good homes instead of taking them to a shelter!  I demand an apology!"

My response?  "No, you did not care, or you would not have given them up in the first place.  And there's no guarantee that any of those dogs aren't dead right now because you didn't care."

Well she certainly didn't like that and stormed out in a huff and probably called the owner to tell him what a horrible person I was for telling her the truth she didn't want to hear about herself and what she'd done.  But it's true.  Once you give a dog up, you have no idea what happens to it.  People lose touch, or never bother to touch base ever again.  Granted, finding a home for a dog yourself is a much better alternative to just dumping it in the street, but as Topaz's story shows, there's no saying that won't happen to the dog in a few years anyway.

Keep the dog.  There is very rarely a circumstance that really requires you to give up an animal, if you're just willing to put a little effort into it.  If you're truly concerned enough that the dog gets a good home that you won't let a rescue or a shelter find it for you, then you know in your heart you should keep the dog.

The Ones Who Get To Me Part 2: This Is Mojo

One day in the summer of '09 I walked into the kennel after a few days off and there was this orange cat in the top right kennel of the critical care cages.  (The "back" cages are critical care, but sometimes they are just used as temporary housing for cats before they go out for sale.)  He was older than most of the kittens we take, an orange tabby looking at me with an air of superiority.  Most tabby cats have a marking on their forehead that resembles the letter M.  This one's markings were a very clear letter M, no doubt about it.  No breaks in the lines, and his orange stripes were a vivid, vibrant orange that stood out against his lighter orange fur, making the M on his head pop out.  I said, "Hello, what does the M stand for, mystery cat?" just as he stood and turned around, showing me that he was undoubtedly a male.  VERY much a male.  I had just heard Muddy Waters playing Mojo Workin' out in the store, so I decided right then and there that M stood for Mojo.  He sure looked like his mojo was pretty close to workin'.

I opened the cage to see how friendly this mystery cat was.  Most cats in a new place would not come out.  Or, if they did, they would slink around the perimeter of the room and check things out to be sure nothing untoward was going to happen.  Is that what this cat did?  No.  Of course not.  Because this is Mojo.

Mojo jumped out of the top kennel and flopped over on his side in the middle of the kennel floor like he had lived there his entire life.  Completely comfortable, completely at his ease.  The cacophony of dogs barking bothered him not in the least.  His entire attitude seemed to say, "I Am King.  Let No One Forget."  I couldn't figure out why we had a cat so much older than what we normally take, and who in their right minds dropped this gem off?  He exuded personality.

Supervising the kennel is a tiring job.  7-17-09

Since he wasn't skittish, I let him stay out.  He didn't seem like the type to try and bolt out of the kennel door and run amok in the store.  He got up on the table and ate the dog food I was mixing up for the puppies.  Om nom nom dog food.  Then he set about finding good hidey holes all over the kennel, the better to ambush unsuspecting ankles as they walked past.  His favorite spot for a good cat nap was under the step-stool I use to clean the top cages.  If he wanted a good, hard sleep, he went there.  If he just wanted a vantage point from which to oversee all, he got up on the top shelf where I keep my towels.  I kept his kennel open at all times, so he could jump up there and get a drink or use his litter box if he wanted.

I found out from the Kitten Manager at the time (the same chick who had to deal with Dead Bird Lady) that this cat was brought in by Dr. W.  Her neighbors had found him wandering, trying to drink out of a puddle in one of their kids' sandboxes, and instead of giving him any water, they took him to Dr. W's house.  She already has six cats, and the clinic where she actually works has 4 full time clinic cats.  She had no room for any more cats anywhere in her life, so she checked his Feline AIDS/Leukemia status (negative), gave him his vaccinations, and brought him to our store.  She estimated his age to be about 18 weeks when she brought him in, and that turned out to be very accurate, because about a week after dropping him off, he started losing his kitten teeth.

Mojo:  King of All He Sees.

