With a new name and a new haircut, the nugget was officially in the witness protection plan and ready to start over. In celebration, the three of us headed out to lunch at a local dog-friendly restaurant. I don’t know what a typical date costs, but for a single woman to go to for lunch with two dogs, it was $60 including tip. And none of us got dessert.

The boys did well, but I discovered two things:
a. Gordie is a resource-guarder. He got pissy with Tucker for taking a sniff at his food. And
b. Gordie barks at other dogs.

The secondary intel from those two items was that:
a. Tucker is polite to resource guarders and backs down, and
b. if his friend calls out an alarm, he is will willing to back them up.

While I appreciate Tucker’s commitment to his friends, there are unfortunate consequences for that. Gordie weighed in at a little under 10 pounds; Tucker 60. So Gordie’s yelling didn’t mean much to anyone, but when Tucker lets loose his baritone bark, everyone ducks and covers.

We encountered the same issues while out walking. If Gordie had something to say to or about another dog, Tucker had to repeat it more loudly and more clearly.
​
Walks were stressful for me: doing my best to avoid any reactions and also dealing with the vast discrepancy in gravitational pull. A normal “Hey” tug on the leash to get Tucker’s attention that would is the physical equivalent of a whisper was a violent yank for Gordie, knocking him off his feet.

But the one thing I can say for walks at least, is that no humping occurred. That was the major point of contention in their relationship. Like an 12 year old boy sticking his nut sack in the face of his sleeping friend, Gordie was a being a downright adolescent asshole.

After a few days of watching Tucker being a saint, I had had enough. Tucker is a pacifist. He avoids conflict at all costs (unless it involves a small dog being bullied by a big dog—then he feels the need to butt in). But Tucker’s avoidance was being taken advantage of and Gordie was beginning to bully. If  I stepped in to reprimand, Tucker got mad at me. I was frustrated and seriously considering taking the shelter up on their offer to take Gordie in.

My rescue friends tried to console me, saying that's exactly what shelters are for: to keep lost dogs safe and rehome them. I tried to spin it in a way that I was doing what was best for Gordie: getting him out where he could be seen. But I felt guilt and shame for giving up. But I also felt terrible for what Tucker was going through.

So I went in to the shelter for another information-gathering session to determine if it was the right thing to do for Gordie and Tucker, this time without Gordie in tow. And this tie I received an entirely different…. What’s the word that is the opposite of “welcome”?

The officer gave me the third degree, never making eye contact but insinuating that I had prevented his owners from finding him. I asked why then, had I given them my information? I thought he was in the “found dogs” binder or whatever was used now. She said most people don’t say they’re looking for a lost dog and just go in the back, but if they do approach the front desk to say they are looking, the people at the front desk merely point them to the back rather than present them with the most current finds and take the information about the lost dog.

What.the.actual.fuck.

When I said I was considering bringing him in due to the humping thing, she said flat out, “We can’t guarantee that he won’t be euthanized.”

Well, no shit. Why do you think I didn’t leave him here to begin with??
​
Earlier in the week, I had been a fine citizen for helping to get the dog to safety and for offering to shelter at home. Now I was a horrible human for not leaving him there then, but also I was a shitty excuse for a human being for leaving him where he could be killed.

I felt like I had when I brought the kittens I found on Skyline Blvd to the Peninsula Humane Society a decade earlier. I was made to feel like I had caused their imminent demise. And just like then, I left the shelter, got in my truck, and cried.

I know shelter staff are under stress. And I recognize that they deal with a lot of people lying to them about where an animal comes from. But how can they tell if I’m lying or not if, like this officer, they do not make eye contact with me? She had no idea that I was telling the truth about coming in a few days prior, or about the whole incident in which a neighborhood got the dog to safety, and that I was in no way stealing the dog, nor was I trying to abandon my own dog by claiming I “found” him.

It was the week that the tides had turned for the shelters. In just a few days, more urgent messages started being sent out: the kennels were full, the shelters were operating over capacity. The rescues they relied on were also full. The community was not adopting, and pets were being surrendered or found at a record high.

People who go into animal welfare do so because they love animals; they never want to be forced to decide who lives or dies—especially when it’s a matter of space, not medical reasons. They were facing insurmountable challenges in finding pets homes. Had I dropped Gordie off here, he may not make it to a new home. I knew they would do all they could and keep him as long as possible, but there was no guarantee.

I had said “I’ll do it”. Now I needed to take responsibility. And that meant Gordie wasn’t going to the shelter. I had to see this through.
​
But I couldn’t let Tucker suffer through the annoyances and indignities of this little guy’s instinctual behavior. I would have to struggle through the next week, but when the clock ran out, Gordie’s balls were coming off.

On Tuesday morning, I waited until 11am to head to the shelter. No reason to go super early. I’m sure they had more pressing matters after two days down.

I walked in with Blackie, who I has re-christened Gordie, under my arm and volunteers and staff greeted me with smiles. I told them he was a possibly lost dog, and they walked me through my options. They asked if I had scanned him, and I said yes, but they were welcome to do so again. They scanned him as I told them the sorted story from Sunday. They said for next time, I could have brought him in then even though they were closed. Someone is there fo intake if needed, but I felt like he needed to decompress.

I asked about the stray hold process, and about putting a hold on him once he’s available so he wouldn’t be put down for space or just being a little snippy. I had seen him at his most terrified, and while shelter folks are well-versed in that area and don’t hold it against a dog, I wanted the nugget to have the best shot of finding home without being labeled for his not-so-great, but perfectly natural, reactions.

