The good life
I'm not going to complain about my life. There's no reason to. Not now. Not ever, I hope.
I have it good. There's no reason for me to envy anyone or anything.
But my life isn't even the best one in my house, it seems. My dogs don't just live in my house. They live in my house. You would have to read my mortgage to know that they don't own it.
Unfortunately, they can't read.
So they take advantage of some rather comfy quarters. They live like kings. They pay nothing for it.
They live like royalty in exchange for nothing more than undying loyalty.
They have a roof over their heads, sheltering them from the harsh elements. They have comfortable places in which to rest their heads -- and you wouldn't believe how much they abuse this privilege. They're fed regularly. They get all the water they can drink. They get regular exercise. They have more toys -- or pieces of now-unrecognizable toys -- than I can count. They travel with me to the bank, to my mother's house, to Great Girlfriend Ever's house. Heck, they even get entertainment via Animal Planet.
They live quite the life.
It wasn't always this way for them.
Both are rescued dogs.
I discovered Champ in November 2000, less than two months following the premature passing of one of my other dogs due to complications from epilepsy. I had been searching for a dog similar to the one I had just lost. I was looking for a black lab/border collie mix. Something athletic. Friendly. Smart as a whip.
I had searched the local shelters for weeks, making periodic visits to interact with the four-legged being that might someday cohabitate with me. I had narrowed my list to two dogs when, on the Sunday I was set to make my decision, I came across another dog on the Internet who possessed the characteristics I sought. I decided to make one last dog-shopping visit. Literally, a last-minute visit.
I encountered a shy, insecure, thin dog named Robbie.
This dog's history was depressing. He had been in the no-kill shelter for more than six months -- estimated to been more than half of his life at that point -- after being discovered homeless. He lived in a small kennel for months, enjoying only periodic ventures outside and very limited human and canine interaction. He was treated well at the shelter, for sure, but clearly his time there had proven dispiriting. And there was no indication anyone would come along to liberate him anytime soon.
Despite this dog's seemingly reserved manner, I knew immediately we were a match.
I brought him home and introduced him to my way of life. Soon, he was renamed -- a dog of his speed, endurance and agility deserved a more apt name than Robbie -- Champ. He became, just as I suspected he would, more than a dog. He became a friend, a faithful companion, a running partner. We logged more than 600 miles together in 2001.
He has grown since then. Physically, he has filled out without yielding any of his athleticism. Socially, he's generally an excitable, outgoing gentleman. Intellectually, he's too smart for me.
Champ almost didn't become a member of my household. Besides the other similar dogs I considered adopting, there was another that I had the opportunity to take in around the same time.
My co-worker's wife worked as a community service officer for a local police department. One morning an officer discovered a discarded puppy at the door of a neighborhood store. The puppy, only a couple of weeks old, was destined for the Humane Society and whatever his future might hold there. But my co-worker and his family stepped up and opened their home to the puppy.
Problem was, their house was already filled with two small children, multiple cats and a mature dog that was none-too-welcoming of the newfound puppy. My co-worker suggested I take the puppy.
I love dogs, but it seemed like the puppy, which they named Buster, might be a good fit for my co-worker's family, if somehow their other dog ever gave the newcomer a chance. Besides, I was looking for a running dog, something along the lines of border collie/lab mix. And I knew all too well how much difficulty puppies could be.
About nine months later, well after Champ had become a fixture in my house, a situation dictated that my co-worker's family downsize their pet population. Buster had to go.
The sucker in me took over. With Buster again facing shelter life, I stepped forward this time and took him in. Only he wasn't supposed to be for me. Originally, the plan was for my mother to have Buster. After all, she shares my fondness for dogs and old age recently had claimed the life of her dog.
Buster wasn't a fit for my mother. Heck, he wasn't for me, either. He was rambunctious, inquisitive and destructive. Oh, was he destructive. To the tune of multiple pieces of furniture, books, shoes, you name it. I had expected as much from such a young dog.
I think we shared a mutual disdain for each other during those first several months together. I tired quickly of his destructive ways. He tired of ignoring my reprimands. Champ didn't exactly warm up to him either.
Slowly -- way, way too slowly -- Buster learned what was expected of a dog in my house. He learned how to socialize, how to remain alone for a moment with chewing something apart, how to run like a big dog.
Learning didn't come easily for him. Still doesn't. It's not that he's not intelligent. He's just obstinate.
He's fiercely loyal -- he doesn't allow me to leave his sight -- and overly friendly. He's also a runner, even if his respiratory system isn't ideally suited to such activity. He joined Champ to log more than 450 running miles with me in 2002.
The two have become inseparable over the years. Champ still displays aloof tendencies occasionally, but Buster, as he does with virtually everything else, ignores them and tags along wherever Champ goes. They're the best of friends. They're brothers.
They're like brothers to me, too. It's the only way I can think of them and still be comfortable with how little rent they pay while taking advantage of my generosity.
They live great lives. And I'm all too happy to provide them with their numerous luxuries. Even if sometimes it seems they lead better -- certainly more relaxing -- lifestyles than I do.
I have it good. There's no reason for me to envy anyone or anything.