Mojo amused me in the kennel for the better part of a month, roaming around and keeping me company while I worked.  I had a sign written on a neon pink piece of paper that I stuck to the swinging kennel door:  "MOJO IS LOOSE," warning all other employees to watch out for orange cats underfoot.  I came home every night full of amusing stories about what Mojo had done.  Mojo had an obsession with ripping up paper, biting and tearing pieces out of it, so my kennel notes to the evening shift always had corners chewed off and holes in them, along with comments written by me that said things like, "<----- Mojo ate your homework."

I had no intention of bringing a cat home.  My SO and I had discussed a kitten, but in our discussions the kitten was always much younger than 18 weeks, and not an orange tabby.  We were looking for a Bunji Kugashira to go along with our Kitsune.  On July 30, 2009, I got a text message from the kitten manager that they were putting Mojo out for sale.  I made a sound of dismay, and my SO asked, "What is it?"  I said, "They're putting Mojo out for sale."  He looked at me.  I looked at him.  Then he said, "Well.  Let's go bring him home, then."  So that's what we did.

On the drive home, Mojo made not a peep.  Not one sound.  I called his name and was rewarded with the flash of a golden eye peering out of an air hole at me, but that was it.  There was no scrabbling inside the box.  There was no typical plaintive cat howls or mewling.  We walked in the apartment, I opened the top of the box, and Mojo popped out of it and stood surveying the apartment calmly, his swishing tail the only sign of any agitation.  Mojo has every situation well in paw.  He saw Simon, our fat black 8 year old cat, was not well received by Simon, and decided the best course of action was to leave Simon alone.  Wise cat.  Then he followed me into the bedroom, where he saw, and was seen by, The Shiba.  Kitsune began furiously barking at the orange house invader.  A cat!  A strange cat!  A cat, a cat!  Guys, there's a cat!  He would not stop.  Mojo was annoyed.  He didn't hiss or growl, he just glared at Kitsune and left the room.  I had no doubt that Mojo could handle himself, so I made sure my SO was aware of what was going to happen and then I released the hound.  

Kitsune dashed out into the living room after the strange cat.  Now, until this point, Kitsune's sole experience with cats had been with Simon, who is very large, very lazy, and very laid back.  Too laid back and lazy to do much to a dog with an iron will except make a lot of noise until one of us made the dog stop looking at him.  Or being near him.  The most Simon had done was taken a few half-hearted swipes at Kitsune, which Kitsune easily dodged.  He thought cats were all big pushovers, no match for bad ass little Shibas.  

In ten seconds flat, Mojo taught Kitsune that there are some cats you just do not trifle with.  Mojo assessed the situation and correctly surmised that the best way to deal with The Shiba was to convince The Shiba that he was serious about killing him.  One second Kitsune was running at Mojo, and the next Kitsune was running from Mojo.. and Mojo was chasing him.  Mojo chased Kitsune all over the house, and then stopped under the coffee table.  By stopping in mid-flight after the dog under the coffee table, he had a defensible position and had ended the interaction on his own terms without appearing to retreat.  Wise, wise cat.  This is Mojo, master strategist.  

Mojo completes a library.

Mojo has lived with us for a year.  He is neutered now, but still won't hesitate to give the dog a dressing down if need be.  Now when I catch Mojo chasing Kitsune around the house, I suspect they're both enjoying the game.  Mojo still finds the best hidey holes ever.  

This is Mojo:  He is gentle with my son, rough with the dog, and puts a little life back into Simon, who sorely needed something to make him move.  He knows what is called for in every circumstance, and responds absolutely appropriately, always.  Except when it comes to eating things.  And that is another blog post entirely.

This is Mojo:  Anatomy Tutor.