They told me that I was welcome to shelter him at home, and they took down all his stats, info, and where he was “found”. If a person was looking for him, he’d show up in their database. They took my info as well, so possible owners could reach out to me, or the shelter would reach out to me if people came in thinking they may belong to them. And they ended it with, “But if you can’t handle it, or don’t want to do it, we can absolutely take him in.”

So, I had a backup. The animal shelter is there for the community, built by the community. It should be a place of last resort. I had given them the info, I had posted him on all the sites they instructed me to do so and then some. They said I couldn’t rehome him for at least two weeks, which I felt was a decent amount of time. They said if he was sheltered there,  and if he had had a chip,  they would wait 30 days for people to come forth. But without a chip, 10 days to two weeks was sufficient. Every town, city, and state have different rules, so I was glad to know that in two weeks’ time I could get the guy neutered and maybe Tucker would no longer be subjected to the unpleasant penis-in-the-face game.

I didn’t think any original owners would show up for him, but I still scoured the internet just in case. The shelter had said it is awfully hard to prove ownership without a microchip. All that’s left are photos and maybe the dog would express recognition if they saw their person… but that’s not fool-proof.

So, although I went with some intent of leaving him there to be found and/or rehomed, I couldn’t deny him the chance to be fostered at home. There was no reason. I had the summer. It would be fine.
​
Right?

Since I had been clutching the dustmop so close and hard as to not let him escape (although he really didn't seem like he wante to), I hadn’t really gotten a good look at him. So after getting Tucker back in his own crate, I took Blackie outside to see him in the daylight, and to let him pee. 
​
He’s almost dog-shaped. Still closer to mop-shaped though.

Further inspection of the little guy led me to find his rather enormous set of balls. Tucker hadn’t noticed, but I was concerned that when he did, he wouldn’t be happy about it. Tucker has never hurt any other dog, but he does get quite uppity about another dog having their nuts. I wasn’t going to risk doing an introduction sans crate until I had the same number of humans as dogs in the room.

Blackie’s ill-fitted collar made me nervous. Going through my extensive collection of collars and harnesses, I was bereft to find that I did not have a single one small enough to fit him. I knew he was a runner, so a properly-fitted, secure harness was paramount. I called a friend who works in animal welfare and asked if she had any super tiny harnesses and if she’d be willing to help me do an introduction. She obliged but couldn’t come over for a few hours. To avoid any accidental introductions and to not frustrate Tucker who wanted to get all up into the little dude’s business, I decided to take Blackie for a pet supply run and get him checked for a microchip.
​
He wasn’t interested in Tucker’s highfaluten dog treats or food—except to roll in them—so I needed to get the kid some food. Being vegetarian, I seldom have even people food that is canine-friendly. I have chicken or steaks in the fridge readily available to cook up.
​
I also needed some appropriate grooming tools. Having a short-coated dog, I didn’t have any combs, brushes, or clippers that could help untangle the mess that was his fur. 

Leaving Tuck at home, Blackie and I ventured out into the world. Looking at Blackie in the backseat (leash wrapped around the headrest as a terribly unsafe makeshift seatbelt), I was suddenly aware that I had neither dog nor dustmop, but rather, an Ewok.

Shelter dogs get neutered and chipped before going home, and since this little guy still had his balls, I figured the chances of him being chipped were slim to none. But I had to try. The nearest PetCo said their microchip scanner had gone MIA, but I found a veterinary urgent care nearby who thoroughly scanned him. As I suspected, he came up chipless.

Picking a variety of sampler packs of food at Pet Food Express, we headed home where my friend and her husband came bearing gifts of harnesses and patience. I was ever grateful, as although the Ewok couldn’t be more than a few pounds, carrying him was getting annoying. I needed him to move forth in the world of his own volition but secured to me by leash and harness.

The intro went better than expected. Tucker was excited to have human guests (what a day! A new dog to get to know AND old friends of the human persuasion coming to visit!).

They also informed that the shelter wasn’t just closed Sundays, but also on Mondays… so the Ewok would need a two-day layover, not just one. Fine. So be it.

Tucker didn’t seem to mind the little guy’s testicles, and the little guy seemed to respect Tucker. So I felt better allowing them to mingle together. But I kept the leash on the Ewok as a precaution. As one trainer said in regards to leashes: you don't need to catch the dog, just the end of the leash. 

With Tucker and the little guy on good terms, my friends left and I began my internet posts: next door, facebook lost and found, pawboost, petco love, everywhere I could think of. Giving the pregnant woman the benefit of the doubt, wherever this kid came from was not a good place and he probably shouldn't be returned there. However, I needed to do my due diligence in case he once had a person who had cared for him, and that person had listed him as missing. I had no idea what breed he was, so I also searched lost dogs posts for any photos that resembled him—or what he may have looked like in a prior life a month or so ago.

Coming up empty, I gave the kid a bath and tried to get the tangles out. The groomer around the corner was very kind and told me that while they have detangler, in cases like this, it’s often easier and less traumatic to just cut out the knots. I asked after Goldie and he said that they had to call the woman to pick up the dog. She was so matted and scared, she defended herself with her teeth, making it impossible to work with.

Blackie’s tangles were pretty severe. I had to cut off large chunks of what felt like uncared for dreadlocks.

But, according to the groomer and rescuers, this was no as bad as others. The tangles weren’t so close to the skin that he needed to be shaved.

Scissors would free him. But I was reluctant to do too much. I didn't want to hurt him.He seemed to trust me. Looking back at his mad dash to freedom, I was impressed that he was able to move so quickly. It had to have been painful; the crook of his legs were all matted with fur, so moving his legs through that range of motion would have tugged his skin.

How does a dog get to this point? He was super skinny, but you wouldn’t know that until you wet him down. He wasn’t keen on it, but seeing as I had witnessed his break-out dash, I was amazed at how much he let me do without trying to escape.