But my life isn't even the best one in my house, it seems. My dogs don't just live in my house. They live in my house. You would have to read my mortgage to know that they don't own it.
Unfortunately, they can't read.
So they take advantage of some rather comfy quarters. They live like kings. They pay nothing for it.
They live like royalty in exchange for nothing more than undying loyalty.
They have a roof over their heads, sheltering them from the harsh elements. They have comfortable places in which to rest their heads -- and you wouldn't believe how much they abuse this privilege. They're fed regularly. They get all the water they can drink. They get regular exercise. They have more toys -- or pieces of now-unrecognizable toys -- than I can count. They travel with me to the bank, to my mother's house, to Great Girlfriend Ever's house. Heck, they even get entertainment via Animal Planet.
They live quite the life.
It wasn't always this way for them.
Both are rescued dogs.
I discovered Champ in November 2000, less than two months following the premature passing of one of my other dogs due to complications from epilepsy. I had been searching for a dog similar to the one I had just lost. I was looking for a black lab/border collie mix. Something athletic. Friendly. Smart as a whip.
I had searched the local shelters for weeks, making periodic visits to interact with the four-legged being that might someday cohabitate with me. I had narrowed my list to two dogs when, on the Sunday I was set to make my decision, I came across another dog on the Internet who possessed the characteristics I sought. I decided to make one last dog-shopping visit. Literally, a last-minute visit.
I encountered a shy, insecure, thin dog named Robbie.
This dog's history was depressing. He had been in the no-kill shelter for more than six months -- estimated to been more than half of his life at that point -- after being discovered homeless. He lived in a small kennel for months, enjoying only periodic ventures outside and very limited human and canine interaction. He was treated well at the shelter, for sure, but clearly his time there had proven dispiriting. And there was no indication anyone would come along to liberate him anytime soon.
Despite this dog's seemingly reserved manner, I knew immediately we were a match.
I brought him home and introduced him to my way of life. Soon, he was renamed -- a dog of his speed, endurance and agility deserved a more apt name than Robbie -- Champ. He became, just as I suspected he would, more than a dog. He became a friend, a faithful companion, a running partner. We logged more than 600 miles together in 2001.
He has grown since then. Physically, he has filled out without yielding any of his athleticism. Socially, he's generally an excitable, outgoing gentleman. Intellectually, he's too smart for me.
Champ almost didn't become a member of my household. Besides the other similar dogs I considered adopting, there was another that I had the opportunity to take in around the same time.
My co-worker's wife worked as a community service officer for a local police department. One morning an officer discovered a discarded puppy at the door of a neighborhood store. The puppy, only a couple of weeks old, was destined for the Humane Society and whatever his future might hold there. But my co-worker and his family stepped up and opened their home to the puppy.
Problem was, their house was already filled with two small children, multiple cats and a mature dog that was none-too-welcoming of the newfound puppy. My co-worker suggested I take the puppy.
I love dogs, but it seemed like the puppy, which they named Buster, might be a good fit for my co-worker's family, if somehow their other dog ever gave the newcomer a chance. Besides, I was looking for a running dog, something along the lines of border collie/lab mix. And I knew all too well how much difficulty puppies could be.
About nine months later, well after Champ had become a fixture in my house, a situation dictated that my co-worker's family downsize their pet population. Buster had to go.
The sucker in me took over. With Buster again facing shelter life, I stepped forward this time and took him in. Only he wasn't supposed to be for me. Originally, the plan was for my mother to have Buster. After all, she shares my fondness for dogs and old age recently had claimed the life of her dog.
Buster wasn't a fit for my mother. Heck, he wasn't for me, either. He was rambunctious, inquisitive and destructive. Oh, was he destructive. To the tune of multiple pieces of furniture, books, shoes, you name it. I had expected as much from such a young dog.
I think we shared a mutual disdain for each other during those first several months together. I tired quickly of his destructive ways. He tired of ignoring my reprimands. Champ didn't exactly warm up to him either.
Slowly -- way, way too slowly -- Buster learned what was expected of a dog in my house. He learned how to socialize, how to remain alone for a moment with chewing something apart, how to run like a big dog.
Learning didn't come easily for him. Still doesn't. It's not that he's not intelligent. He's just obstinate.
He's fiercely loyal -- he doesn't allow me to leave his sight -- and overly friendly. He's also a runner, even if his respiratory system isn't ideally suited to such activity. He joined Champ to log more than 450 running miles with me in 2002.
The two have become inseparable over the years. Champ still displays aloof tendencies occasionally, but Buster, as he does with virtually everything else, ignores them and tags along wherever Champ goes. They're the best of friends. They're brothers.
They're like brothers to me, too. It's the only way I can think of them and still be comfortable with how little rent they pay while taking advantage of my generosity.
They live great lives. And I'm all too happy to provide them with their numerous luxuries. Even if sometimes it seems they lead better -- certainly more relaxing -- lifestyles than I do.
posted by RTG at 1:02 PM
1 Comments:
What great stories... You so honestly and eloquently captured what it's like to open you home to a rescue dog. I had dogs all my life until about 4 years ago now. I enjoy the lack of responsibility I have now... but I miss the unconditional love/friendship that can only come from our furry friends. :)
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