A dog almost named Cookie

My family is one of thousands that rescues stray animals.

There was never a time we didn't have at least one former-stray companion living with us. Right now, we have two cats: one named Mimzy and the other Minnie, and two dogs, a German Shepherd named Remo and a mix named Heidi.

Mimzy was found under a porch twelve years ago; the product of a stray feline having raised her kittens in an abandoned shed. He hides when he hears unfamiliar noises, but enjoys warm baths and massages. His nickname is 'Handsome,' and he is a blue tomcat.

Minnie is a cat colony rescue adopted four years ago, from a society of women that rescue mama-cats and their litters. She doesn't pay much attention to her surroundings, and stomps her feet when she walks. Her nickname is 'Honey,' and she is a brown, black, beige and white tabby.

Remo was found with a chewed-through rope tied around his neck eight years ago, with a face covered in severe mange. He walks with a bit of strain as he is an older pup, but he is protective of the whole family as he has always been. His nickname is 'Ream,' for his willingness to correct unfamiliar dogs if they get too close to us.

Last but not least, and the protagonist of this story, is my dog, Heidi, the youngest.

She looks like a boxer, lab, retriever mix and is affectionately called "the bean," for her head shape, and "fuzzy-butts," for the patch of hair that sits in waves before her tail. She celebrated her third year with us on June 25, 2022.

My fiancee and I started dating in April of 2019, just before the pandemic. I was pretty keen on adopting a puppy, as at the time, out of the three companions we had in our household, none belonged to me.

Sure, I would shower them in love and treats, but I'm sure everyone knows the feeling and the barrier that exists; the connection just isn't as strong. I wanted a companion that grew up knowing I was the one they could count on.

I started perusing breeds that might suit me in late May. I came across the corgi, its breed details and the forums: the Facebook groups, the Instagram pages and I thought 'wow, it would be so awesome to be apart of this society!'

Nicknamed the 'Queen's dogs,' I was certain I could find a breeder somewhere in Ontario. When found, the price point was agreeable, and I couldn't wait to reach out. I was excited to wrap my arms around a plump little loaf and go on adventures.

In the mean time, I visited my fiancee's home town in June, about six hours north of where I lived, and the idea of a dog left my mind while we fished and hiked.

On the morning of my return, my mother came into the dining room and hastily said "I think Remo is hanging around a stray that's had pups. She's a blonde lab with a raspberry nose."

I blinked, then shrugged - Remo is a farm dog and he roams our ten acre property freely. If a she-dog came wandering through, it was no business of ours unless she came to us, because she could belong to a neighbour. If that were the case and considering where we live, they would say we were meddling. She never came.

Instead, I woke up early the next week, the final week of June, and went outside from the entryway to the garage to walk to my car. At my feet, lying amongst empty cans underneath high chairs that were set for company, were two little, beady, black eyes. A puppy.

The sand-coloured, but dirty pup blended into the colour of the porch wood, and I might not have spotted her had I not caught her staring at me. I crouched down and rested my weight on my ankles, peering at her and wondering if she was feral or not.

"Hi, little baby," I whispered.

Her feather of a tail shook like a leaf and I smiled. She didn't nip nor growl. I guessed the corgi wasn't meant to be.

After a bath that ended with a trail of mud in the bathtub, and a trip to the clinic, I had to give a name to the vet for her records. She was abandoned, no collar, nowhere to be returned to, and she was un-microchipped. Without thinking and absent of conviction, I said "Cookie," and the name sat, written on her medications until the next visit.

You see, our family has a tradition of getting to know our animals before we name them. It might sound hokey, but we've never had a dog named Brutus that looked like an Ollie, because we want our companions names to suit them.

And the little pup couldn't walk ten feet without needing to take a nap - I wouldn't be naming her until a title struck me on the head. Soon she was de-wormed, given expensive tick, flea and heart-worm medication and given higher quality food recommended by the vet to help her grow. The vet advised that she was twelve weeks old and a small breed, not a lab, given her size, fur texture and colouring.