I did my best and then let him have full reign in the house. He didn’t pee on anything or poop. He seemed to know to go outside. So I wasn’t concerned about my stuff being peed on or pooped on. But I was a little concerned for my partner.
​
Tucker’s enthusiasm slowly drained…

Blackie, with balls, found it fun to hump Tucker’s head, and Tucker, being polite to his houseguest, didn’t correct him but just moved away, only to be humped again.

So while no one’s life was in danger, for the sake of Tucker’s sanity, I couldn’t let them be together for long period.

Blackie did not like any of the food samples I bought from the pet supply store. He did, however, like cheese and hotdogs, two things I had on hand from prior pill-dosing experiments for Tucker.

Not a very nutritious meal, but he got something in his tummy at least.

We didn’t pay the price until about 4am, when he cried from the crate to go outside and have explosive diarrhea.

I was grateful for him telling me that he needed to go out despite the hour. Still better than picking up liquid poop indoors.

I also commend the little guy for taking this entire situation in stride. I kept his harness on and whenever outside, also leashed even in my yard, for fear he’d dive under the deck and I’d never get him out. I had, after all, witnessed first hand his evasion skills. I wasn’t about to test them again.

With morning came breakfast, and not wanting to repeat the hotdog & cheese consequences again, I needed to find the guy proper food. I texted my next door neighbor who had a similar-sized terrier/poodle like mix, to see if he would be willing to gift us some food for the day.

I brought Blackie out to meet him, and while Blackie was hesitant at first, he was delighted with my neighbor’s offerings and decided to trust him. My neighbor, a single man perhaps 10-15 years my senior, looked at the little pup with pity.

“Can I give him a haircut? Please?”

He had been giving his own dog haircuts his entire life—over a decade now. His dog looked good to me, so I said sure.
​
Tucker and I stayed inside while Blackie sat with him on my deck and he delicately sliced off the matts from his tangled coat. Little by little, he became dog-shaped.

Fifteen minutes later, a pile of fur sat on my deck.

And this little boy emerged!

They say a haircut makes a man. This haircut definitely made this dog.

That smile is everything.

Throughout the day of hanging out, checking lost dog posts, and intervening any time the nugget wanted to shove his penis and ball sack is Tucker’s face, I contemplated the shelter situation.

I needed to register him, no doubt. It had been close to 15 years since I had needed to get the shelter involved with a found dog. I had found a white poodle mix while driving home on a Sunday night. I had to work in the morning, and my apartment didn’t allow dogs. I had called up animal control, and an officer met me there to take her in. I cried all night. I felt horrible that she was stuck in a shelter, alone and scared. The next morning, I felt no better. At the end of the day, I called and was surprised but pleased to hear that she had been picked up by her owner.

The shelter had done the job it was put there to do: keep a lost dog safe while their owner looks for them. That tale had ended well.

The dog I had found in Albuquerque, New Mexico and was unable to keep in my hotel room, I went through the same steps, except that dog was dead 36 hours later, killed because he was “unpredictable”… the Rottweiller who had sat on my tailgate giving me kisses, but who lashed out at the animal control officer who I had to hand him over to. I vowed to never take a dog to a shelter again.

This dog may have a person. And if not, the little nugget should get a home quickly.

But life in a shelter, no matter how nice and how no-kill, is stressful. And the shelters were beginning to get to capacity—even Burbank.

If we could stop him from humping Tucker’s head, there was no reason he couldn’t wait out his “stray hold” here with us.

The WGA had just gone on strike, and while normally feature films are free to keep shooting since scripts are done, WGA had started picketing films too. And Teamsters will not cross a picket line. With the possibility of SAG striking a month later, no films were gearing up. I was predicting I’d be unemployed until the end of the summer. So why not give a canine kid a peaceful place to recoup, maybe find his old person, or more likely, find his new person?

But I still had to go to the shelter. Maybe it was the better place for him to be found.

In the meantime, I’d give him another evening of snoozing on the ottoman and couch, playing with toys, and feeling safe.

“Just give him to me,” I said instinctually, without thinking it through.

It was a version of the all too familiar phrase “I’ll do it” spoken by those realizing everyone else in the room is avoiding responsibility.

I was standing in the back of a dog groomer’s business with a man who held a mess of black fur proven to be a canine and a pregnant woman with her hands up in the air, backing away as if the dog had a contagious disease. 

The man turned to the pregnant woman first to confirm her gesture of relinquishment, and then turned to me and asked with a tone that offered an out if I so needed it: “Are you sure?” This wasn’t his responsibility either, but he didn’t want to shirk it either.

“Yes. I’ll take him to the shelter tomorrow,” I responded definitively.

The man handed over what looked like the business end of a dirty dustmop. The pregnant woman walked away without even a thank-you.

The last half an hour had entailed a dozen people chasing the scruffy dog (aka the dustmop) across five lanes of traffic, trapping him beneath a car, and then extracting him from his hiding space while getting bitten. I wasn’t the brave one who sacrificed her hand to grab the dog hiding in the wheelwell of the car,  but I was left holding the bag (or in this case, the dog). I had no one to blame but myself.
​
This is what happens when you answer your front door. 
​

I was out back on the deck writing (Read: surfing the internet, procrastinating) when my poor excuse of a doorbell rang (more accurately, ‘dinged’). I went to the window expecting it to be either my neighbor or a salesperson. It was neither. I didn’t recognize the woman, but I did recognize her expression. I had been her on more than one occasion before, so I opened the door.

“Do you recognize that dog?” she asked, pointing to the scraggly black dog pissing on the lamppost in front of my neighbor’s house.

I hung me head with a sigh. “No, but let me grab some treats and I’ll help you.”

