A Star Begins to Shine...

On the drive home, I kept looking down at Star’s body, curled up and comfortable on the new bed on the car seat, and I changed my mind about her coat.  I liked that her ears and muzzle were dark and I admired the way the sun hit the brighter stripes in her coat and made them shine.  She was cute, I decided.

But the name had to change.

When I pulled into the driveway and parked the car, Star lifted her head and looked at me with sleepy eyes.  As soon as I opened the car door, she tried to climb over me to get out and so I lifted her and put her on the grass.  She immediately relieved herself and started sniffing around the yard.  I let her explore for a little while, let her pull me this way and that, giggled when she stuck her head through the garden fence slots, circled the dogwood tree, and smelled every crevice on the front porch.  Then, I took her inside.

My mother had never really been an animal person.  She didn’t dislike them, but she didn’t like handling them or taking care of them.  My father was the animal lover.  He loved dogs, especially.  Watching my father with a dog was like watching a different person.  He’d squish their faces between his palms and give them smooches, which made my mother’s face screw up in disgust as she said, “Yuck!”

It would have been nice to grow up with a dog.

Not being into animals didn’t mean my mom denied my brother and me the experience of pet ownership, however.  We got a kitten when I was 5, who lived until I was 21 (Mitten; 1974 – 1990) and I got another cat when I was 18 (Tiffany; 1987 – 1997).  In between and afterwards I had a succession of smaller animals; Brownie and Goldie the hamsters; Hercules and Mel Gerbson the gerbils, Dreyfus the budgie, and hundreds of aquarium fish.

My father and I would talk about getting a dog every once in a while, as he grew progressively more ill over the years, but we could never agree on what kind of dog to get.  He wanted a smaller dog, and I wanted a medium-sized dog.  But I’m sure he would have liked any dog I might have brought home.  He for sure would have liked my new puppy.  But my father had passed away exactly two months to the day before I went out and adopted Star.

Star was all about being a wiggly-butt and waggly-tailed girl when she met my mom.  This did not immediately win mom over.  Star looked up at my mother and put all the power she had into her behind, almost knocking herself sideways.  Mom eyeballed her and smiled.  “Cute.  What is she?”

I shrugged.  “Um, some kind of terrier mix, they said.”

“Will she get bigger?”

“They said she’d only get to be about 40 pounds.”

“Really?”  I could tell she was concerned.

“It’s not that big.  She’ll be fine.”

At that moment a herd of nine-year old girls descended upon my new puppy with squeals and giggles.  Turns out my other niece was there with a group of neighborhood friends.  Star, still on the leash, still wagging her tail and wiggling all over, was soaking up the attention.  I was happy to see she wasn’t afraid of the children.  She was friendly, but I could tell she felt a little intimidated or was maybe just completely tuckered out from her day.  I made a suggestion to the girls that we all go out to the backyard so I could walk the puppy around and let her get to know her new home.

“What’s her name?” They asked.

“I don’t know yet,” I answered.

After walking her around the yard a couple of times (I didn’t want to let her off the leash since the girls were going in and out of the gate), I called my best friend.  Two months prior, Ceil had adopted a beagle/shepherd mix from the city shelter and named her Amber.  I was so busy researching and puppy-shopping that I hadn’t even gone over to meet her yet.  We were both so excited to get the puppies together that we decided I should come over right away.

I got Star back into the car.  Again, she curled up on the bed and fell asleep.  And again, I stroked her silky ear while she slept through the entire 20 minute drive over to Ceil’s house.  Halfway there, I realized that I’d forgotten to bring the food I’d just bought for the puppy to eat.  Also, the bowl I bought for that purpose.  That was my first lesson in puppy-ownership:  Bring their stuff.  But I knew Ceil would hook us up, so I just kept driving.

I saw Ceil standing on her driveway, Amber behind the fence in the backyard behind her.  As soon as my tires hit the gravel, Amber started barking.  As soon as Amber started barking, Star popped up from her position in the bed and started barking back at her.  Ceil and I laughed as our puppies, obviously excited, fell all over themselves to say hello to all of us at once.

We brought Star into the yard and she and Amber sniffed each other, play bowed, and then took off in a game of chase.  We let them run around like maniacs for the next couple of hours, laughing frequently.  When it started getting dark we all trooped into the house and Ceil fed everyone, including the dogs.

I asked Ceil how she came up with the name Amber and she told me it was because that’s what she thought of when she looked into the dog’s eyes.  I looked down at my puppy, who had curled up on the rug with Amber.  “I was thinking about calling her Brandy,” I said.  Brandy had been the name of Ceil’s first dog, coincidentally.  She told me she liked it but wasn’t sure it was the right “fit.”  She told me to take a few days to think it over because the puppy wouldn’t know the difference anyway.

I thanked Ceil for everything, collected my sleepy puppy, and loaded her into the car for the last time that night.  She turned in circles a couple of times before settling into the bed.  And instead of putting her head down, she watched me put the keys in the ignition.  I put the car in gear and she looked into my eyes.  She winked.  I winked back.  She put her head down, closed her eyes, and slept all the way home.

