There was a to-do list a mile long before we could adopt a dog. When we moved into our house just under a year and a half ago, we knew the task before us was daunting. We had to gut an entire house on the inside and the outside and start from scratch. Its bones were solid but its face needed a lift, like a Joan Rivers level of lift. So we set about completing the list one by one and now, 16 months later there is still, unfortunately, plenty to do .. probably how Joan Rivers feels.
A while back I asked Chris about adopting a dog. Like the second or third day we moved into the house that smelled like cat urine and mold. (We used bleach, not sure what Joan uses). It seemed fairly obvious it wasn't the right time, but I don't have a filter for these things. I thought the dog would merely learn to poop around the construction debris in the backyard and he would be too smart to just walk through the large gaping holes in the decrepit wooden fence to escape. I thought we'd just keep some lights on so he wouldn't fall through the 10x10 hole in the middle of the living room floor. So what if he had to eat his food from a paper plate? .. we've not been spared the same refinements. And the list went on. "There are nails sticking up every 5 inches on the kitchen floor," was one lame excuse Chris gave me to which I responded, "One of those kangaroo baby backpacks.." It was beyond me why he shot that one down before I finished my brilliant idea.
Needless to say, I let Chris win that argument. When I started explaining my idea for doggie hard hats and construction boots, I think I lost legitimacy. So we waited. I spent my free time fantasizing about owning a puppy of our own and I'm pretty sure he was just fantasizing about static IP addresses, nuclear reactions .. or whatever else those computer science guys think about. My plight, however, was far from over. After we tied the knot, it was time to revisit the idea all over again. Now we had a real hard-wood floor, without gaping holes and everything. We had walls and windows and the backyard was almost free of toilet bowls, broken glass and shards of wood. I thought it would have been a dog's fantasy to step outside to an obstacle course of porcelain thrones, but now we'll never know.
We were real adults. We paid bills, cooked dinner on our stove, ate at our kitchen table, and took the lazy way out of cleaning up with our dish washer. We made the bed, did the laundry and vacuumed regularly. We were so ready. Imagine my surprise when I was told the UPSTAIRS needed to be completed of its construction as well. What deception! Right when I let my guard down and started picking out names, he drops that bomb-shell along with another doozy of a request .. I had to bring home a steady income. I'm an artist. When has that ever been steady? It was almost unfair to ask. da Vinci's wife didn't withhold meals from him until he was able to sell 2.5 paintings a week. Michelangelo's breath wasn't usurped from his lungs baring his statues sold 3 times a month for a fair market value! Alright, so it wasn't so dramatic of a request in hind-sight and since then I've created a solid business plan, locked down a commission, and expanded my promotional advertisements. Damn you, Chris, you've won again.
Researching dog breeds proved to be time-consuming and difficult. There are so many reasons why each breed might rip out the eyes of your newborn. At first, I loved English bulldogs. They only live 8 years? I've had fish that have outlasted that. Poor genetics would not have me burying Fido in single-digit years. Oh no. French bulldogs then. What do you mean they're unintelligent and difficult to train? .. haven't you seen the wrinkles in their faces?, surely that means they are wise and plagued with the cross of knowledge to bear. No? Forget it.
Then the Bloodhound caught my eye. They were adorable with their long, droopy faces and their thick Savannah drawl. To my surprise, this was another dog that was estimated to last fewer years than the scrunchie fad. Moving on. Then it was the coon/hound which quickly segued into the Beagle and Basset-hound. When we discovered all of those breeds played the game of "selective deafness" when they caught a scent and took off, I decided there could only be one MVP at my house and he wasn't willing to give up his title.
Setters shed too much. Golden Retrievers were a bit too common. Border Collies are too fixated on herding and I will not be rounded up and hog-tied. So the search continued until we landed on this little gem: German Shorthair Pointer. It has the head of a Chocolate Labrado, the body of a Dalmatian and the tallons of a griffin. One of those things is not true. Loves the water, is active, a great companion, good watch-dog, and listed #17 in a scientific evaluation of canine intelligence. Well that says it all. And now for the kicker; it lives an average of 14-16 years. That's more like it.
Pedigree prices are out of the question. Not only can we not afford the royal fee for said pooch, but we liked the idea of second-chance adoption. So we took to the rescue centers in search of a dog and found that experience to be a 'hairy' one. Our favorite memory was when one of the volunteers tried duping us into adopting the Son of Sam's canine equivalent.
"We're looking for a working-class dog. Something like a labrador, perhaps. Good for a family, a great companion and smart. But overall a good personality goes a long way," I explained to the young man. "Sure. This dog over here is perfect." He lead us to the cage and meandered off .. likely to watch our reaction with a group of his buddies through the glass window of the Meet and Greet room.
We walked over to the cage and peeked inside. This thing was rabid, for sure. It growled so viciously its teeth were encapsulated in foamy discharge. It snapped when you put your fingers anywhere near the gate. It looked like a mix between a pitbull and a wild Nicaraguan dog paired with a festering case of glaucoma and mange. Yes, this is exactly what I had just described, "I want a dog that could chew the hand off a toddler while simultaneously clawing out grandma's eyes. Yes, perfect, that's the one!" Not two moments later a little girl walked by with her mother and the dog were berserk, attacking the gate like he hadn't eaten in a week and she was wearing Lady Gaga's steak dress. "Where's the adoption papers? I'm in!"
We went home a little defeated in our findings but a little hopeful that we found the star for the remake of Kujo. The research continued until we found the diamond in the rough. Well, not even. It was more like just finding a diamond .. in a dirty public bathroom. There he was. Scoob. Scoob was a two year old German Shorthair Pointer, recently dropped off to a shelter only a few towns over. According to his biography, his owner was a good man who realized he hadn't the time to spend with the dog and keeping him crated wasn't a proper way of life. He was house-trained and already knew how to sit and lay on command. I immediately jumped in the car the next day and took off to meet him. He was even more handsome in person with a personality to match. He was a full grown puppy and was more than ready to find his forever home. "We own our house, have a backyard, and work from home!" I nearly shouted at the volunteer as I filled out the application .. for realsy this time.
That's where we left it. Our application is currently under review and we'll know in a few days if we found our forever dog. But, we still have much research to do .. for names. A second-chance dog deserves a reinvention, a rebirth, a redo. "Scoob" was an unfortunate shoot and a miss as was his two years spent in a crate. It's time for a new name for Scoob. "No-Backsies" was an option we thought he might appreciate.
By the way, I know this other great dog at a shelter you might be interested in if you have a toddler and are living with your grandma ...
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