I closed the door, went to the kitchen to grab some liver treats, and by the time I got back outside, the dog was almost to the intersection with the woman running far behind. I’m not an athlete. Me running would not be helpful. So I got into my truck and headed south.

I pulled a u-y about two thirds of the way down the block as the ragamuffin darted into the northbound lanes. I called out to him, “Hey!” as I was making the turn, and surprisingly, he looked at me in response. “Get out of the road before you get yourself killed!” I expounded in a stern, New Yorker mother kind of way. My street has two northbound lanes, two southbound lanes, a middle turning lane, and enough room to parellel park on both sides. It was a very wide river of pavement. The dog considered my suggestion and assessment for a moment, and as I righted my vessel northbound, he scuttled back to the southbound lanes and onto the sidewalk.

A woman parked in front of me and was faster getting out of the car than I was, so I tossed her a bag of treats out my window as she headed toward the dog and the now the growing crowd of humans.

After a stream of cars passed by, I crossed the five lanes where I found the dog was panicked and plotting his next move from behind a decorative fence. A dozen people had amassed and surrounded the half-fenced yard, waiting for the dog’s next move. He could easily make it out the walkway that had no gate or the wide open driveway, but no one could tell which way he would try.

He made a quick break for it through the driveway, and a fast-thinking driver in the southbound lane who had spotted the activity from up the road, not only stopped but crossed over the white lane diagonally to block all southbound traffic.

The dog darted back toward the crowd and under the nearest car. Next to me, I heard, “That’s my car.” It was the woman who had rung my doorbell, looking forlornly at the vehicle.

Of course it was.

All that running around, and the dog ended up right where she started.

With people naturally taking up positions around the vehicle in some sort of unspoken strategy, a pregnant woman with a leash and collar made her way to the crowd, but was standing back a little ways.

“He’s mine,” she said rather quietly.

“What’s his name?” I asked from the rear of the car where I was holding sentinel.

I had to ask a second time and then someone else closer to her repeated the question to which she replied, “Blackie.”

A young man at the front of the vehicle took the leash and collar from her and from down below, I could hear the man calling the dog’s name. The dog, terrified out of his wits, backed up to the wheel and snarled in every direction.

The dog was smart—no one could simultaneously see him and reach him. Someone asked if they had any object to try to push him out from his spot. An umbrella proved useless. Then like a back alley abortion, someone attempted to use a coat hanger, which also proved fruitless.

Drivers were starting to lose patience with the civilian-blocked lane, and we couldn’t let the dog continue at this high of a stress level. Finally, the wife of the man who had blocked the lane who was lying on the sidewalk closest to the dog and the wheel, announced, “I’m close to his back end. I’m just going to grab him.”

All of us were grateful for her courage. Despite snapping teeth, she stuck her hand behind the wheel, and we heard the dog shriek as, in one fluid motion, she grabbed his backend and dragged him out from under the car and up onto the curb. The man with the leash and collar slipped the collar on and took him from her. It couldn’t have been more than three seconds.

For reasons I cannot explain, rather than disperse with the rest of the crowd, I went toward the man with the dog.

He tried to hand the dog back to the pregnant woman, and she retreated a few steps. “Oh, I don’t want him.”

I’m not sure if either of us even uttered, “What?” or if it was just our expressions that asked.

He and I herded the woman away from the street and the dispersing crowd of individuals who had just invested their time and safety into the rescue of this dog.

“I was just going to get him groomed and then take him to the shelter.”

Again, “What?” may or may not have come out verbally from either of us.

Prior to her arrival when discussions of getting animal control to come help were tossed around, we learned that the shelter was closed for the day.

The woman continued, “Clearly he doesn’t want to be with me. He jumped out of the car and ran for it. My friend dropped them off last night and then ghosted me. I don’t want him.”

The guy, still holding the dog who was trying to calm himself, and I started walking toward the groomers at the other end of the parking lot.

We walked inside and the young man asked the two groomers, “Do you know this dog?”
One said, “Yeah. That’s Blackie. His sister Goldie is right here.”

A beige version of the unkempt dustmop was behind a small gate on the opposite side of the room.

Blackie and Goldie… Those are definitely not their names… First off, the dog I was looking at wasn’t even black. He was grey, brown, and black… a brindle coat.

We learned that the woman had booked the appointment for the two dogs that morning.
The pregnant woman arrived at the back door and she confirmed that she wanted nothing to do with “Blackie”. The dog definitely needed a groom, but why groom him just to drop him at the shelter? This dog was heavily matted and his coat was overgrown in every direction. A dog in his condition was going cost over $100.

Looking at the pup in the man’s arms, I knew he was not going to tolerate being groomed. He was probably in pain, and his cortisol and adrenaline were running way too high. That’s when my mouth translated those thoughts into the words that fell out of my mouth:  “Just give him to me.”

After the woman left, I walked out to the parking lot where the man’s significant other was sitting in the driver’s seat of a car. I asked why he got so involved. “My dog got out and was killed by car. I always stop to help.”

I thanked him again, and with “Blackie” in my arms, walked back to the main road. I noticed that the collar was brand new (the plastic bit was still on it), and altogether too large. Of course he slipped the collar.

Strangely, I was not worried. I just did what I had to do. I’d take him home for the night, and then the next day drop him at the shelter where hopefully his proper owner would be found or he’d get a new home. Burbank Animal Shelter is not officially “no kill”, but it’s pretty rare for them to get to that point. That was the plan anyway…

I showed Blackie the crosswalk, explaining this is how one properly crosses the street, got into my truck, and drove the half a block home.