Once inside and reacquainted with the space inside the house, I discovered that my new puppy followed my every step.  When I went to the bathroom, she cried at the door until I came out.  I went out the front door to go get the mail and she cried until I came back.  It was the crying that got mom’s sympathy.  I heard her telling the puppy she would be ok and that I’d be back in a minute.

Star and I spent the evening playing with her new toys and cozying up together on the couch.  I took her out back with me every once in a while and she did her business.  I was happy about that, but worried how she’d do through the night.

Eventually, I took her into my bedroom and let her explore.  Hercules the hamster captured her interest for a while, and she quietly watched him scurry around his little home.  When he went into hiding in his little dump truck-shaped house, Star finally tore herself away from his cage and jumped up on the bed.  She watched as I changed into my pajamas and when I brushed my hair, she barked at me.  I laughed.  After I put my hair into a ponytail and sat on the bed with her, she jumped up on my back and successfully pulled the scrunchie out of my hair.  I laughed again.

When she started chewing on the stolen goods, I dug into the bag of supplies I’d bought and pulled out a nylabone.  She was very interested in what I was unwrapping, and when I gave it to her she abandoned my scrunchie and settled down with the bone.

I read a book while she happily gnawed on the bone.  I tested her every once in a while by taking the nylabone from her.  She let me take it each time and waited patiently until I gave it back to her.  After a while I turned the light off and we both settled into the bed.  Worried that she wouldn’t be able to wake me if she needed to go out, I tossed and turned for a little while.  This is when I learned the second lesson of puppy-ownership:  No nylabones in bed.  Eventually, I fell asleep in the warmth of Star’s body, listening to her gentle breathing.

In the morning, before I even opened my eyes, I wondered where the puppy was.  Worried that she needed to go to the bathroom and was off making a mess somewhere, I lifted my head, frantic to know where she was.  I saw her immediately.  The window next to the bed let in the morning light and illuminated the stripes on her coat as she lay curled up on the pillow next to me.  We looked at each other.   

“Good morning,” I said.  

 She leaned forward slowly and licked the tip of my nose, just once.  My heart swelled and I patted her head.

I’d gotten my puppy.

Then we both got up to face the day and learn more about each other…

The Journey Begins...

When I decided to get a dog, I did some research.  I always knew I was going to be adopting from a shelter or rescue, so I used a few preferences for guidelines:

Female:  I still don’t understand this preference, but if I were looking for a cat I’d want a male.  *shrug*

Short Coat:  I don’t go to the salon for myself and don’t want to be bothered having to keep up with a lot of bathing and brushing hair on my dog.

Young:  I was living at my mother’s house at the time and my then-one year old niece was over every day.  We had to be sure the dog was young enough to be good with a toddler.  My mother’s only stipulation was: no pit bulls.

As I researched and visited shelters and adoption fairs, I realized that the vast majority of available dogs were of the “pit bull” variety.  And I liked the way “pit bull” dogs look.  I love a mooshy face, blocky head, and muscular line on a dog.  Boxers, Bulldogs of every variety, Boston Terriers, Pugs…all have a place in my heart.  Back then the place in my heart they had was built on liking the way they look.  Now it’s built on that and having to advocate for them because of the way they look.

More on that later.  For now, I’m still looking for the “perfect- not-a-pit-bull” puppy…

So, because I liked the way pit bulls looked, I dipped a toe in the waters of pit bull research.  Ten years ago, pit bulls were feared, banned in many places, and the media sensationalized them negatively in story after story.  That was ten years ago.  Today, pit bulls are feared, banned in many place, and the media sensationalizes them negatively in story after story.   

But believe it or not, some things have changed.  The educational outreach that began all over the internet fifteen years ago grew as the internet grew.  The sources I had bookmarked ten years ago are mostly still there, only now they have been joined by many other educational resources throughout the world.  There are more positive pit bull stories in the media (though the number of sensationalized stories seems to remain the same), the decision to outlaw dog fighting nationally, and the very public coverage of the raid on Mike Vick’s dog kennels all had a positive impact for pit bull advocates.

But if I hadn’t, ten years ago, learned that pit bulls are no different than any other dog, I would never have adopted one.

I had always been skeptical of the whole “locking jaw” myth.  A locking jaw didn’t seem to be something that would develop naturally on one breed of dog and not other breeds of dogs.  And forgive the pessimism, but I also had no faith that human beings, brilliant or not, were capable of genetically designing and perfecting such a trait on a specific breed of dog without significant and noticeable facial reconstruction.

I started with the AVMA and found enough facts there to determine that the “locking jaw” was, indeed, a myth.  What people call a “locking jaw” on a dog indicates merely that the tenacity of the dog, left to its own development, would preclude letting go of a prey item.  It’s a breed trait.  So I knew that while a puppy would instinctively do this, I also knew it was a trainable behavior.  I could teach the dog, pit bull or not, to “drop it,” and help it curb its natural instinct to “lock.”