The Ones Who Get To Me Part 1: Hasso

The only two pictures I have of Hasso were taken on May 8th, 2009.  Our story begins sometime a few weeks before that, when Hasso and his brother first came to the store.  They were purchased from another pet store in a neighboring state, I do not know where they came from or who their breeder was.  Two Australian Shepherd puppies, brothers, one a beautiful red merle, the other blue merle.  They both sold immediately after their vet check, upon being put up for sale.

Since the first two had been such a smashing success, the owner asked for two more.  This time he received another blue merle male, and a pure white female with blue eyes who was stone deaf.  Again, the blue merle male was purchased immediately, the white female was purchased by one of the store employees, and in between all this going on, the red merle male was returned.  So much time has passed I don't even recall the reason.

For some reason, after that initial purchaser, nobody wanted this red merle Australian Shepherd puppy.  He was there day after day.  I started training him.  I called him Hasso, which is a term anyone unfamiliar with martial arts probably would not understand.  Well, I couldn't just call him "Hey you," and "puppy" forever.  It's hard to train a dog without something solid to call him.

Hasso, of course, is an extremely smart little dog.  He picked up on things so quickly I ran out of practical things to teach him and started teaching him the silly frivolous stuff just to keep us occupied.

Hasso was my heart.  I looked forward to work, and working with him, every day.  I dreaded the day when I came in and he simply wasn't there anymore, but day after day went by and that didn't happen.  One day I was standing at the puppy window when a customer was looking over the dogs and she saw Hasso and said, "Ew!  That dog is UGLY!"  I wanted to say to her, "Your mom's ugly," but instead I just glared for a minute and then went and got him out to show her what an ugly dog can do.

Because everyone was impressed by Hasso.  Always.  I still to this day can't figure out why it took him so long to find a home.

Eventually, a regular Sunday customer who had been coming in faithfully every Sunday for about a year looking for "the right one" bought Hasso, and I was very happy with that arrangement.  I knew this wasn't a spontaneous decision for this guy.  Really, when I say every Sunday for a year, I mean just that.  Every Sunday without fail, this guy and his two daughters would come in, play with three or four dogs, ask questions about different breeds, and I wouldn't see them again for a week.  They fell in love with Hasso as much as I did, and they still come in the store, so I can keep tabs on him.  His name is now Hunter.  I'm guessing his "camo color" led to that name.  It sort of sounds like Hasso.

Hasso was my dog.  For a little while.  I really would have liked him to be my dog forever.  But I know where he is, and I know how he is, and I know he is well loved, and I couldn't ask for more.

Hasso.  My heart.

Bristol U Research Says: Dogs Are Either Optimists or Pessimists.

Breaking news today, dog folks.  Researchers at Bristol University think they have discovered that dogs can have either a cheerful or gloomy outlook on life in general.

They used conditioning with food bowls half-full and half-empty in different parts of a room, and then placed them at random spots in the room to see how the dogs react.  If the dogs ran to the bowls to check, they were labelled optimists.  If they approached more slowly, they were labelled pessimists, with the researchers' belief being that the dogs expected to find the bowl half-empty.

I'm not sure how this study was conducted, and although I do believe dogs have moods and personalities, I have to say I have my doubts about this one.

Maybe the dogs that didn't run just aren't the perpetually hungry, food-driven type of canine.  My mom's dog barely eats.  Ever.  Trying to tempt her to be cheerful about a bowlful of any kibble is going to meet with Epic Fail.  If you use cookies, that's another matter entirely.

Labradors are eternal optimists:  Somewhere, something is going to be vaguely edible.  They just know it.  Ooh, look!  A bar of soap!  That works.  (True story.)  They are extremely happy to be eating no matter what it is or the amount involved.  Notorious for it.  Use food in a study of Labradors and you will come away with the idea that the Labrador is ecstatic.

They'll have to get back to me with the results of a less corruptible study.  I'd like to see it proven, if only to be able to rub in it to all the non-believers.  (I told you so I told you so, nyah!)  I just don't think this way really did it.

As always, I'd love to hear what everyone else thinks.  Bombard me with your comments!