Tucker is pretty good with all dogs, but I had no idea about this one. I left Blackie in the car while I wrangled Tucker, who was anxious to hear what adventure I had been on, into his crate.
​
In a twist of fate, I was working on a writing assignment testing dog beds, and my 42 inch crate was already set up in the living room with a K9 Ballistics crate pad in it. I brought the little dustmop in and put him inside the crate. Tucker was sniffling and snuffling through the bars of his own crate wagging his tail, so I let him out so the two could meet with the safety of the bars between them.
​
Tucker was beside himself with joy at having a new friend.

But let’s be honest, first impressions (and reactions) don't always last. Nor do “plans”.

When I was little, I didn’t have imaginary friends. I had imaginary dogs. Eight of them. One for each day of the week plus an additional for Saturday (because Saturday was twice the fun.) I’m pretty sure psychologists would say this was the culmination of my love for dogs, the Monday’s Child poem my Grandmother had read to me, and the fact that my mother was going to school to become a teacher at that time.

The other night, as Tucker and Ruby sat before me in the kitchen, anxiously awaiting a new trick to learn and thus earn the scrumptious piece of chicken in my hand, I realized how much our childhood imaginings shape our adulthood.  I don’t think I could handle eight dogs in reality, and although I was teaching more practical canine skills like Sit and Down now instead my childhood curriculum where the dogs learned reading comprehension, I was still living my childhood fantasy.

The dogs of my imagination were a motley crew, named the days of the week. I had fleshed out the one-liners from the original two hundred year old poem, and of course, amended them for canine likenesses. The delight in Ruby’s eyes every time she fully grasped my intent lit up the room was much like the quiet Monday did in my childhood classroom. As Tucker bowled over Ruby to prove he knew Down, it struck me that I had actually adopted Saturday II, my favorite imaginary dog who was a little too cool for school and always proving his witty brilliance given the chance.

Despite what professionals might theorize, I don’t believe my imaginary classroom was based solely upon my mother’s career choice. Although training a dog has practical implications and is always a good idea in general, it goes deeper than that. Teaching a dog something—anything—is the clearest way for you show him that you love him.

Imagine living in a place where you don’t speak the language or understand the culture. The people you live with are constantly yelling at you for you doing what you think is perfectly normal behavior. But they ever teach you what they want. And other than the obvious signs of discontent that you’ve learned to decipher, you don’t know a single word of their language.

That’s how a dog begins life with us.

So every time you take five minutes of your day to teach him the word Sit, or show him how he should greet guests, you’re proving to him that he matters. You’re showing him that you love him. You’re including him in your life, which is all he ever wanted.

Every time Ruby dug into my yard, ate my shoes, pulled the eyes and nose off a stuffed animal, I got angry. (Thanks to Ruby, I now have a special needs stuffed animal.)

But I wasn’t really angry at her. I was mad at whoever she lived with before that didn’t feel that she mattered enough to teach her anything.

Ruby learned Sit in five minutes. She understood the concept of Down in another five minutes, and in another ten minutes, she mastered it completely.  In just five to ten minutes a day, right before dinner and again once before bedtime, the girl learned Sit, Down, Paw, Freeze (both paws in the air—but we didn’t get to Bang! where she has her dramatic collapsing scene), Watch Me, and Touch. The sparkle in her eye when she understood Paw made my heart smile. Every day when it was learning time, she sat down nicely, tail wagging, ready to learn more. In the moment of silence while I contemplated what to teach, she’d offer up all she knew so far, so proud of herself for having knowledge and the ability to use it.

Ruby didn’t need to get a home now because I was rapidly running out of hats and footwear for her to destroy; she needed to get a home now because she was at the prime of her learning life. You can teach an old dog new tricks, but teaching a young one is even more rewarding. Her forever family was missing out on these precious moments as I taught her the basic requirements of living among humans. It was like someone missing out on their child's first steps and first crawl and first word. Ruby needed her forever family to start teaching her so she could see how much they loved her.

Saturday morning I awoke and said, “Today, Ruby is going home.”

I had no knowledge of any applications on her; I just knew she needed to go home. Aside from being primed and ready for her home, I was beginning to think that although Tucker enjoyed her company, it was a bit like leaving my boy with the stalker chick who was so in love with him she came across as a little crazy. That’s fun for a guy—for a little while. Then he needs to stop being sexted eighty-seven times a day.

Tucker seemed exhausted. He did seem to like her, but her morning perkiness was a bit much for either of us to handle, and sometimes Tucker needed his alone time.

So, I did my best to erase any doubt in my heart and as I took Ruby out to the store, I said to Tucker, “Did you say good-bye to Ruby, Tucker? She’s going home today.”

He seemed to understand. He looked surprised. The rest of the morning I was a bit sad for Tucker. Stalker-chick attention is still attention, and although he needed a break from it, I think he would miss it.

At 2 p.m., Shelly called me to ask if I could do a homecheck for Ruby. A couple with a  two-year old little girl had seen Ruby a couple weeks earlier, but went home and thought it over, read about pit bull mixes, and wanted to make an informed decision. I said I would go, but needed Shelly with me. I never want to be the ultimate decision maker when it comes to deciding a dog’s life.

I met up with them at 4 p.m., and headed over to the family’s house. I hadn’t seen Ruby with children, so I was a little hesitant. I know Tucker is okay with everyone, but I also witnessed him with my friend’s three-year olds and have concluded that he thinks anyone under four feet high is another dog. He would never hurt them purposely, but he’s twice their gravitational pull, and has the balance advantage of four feet on the ground. In a bodily collision, he’s the only one left standing—and not crying.