Specific web searches for “pit bulls” brought up a ton of web sites on both sides of the debate that had been raging since the late 1980s.  I waded through persuasive educational articles from many fledgling breed advocacy groups (BAD RAP, Understandabull.com, National Canine Research Council, and others) that left me wondering why so many people were so averse to this breed of dog without seeming to have any facts in their grasps.  And then I remembered that I’m pessimistic about the human being’s ability to be reasonably intelligent.

Pessimism aside, it’s painfully obvious that when a person argues a point, it’s that person’s goal to “win” the argument by swaying the other person’s belief system.  When a person discusses a point armed with tangible facts and an opened mind, it’s that person’s goal to teach and learn.

I’m a chronic student, and spent ten years teaching.

So I laid out a few arguments for my mother in favor of pit bulls.  I was subtle; throwing out little tid-bits I’d gotten from the internet like the myth of the “locking jaw,” and the fact that Petey from “The Little Rascals” was a pit bull.  She was worried.  I was steadfast.  She was unconvinced.  I knew I would be able to conquer her worries and fears.  She knew I was thinking along those lines.

In late August of 2002 I had called a local shelter on a Friday afternoon (as had become routine) to see if any puppies were up for adoption.  I was told some boxer puppies would be out the next day.  I was excited!  I love boxers!

I got up early and took the scenic, hour-long drive to the shelter.  When I got there and asked about the boxer puppies, no one knew what I was talking about.  I was devastated.  I had driven all that way and now might miss an adoption event being held at a local pet store (which, ten years ago, were not held every weekend).  Also, the staff was rude beyond belief.  I jumped in my car and hauled ass to the pet store – an hour and a half away.  I convinced myself that everyone and their mother was out looking for a puppy that day and that by the time I got there all the puppies would be gone.  It had been more than a month since I’d finished enough research to know I was up for the challenge of dog-ownership and had been looking for that one special dog for more than a month.  I wanted my puppy!

With this mindset I stalked across the parking lot and stomped into the store, ready to get my puppy and go home.  Immediately in front of me stood a young man holding the leash of a huge white dog with black spots.  He (the dog) was a young, very sweet, very calm, and very cute mastiff mix; way too big for me and my mother’s house.  “Are there any other puppies?” I asked.  He directed me to a group of cages and a table the animal shelter had set up.

While I chatted with the women at the table, I watched two puppies romping around on the floor in the middle of a circle of people.   They were the same size but one puppy was tan with a black muzzle, very thin, and a boy.  The other puppy was a brown blur of movement as she chased toys from one person in the circle to the next.  When she finally stopped, I saw she had the strangest coloring I’d ever seen on a dog.  She looked like a tiger (I learned later that the technical term for her coat is “brindle.”)  Plus, it was obvious I would never be able to keep up with such an energetic pup, stalwart non-athlete that I am.  Disappointment settled like dust in my brain as I asked “Are these the only puppies you have?”

At that point I learned that the tan puppy had already been adopted at the shelter and was waiting for his new family to come and pick him up.  This left the puppy with the tiger stripes.

She was about four months old, weighed about 20 pounds, was predicted to weigh about 40 pounds total, and had been picked up by animal control three days prior to the adoption event after someone reported her being thrown out of a car.  The shelter staff had named her Star.  She had a short coat that would not require a lot of brushing.  She was not spayed.  She was determined to be a pointer/pit bull mix.

She looked nothing like any of the pit bulls I’d come across in my research or seen in other shelters, and I knew my mother would not be able to tell, either.

I hesitated.  I really didn’t like her coat.

The woman from the shelter encouraged me to walk her around the store and spend some time with her.  Star looked worried as we went up and down the aisles, looking up at me with big, wet, brown eyes that I could tell wondered if I would hurt her.  Especially after she pooped.

With some treats in my pocket I took her to a quiet corner of the store and asked her to sit.  She looked at me.  I manipulated the treat to have her sit and praised her a few times.  We walked around some more.  I tried the sit command again and she got it immediately.  I was impressed.

I pulled out the mobile phone and made some calls, wavering between wanting her and not wanting her with everyone I knew.  My mother told me it was my decision.  That didn’t help.

I wandered around, coming back to the puppy time and time again for four hours.  I was told I had to make a final decision by 3:00.  At 10 minutes to 3 I bought a green collar with rhinestones and a matching leash.  Then I signed the paperwork, gave them my check, and watched as they packed up all their gear and left the store.

I broke out into a cold sweat and looked down at Star.

She looked up at me.

I said, “Let’s go get you some stuff.”

 
An hour later and more than $100 poorer, I walked out of the store with my new puppy.  I put the new bed I purchased on the passenger seat of my car and Star curled up on it and immediately went to sleep.  The whole drive home I stroked her silky ear as she slept.  I couldn't wait for everyone to meet her...