A Dog Named Sherlock

For the past six years, my work has been all about animals. I write for an animal news website, and for a little while, I also worked with animals directly at a local dog rescue. I love writing and telling stories about dogs, cats, frogs, bees, monkeys, and the like. Working directly with dogs who needed homes hit a little bit differently though.

Throughout my time at the dog rescue, I developed favorites. Ellie, a finicky little pomeranian mix. Boo, a gorgeous misunderstood Cane Corso. Seeing them finally go off to loving homes after being at the rescue for so long truly warmed my heart. It was always sad to say goodbye, but knowing they were going to be spoiled and loved forever in a cozy environment brought me so much joy. You might not realize exactly how much of a difference dog rescue makes until you watch a dog go from terrified and unadoptable to walking off to their new family's car with their head held high and a smile on their face. It's pure magic.

I don't work directly with dogs anymore, but I still write about them. I tell their stories in the hopes that they'll either get adopted or that they'll inspire other people to go out and rescue dogs of their own. There are so many reasons I love my job. There are so many reasons why I think it's important.

One of those reasons is Sherlock.

During my time at the dog rescue, I was getting ready to help close up after a long day when the owner pulled up to the back and started unloading new members of our pack into empty kennels. She'd picked them all up from a local shelter, and some of them were in bad shape. I went into the back to see if I could help at all, and I spotted a little white fluffy thing, cowering in the back of his kennel, absolutely terrified. His fur was matted and snarled in the worst way. I found out he'd been living outside in a backyard, basically ignored and left to fend for himself. People are the worst sometimes.

I grabbed a step stool and climbed up so I was at eye level with his kennel. He stared at me from the back corner, so untrusting, so scared. I grabbed a handful of treats and began placing them in front of him, one by one. He took each treat slowly, gently, and then waited for another. As I offered him treats, I talked to him. "It's ok. You're safe now. I love you. You're such a good boy. Everything is going to be ok. I promise."

Soon my new white fluffy friend was all groomed up and so much more comfortable and clean. My manager told me I could be the one to name him if I wanted. Since the grooming, the fur on his body was cut short, but the fur on his face was still super fluffy. He looked to me like a grumpy, dignified gentleman. I decided to name him Sherlock.

After that first night spent comforting Sherlock, he and I became fast friends. Every time I came into work, as soon as he saw me, he would come running and then launch his body into the air and land in my arms. Everyone would see this and laugh, commenting on how much he seemed to love me. I jokingly called him my son and would carry him around like a baby on my hip. I was so protective of him. All I wanted was for him to find the perfect family who would love him forever.

Sherlock, though, had other ideas. He was such a grumpy little thing. Clearly, he'd been so mistreated in his former life, and didn't trust strangers at all. He'd sit in a corner and glare at all the potential adopters who'd come by to meet him and the rest of the pack. He didn't love being at the rescue, but he also didn't seem to love the idea of going home with strangers, either. He just wanted me or another one of his rescue people to hold him. Screw everyone else. That was Sherlock's motto, and he was sticking to it.

Except that I wouldn't let him. Whenever potential adopters would stop by, I would scoop Sherlock up from his corner and carry him around, which he loved, and then carry him right into the arms of people who wanted to meet him, which he hated. He'd give them his patented side-eye and then shoot it to me, too, so mad at me for betraying him and giving him to strangers. I would reassure him every time. "I would never give you to people who would hurt you, Sherlock. You're so grumpy! You need to try and rally. Don't you want to get adopted? I promise you'll be safe."

Over and over, day after day, we performed our routine. I always joked that the perfect adopter for Sherlock would be a single woman who lived in a little cabin in the woods, far away from the rest of the world. That's all he wanted. To be left alone with someone he loved. Some days Sherlock was extra grumpy. Some days he was friendlier. He had been neglected and mistreated, so I understood. Healing isn't linear, with humans or with dogs.

One day, it happened. Sherlock got adopted. Whenever a dog at the rescue was finally adopted, we would take a photo of them in the arms of their new family before they headed off to the car. For Sherlock's photo, he's on the ground sitting next to his new parents. They're smiling at him, and he's staring at them, his side-eye in full effect. It was so hard to see him go, but I hoped for the best. We'd shown him so much love. That's all we could do.

Once he was settled in, Sherlock's family sent us a photo of him in his new home. He was lying on his back on something cozy, fast asleep, the most peaceful smile on his sweet little face.

He was so happy. He knew he was safe. And that's why I will forever love what I do.