Ruby seemed at ease in the house and yard. She didn’t stick by me but explored confidently. The child was calm and polite, offering Ruby water in bowls that were already in the kitchen. They had even bought her a bed. The mom said that they had seen other dogs like Ruby in the shelter but they immediately got so excited that they knocked her little one down. I explained that Ruby could do the same. Ruby had the advantage of being properly exercised and therefore could be a civilized canine in the presence of young ones. Shelter dogs don’t always get the walks they need and certainly are cooped up and overjoyed when someone finally shows them attention. Their over-exuberance isn’t necessarily an inherent trait as much as a circumstantial state of being.

The couple of was ready for Ruby. They knew Ruby had chewed some things, they knew she was in training, they understood what they were getting into when they adopted a dog twice the weight of their child. There was a calm and peaceful energy about them and their house. Although it would have been nice for Ruby to have a canine sibling, this was by no means a terrible place. Tucker probably would have preferred a canine family too, but such is life. I make up for it in other ways. I hoped this family would do the same for Ruby, giving her playdates and daycare and training classes.

Saying good-bye to a foster is tough. Most of my fosters know they’re fosters. They somehow understand that I’m their temporary person and when they see their new home, they give me a big dog hug, thank me for the laughs, and are ready to start their new life.

But Ruby didn’t know. She was blind-sided.

I could see she was comfortable here. She didn’t even spend much time with me while I talked to her new mom. She was outside with her new dad and little human sister. But when Shelly told them to hold her leash and I kissed Ruby good-bye, wishing her well and made for the door, she balked at the leash and puppy-screamed for me. That high-pitched, “Mom! Don’t leave me behind!” was abundantly clear in that one syllable screech. Shelley and I walked out to the car and my eyes welled up with tears.

I know she’ll be fine. She’s got a human sister her exact age, and they’ll grow up together. I envied the little girl. I wondered if she had her own imaginary dogs and now she got to have a real one, as I did when I was four. She seemed like a gracious, kind soul, wanting to care for Ruby. I hoped she would take over the classroom for me. Her parents knew the importance of teaching their human child, and I had no doubt they would do the same for their new canine family member.

In my imaginary classroom thirty-five years ago and my real kitchen-classroom just two weeks ago, the lessons may differ but the intent has always been the same: to love. My childhood fantasy wasn’t about teaching dogs at all. It was about loving them. And as it turns out, childhood dreams do come true, as not only am I able to love every foster who shares my home briefly on their life’s journey, but I am blessed to love my souldog every single day of his life.

Ruby, Tucker and I loved sharing our home with you and loved getting a chance to love you. You have a beautiful new family who will love you beyond comprehension and you'll know it by all they teach you. We wish you the best in your new life, and will miss your sweet snuggle-butt.

There are two principles that I hold dear in my life:
1. I will help any animal in need regardless of breed or species, and
2. People shouldn’t dress their dogs up in people clothes.

I never fathomed that these two ideals would be at odds with one another. And then last Halloween happened.

I took a moratorium on fostering when Tucker joined my life so we could spend time building our relationship. I don’t regret that decision in the least, but as I was coming up on one year without being a part of the rescue community, it was starting to really eat away at me. The only way I contributed was by attending dog-centric fundraising events with Tucker. I enjoyed those a lot, as did Tucker, but it didn’t feel like I was doing enough.

Last October, in my search for something for Tucker and I to do one weekend, I found Pet Orphans of Southern California was having a Halloween party in which you could bring your dog, but dog costumes were mandatory.

Ugh.

I don’t like dressing myself up let alone a dog in costume. But it was for a good cause and maybe Tucker would enjoy himself. Holding as close as I could to my standard of not dressing up dogs in clothes, I put together a costume for Tucker that was accessories only: a hat, a scarf, and a pair of glasses--Where’s Waldo.

It turned out better than expected, and Tucker didn’t seem to mind wearing the items—especially since he got lots of chicken for doing so.

I sent this photo to my friend Carolina in San Francisco, whose beagles wear hoodies on a regular basis. (She and I differ on our stance about canine fashion.)

This was our conversation:

My immediate impulse reaction was of course, “No!” but before I could reply with that definitive response, a little voice of inspiration spoke up from the recesses of my mind: This might be an amazing fundraising project for rescues.

 I had no doubt that there was a market for a calendar featuring a pit bull dressed up as classic literary characters. That night at a human Halloween party, I showed my friend Amy who had done Tucker’s glamour shots a year earlier (back when I was under the delusion of just fostering him) the Waldo photo and asked if she would take the photos for the literary calendar. She was totally in.

And then she added another level to it.

Her Chihuahua/Jack Russell, Odie, enjoyed playing with Tucker, and what if the two of them were in some of the shots together? As my friend Ben said, “My guess is any photo of a pit bull and a chihuahua together where the pit bull isn’t eating the little dog is excellent publicity.”

And so began making into reality a simple yet brilliant idea first expressed in a text message. Keeping the literature to public domain only for legal purposes, Carolina, Amy, and I came up with a over a dozen options. I then set to work producing the scenes. After fifteen years in Hollywood, the first thing major I produced isn’t a movie, but twelve photo shoots that involve dogs in costumes. Not exactly what I expected for my life.

Since we were all volunteering our time, we had zero dollars for the budget. I hunted on craigslist for fabrics and invested in a sewing machine. I was trying to keep most of the costumes to accessories still—capes, hats, scarves. Not only did I feel it stayed more true to my principles, but it stayed true to my crafting abilities. I’m pretty sure my seventh grade Home Ec. teacher would be shocked to know I pulled this off at all.

I failed a number of times, and even gave up on some concepts when they didn’t come out right. I was measuring and making on the fly. Each new cape or jacket or hat took many hours as I made them through trial and error rather than set patterns. Given Tucker’s proportions, even his everyday harness had to be custom made. He wasn’t fitting into any store-bought items. Even the wire-rimmed glasses were hand-made using copper wire.  The only real dog accessory product straight out of the box is featured in the Frankenstein layout: Doggles. You can buy these UV-protector glasses for your dog too!