But she was a mystery, a Houdini, as you'll come to find.

She would snuggle up into my neck and sleep lying on my chest, a little fuzzball and heater combined.

I wondered about her though.

I wondered how her puppy-self made her way onto our porch, which had eight vertical steps. She was so small and lethargic, like a newborn, I couldn't imagine her making a trek from anywhere. I wondered if Remo had dog-napped her, or if her mom had given birth nearby and she had followed Remo. I couldn't be sure, but I wished I could ask her.

After a few days of spending time together, Heidi was the only name that I thought might work. I googled its definition and 'of noble birth' came through; the name suited and it was easy to call. She learned it quickly, and the brief memory of Cookie was gone.

On a sunny day later that July, she sat in the front seat while I drove to the corner store. Out of my peripheral I saw a blonde-coloured dog. Coming to, and stopping at a stop sign, I whirled my head around to see a small, blonde, female lab with a raspberry nose and three puppies trailing behind her, the same size, colour and build as Heidi.

It had to be her mom.

Her mom looked like she was covered in dirt and mosquitoes but well fed at the same time. I saw no collar. The foursome were wandering on a lot that was almost three kilometres from my house, and I was baffled. If that was the property where her mom lived, how on earth did Heidi manage to get to our garage at her size and age?

No answer to be found, I hoped her mom was taken care of and I hoped the puppies would find homes. But I started to realize that Heidi had to be a bit younger than the vet thought, as the pups following their mom clearly still drunk milk.

To give perspective, Heidi used to be the size of a potato, if you can believe it. She was a little, beige yam with a set of eyes, a nose and pudge-like arms and legs with burglar colouring on her muzzle. As I hadn't been sure about her ancestry, we, and the vet, were quite certain that she had pug in her blood. We had assumed she would be no bigger than a beagle.

But then she started to grow.

And one thing was for certain as she did - Heidi inherited her moms raspberry nose.

Side note: one of the saddest things I think we can do to animals, is re-home them just because they don't fit the mould of what we thought they would, or what we had wanted in a breed. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I had taken Heidi to a shelter and left her behind because I didn't anticipate her size, or because of something foreseeable, like shedding.

As she surpassed the size of a beagle, she would never have to worry about being re-homed. She was a permanent fixture before she knew it.

At first, I suspected my fiancee was a bit jealous of the time I could spend with her instead of him, but once we moved in together, that went away.

She was only curious of him and his food at first, but now she seeks him out for pets and love just as much as she does me. When he goes away to fish or hunt and comes home, she'll get the zoomies and race around before lying down, begging him to rub her belly. I think she understands that she was the piece we needed to complete our family trio.

She's always been food motivated and easy to teach in terms of boundaries and routines, like knowing her seat is in the back of the car, and that she needs to be on her leash when bikes approach us on walking trails. She'll sit and wait until her food bowl is given to her, despite her bottomless stomach.

She huffs and sighs when I don't make time for walks, which inadvertently takes care of my heart health, and she accompanies me on trips to get groceries, and anywhere really, because she likes car rides.

She's very much a vacuum and will swallow things whole if you don't tell her to "eat it slow," and she doesn't like fruit, but will ask for it anyway. She's stubborn and gets uncomfortable around kids, and doesn't like banjo's but enjoys the noise of parks. She loves puppuccinos and has developed quality tastes.

She also won't poop in front of us voluntarily, and will instead seek out long grass, brush or snow to hide in; a ' privacy diva' as my mom said.

We take her on road-trips, to parks, golf courses, hotels, trails, hikes, boat rides, ski-doo rides and more.

So yes, you could say the tradition of adopting stray animals is continuing fervently in my family.

I think that having an idea of where Heidi came from and providing her with a good, happy, life full of love, as a pup that might have been homeless, or worse, is more rewarding than anything else I could have done. Heidi has a forever home.

But it's not just that I didn't go to a shelter to pick her out, or pay hundreds of dollars to hand-select her from a litter - she found me.

And I wouldn't trade that for anything in the world.