I honestly thought I could get it out for Christmas 2014, but by mid-November reality set in. Despite having all the time in the world since I was unemployed, I didn’t have all the talent and skill in the world. I also was always trying to find free or close-to-free props as much as possible—which meant making them myself or utilizing an old product in a new way.

Carolina offered support from up north with ideas, props, and my favorite contribution: her laughter, which was always a sign that we had hit the mark. Amy and I alone set up the locations and wrangled our stars. In hindsight, it would have been easier to have a third person there, but not only would it have been difficult to find someone to help, as independent women we generally believe we can handle it all ourselves.

The boys were amazing. Shoots with just Tucker were a lot easier since Odie was a distraction for Tucker and while Amy had the lens in her hands, it was up to me to direct their attention.

Since I had broken my principle about dressing up dogs, I set in stone another rule: if anyone at any time stopped having fun, the project would come to an end. If Tucker or Odie no longer considered treats and attention worth putting on poorly-made custom costumes for, then we would stop doing it.

Luckily, morsels of chicken outweighed minutes in silly costumes, so we did all twelve scenes. We only did two or three at each session to not burn them (or us) out. We never pushed the dogs beyond their means, and always let them be in control of breaks and play time. It had to be fun, or it wasn’t worth doing.

It took a whole year—mainly because I had a seven month gig in the middle, but also because I had to make costumes and then arrange times in Amy and my schedule to fit in the photo shoots. Once Amy did her finishing touches on the photos, I laid out the designs, chose the quotes, and hired Patterson Graphics in Burbank to come up with a grid design and manufacture and package the product.

Since Amy is on the Board of the Volunteers of the Burbank Animal Shelter and The Animal Protectorates (TAPS) is the rescue I do 99% of fostering and volunteering for, profits from our Amazon.com sales will be split between the two organizations.

Retail price is $13.50, and I’m wholesaling to non-profit rescues for $5 (the cost to manufacture) so they can make the most amount of profit from it at their holiday events and fundraisers.

Because I chose to professionally manufacture them in bulk rather than do a print on demand from a stand alone website, I could have a lower price, but I had to make quite a few of them. I feel like I signed up to sell too many boxes of Girl Scout Cookies. However, the quality of the finished product far exceeds anything we could have gotten on line. If we sell every single calendar we will raise between $3500 and $8500 for rescues (depending on the price they sell it at and and the venue where people buy it.)

I think that’s worth compromising my morals about canine fashion.

And honestly, although it was a lot of work, it was a lot of fun. I think it shows in the end product, but you be the judge. Here it is, the most ridiculous, hypocritical thing I’ve ever done to help animals:

You can buy one locally in Burbank at Operation Adopt at 3318 W. Magnolia Blvd, Burbank, CA during their normal business hours, or you can get one right now without even moving from your chair!

The direct link to purchase it on Amazon is http://www.amazon.com/The-Literary-Canine-Presents-Dog-Eared/dp/0996925619.

Since they’re in stock and Fulfilled By Amazon (I’m not shipping them directly), they’re eligible for Amazon Prime and ready to ship today.

Take a look, buy one for yourself, buy some for your friends. It’s a great way to contribute and you get a cool product you can enjoy all year round. Once we sell out completely, we’ll begin work on the next year's layout, which I think is a fitting genre for a pit bull like Tucker: Banned Books. Perhaps I’ll only sell it in Denver or other cities with Breed Specific Legislation.

But before we get ahead of ourselves, pick up Dog-Eared Classics, and please leave a comment on Amazon to let everyone know what you think. The more comments we have, the better. It’s already been the #1 New Release in Dog Calendars on Amazon; let’s make it the #1 Dog Calendar for the entire holiday season!

When you love someone, all those annoying habits you find in other people become endearing. The unforgivable becomes cute. When you love someone, you put up with a lot more of their shit than you do with the average acquaintance.

So it is with dogs.

Two years ago, Tucker was a mildly unruly canine who hadn’t been taught much in his life. He destroyed two soft-sided crates, shit in the house once, pissed in the house twice, ate my hat, and did things generally annoying to others. As much as I was angry at the time, I forgave him quickly because I loved him. That’s how love works. I wasn’t getting rid of him because of a few minor indiscretions.

Perhaps that’s why so many people surrender their animals to shelters. They don’t love them enough to forgive and to work through the awkward age and teach them to be civilized adults.

Tuesday marks two years since I met Tucker, then named Bruno, at the NKLA Super Adoption. I’ve spent countless hours and unknown amounts of dollars on training and learning with him and developing our relationship. It’s all been worth it and continues to be worth it. He is my soul dog. He’s stuck with me—whether he likes it or not—for the rest of his life.

Ruby, on the other hand, is not my soul dog.

When Tucker and I returned from our last film production venture, it took almost two months before TAPS had a potential foster for us. Her name was Canelle (Elle for short.) She was a delight. I didn’t even have a chance to write about her because she was so easy, polite, and a pleasure to be with that she was adopted quickly. She was house-trained, walked on a leash fabulously, was quiet, and just the right amount of affectionate. She and Tucker got along famously.

They played well and outdoors only. Inside they were civilized with each other to the extent of being too polite to even take the bed from the other, leaving it empty.

Elle was with us for one week. Rightfully, she was snatched up in an instant one Sunday afternoon without even a foster-to-adopt contract. This guy was certain: she was for him for life and Elle got adopted right then and there.

A week later, Christy called me with another similar dog to Elle. Probably a Viszla mix, she was around Tucker’s age and size and energy level. We did a meet and greet and they got along well. Ruby plays harder than Elle. Unlike the refined, cautious Elle, Ruby is a brash, undisciplined puppy with confidence and no internal editor. She is the female version of Tucker two years ago.

Ruby is a sweetheart. She is soft and cuddly and doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. She expects the best from others, as Tucker did at that age: she shoves her face into Tucker’s when he’s eating or chewing on a bone not realizing that not all dogs can take that level of personal space invasion. Tucker growls a warning, and she gets it, but is a little offended.

Tucker and Ruby are well-matched when it comes to playing.

They even run the same:

They are the same height, but Tucker weighs in at ten pounds more. Ruby is a girl, but certainly no lady. She is rough and tumble and floppy and silly. I could watch them play for hours. Ruby is the first dog Tucker has played Tug with. Usually he or the other dog find it too much of a risk, but since Ruby doesn’t have a filter and is pure innocence, she knows the game is all in fun.

She's also madly in love with Tucker:

Ruby is learning, but it’s hard to teach a first grader when you have a senior in high school right next to her. Tucker has an extensive vocabulary and expects to be rewarded for understanding the same concepts that Ruby struggles with at this point. Ruby will learn them. I’m confident of that. When Ruby finds her person, he or she is going to teach her amazing things and she’ll get them quickly. I, unfortunately, can’t teach her a lot with Tucker right there.

Going for a walk is difficult, although I know most people don’t see why. Tucker walks next to me or behind me 90% of the time. I hook his leash to my belt, and that’s usually enough to keep him in line. If I see another dog approaching, I’ll put the leash in my hand to guide him to stay where he is. Ruby, on the other hand, lunges ahead, tugging on the leash, not used to being constrained by a six foot piece of cord. It’s not her fault; she was simply never taught.

She doesn’t pull much, but she’s constantly ahead of me and hasn’t gotten our walking rhythm down yet. A lot of people walk their dog in front of them and her walk wouldn’t bother them in the least. I, however, have extremely high standards and expect a dog to walk beside me in loose leash walking style.

But that takes training. Training I can’t do with Tucker with me.

When I used to foster, before Tucker became my partner,  I did some foundation training with each dog. It was easy and fun, and I enjoyed watching the dogs learn. But now I’m lucky to get anything in. Training is learning and learning is a life-long activity. Tucker and I still go to classes. I need to reinforce obedience often as when we get out of habit, he gets lazy and starts doing inappropriate things like jumping on people when he gets excited. It’s like anything in life: if you don’t use it, you lose it. I still want to teach Tucker more skills, but I always need to reinforce the old skills to keep them solid.

Ruby makes me realize just how far Tucker and I have come. And that not fostering for the first year with Tucker was the absolute right decision. He and I needed to build our foundation. Today he doesn’t need be crated as he’s no longer destructive. He only needs leash-walking reinforcement when we’re in new or over-exciting situations like adoption and fundraising events. He’s even starting to Come when he’s told on a more consistent basis. All of this comes with age and practice and the strength of our relationship.

Ruby is ready for her forever family. She is brash and undisciplined. She is destructive, but not out of spite—just out of not knowing any better. Channeling a dog’s energy for good instead of evil is every dog guardian’s responsibility. Tucker and I know how to channel his energy. Someone out there knows how to channel Ruby’s.

Ruby doesn’t mean to be destructive. When I yelled at her to stop digging a hole in the yard, she looked back perplexed on why this would be a problem. I couldn’t even yell at her when she went through the patio screen door because I was in another room when it happened, and it was evident that she just didn’t see it or understand it. Tucker can see the screen and waits for me to give him the go ahead; she can’t see it and isn’t waiting for permission.

Fostering is a chance for Tucker to have company when I’m gone. But it appears this might not be working out. Left to her own devices and a plethora of toys to choose from, Ruby still ate the strap off one of my crocs (when I bought them I did think, “These totally look like a dog toy” but bought them anyway because Tucker knows better), and now today, she ate the brim off my hat.

Two years ago, Tucker ate the brim off my favorite hat that I had for almost half a decade. I was upset, but I forgave him because I love Tucker. Love gave him a get out of jail free card.

Ruby is not my soul dog. I of course forgive her, but I’m much more frustrated. I had been gone less than four hours. It was morning. She had Tucker and any of the many dog toys to play with, but she chose to eat my hat, get a bunch of string from somewhere (I can’t recall where it came from), knock pillows off chairs, move the dog bed to the hallway, and channel her energy for evil rather than good. But it’s not her fault. None of it is. She needs guidance and training. She needs discipline and patience. And she needs that person who loves her so much that one indiscretion doesn’t cause her to be returned to the rescue.

Ruby is a great dog, just as Tucker was a great dog when I met him. Ruby has just as much potential as Tucker did then to become a well-trained, polite but still fun, dog who knows her boundaries and what is acceptable and what isn’t. It sounds like a tremendous task to get her to that point, but it isn’t because all of that comes in one package: her person. Ruby’s person is kind and generous, intelligent and patient, and will forgive her for eating his or her favorite hat, going through the trash, and whatever else she does while they build their relationship. Her person will do that because he or she recognizes Ruby as his or her soul dog and will love her no matter what.

This is a prime time for Ruby’s forever person to join her life. She’s ready to learn and eager to please. She’s still all puppy but is adult enough to not need house-training. Yes there will be tough times, and yes she isn’t perfect, but she is perfect for her person.

If you think you’re Ruby’s person, or know someone who might be, please send them her way. You can find her ad here: https://www.petfinder.com/petdetail/33716558

I know Ruby's person is out there. Please come get her. She's ready to start her life with you. And I can't afford to lose any more hats.