A very good boy

I wanted a dog. For my whole adult life, when I lived on my own, I wanted my own dog. A dog I chose. One I could call completely my own. The only other dog that had chosen me was technically the family dog. My parents brought her home at 19. She always slept with me, even after I moved out and came to visit. When I first saw her, I was disappointed that she was not a small puppy. She was a Doberman, Labrador, German Shepard mix. At nine months old, she was already the size of a medium dog. When I expressed my disappointment, my mother claimed, “Well she was on death row, but we could take her back,” knowing dang well I would not agree to that. I also knew she had no intention of returning her. My mom was as soft as I was. Her name was Angel, the people in the shelter named her. She jumped on my dad as soon as he saw her. The shelter personnel begged my father to take her. My dad is as soft as my mom and I when it comes to animals, especially rescues. They named him Simba.

We had a few fantastic dogs throughout my childhood. Angel was my favorite. She was a good judge of character. She was not very receptive to men I brought home that ended up not working out later. She met my husband before we were married and proceeded to jump all over him. It was hard to get her to calm down. I never saw her this excited greeting a man I dated. It was as if she was saying, “Yes, this is the one. You finally got it right.” She died not that long after. Maybe she knew her job of taking care of me was done, and she could go to heaven now and join our other family dogs.

So when I moved out I wanted my own dog. It took a few years before I would realize that dream. First my husband convinced me to get a cat. A teacher at his school was giving away kittens from a feral cat she took in. I was happy to have an animal we can share, so I said yes. I also really like cats as well. My parents had two that they acquired right before they got Angel. My parents took one home from a campground, he had been living off the goodwill of campers. He was about three months old and friendly. My mother did not want him, but she agreed that if he came the last day they were leaving she would let him come home. Not only did he come that last day, but he hopped in the car voluntarily. I guess he chose us too.

About a year after we got Dameon we rescued another cat. I had had a miscarriage and I wanted another cat. It helped. Unfortunately we had to rehome our cats with my parents. We ended up needing to move closer to my in laws and we could not find apartments that took cats.

Eventually Dameon died. He was a wonderful cat, but unfortunately he died young. My father was going to take him into the vet because he was sick, but when he went to get him he found him dead. It was sad. He was only 3. We are not sure why he died, but my husband kept in touch with other owners of the litter and many of them died young. Maybe it was just genetic.

He was dead before we could ever had an opportunity to decide whether to take him back. We lived in apartments that did not allow cats. It was a few years before we finally got our first house. By that time the other cat got was used to living at my parents. Plus he was a biter, so we didn’t think he was very safe to have around our kids.

At that point I just wanted a pet, any pet. Ideally a dog though. I was thrown into chaos though with child raising and potty training. My children were only 21 months apart, so it almost seemed like the potty training did not end for a continuous few years, but it just seemed that way. My dream of a dog faded for a while. Then I met Spot A dog my friend fostered and I really wanted him. I sent numerous texts to my husband and he finally acquiesced.

We told my friend and told the kids and then she called me the next morning and told me it was a bad idea. He was not well trained and was chewing and ripping apart things when left alone in the house. We argued with her, but I gave up. They were not giving us the dog and honestly their arguments were convincing. The dog needed more training and time before entering the chaos of our household.

Yet the door was finally opened. I promised my kids a dog and we were committed to getting a dog. Thus started the long hunt. It took a month or two. I scored websites and then a coworker told me about a foundation she volunteered with. The hunt for the right dog through that organization took another month. Many of the dogs I wanted a home visit with were either adopted too fast or my coworker would tell me that the dog was not great for little kids.

Late one night she sent me a text message. It was a picture of a beautiful caramel colored dogs with golden eyes. His foster mother was holding him with his head over his shoulder with a beautiful background, of what looked like a park. My co-worker said, “His eyes are memorizing aren’t they?” They were, but I was nervous because he was a Pitbull mix. She assured me he was good with children.

I showed the picture to my husband and said I wanted to meet him regardless. My husband reluctantly agreed. On a clear day a woman bought him to our house. She gave him a chew bone and proceeded to talk to us about his history. He was nine months old. He was a survivor of parvo and most importantly he was a sweet dog, and that if we wanted a guard dog he was not it. The dog wandered the premises and went outside. He nipped a bit and the foster mom said, “No, kisses.” The dog proceeded to lick and when he was nipping, he did not hurt anyone.

We had him a few days and I was out with a friend. My husband called me and told me when he tried to get the dog to move out of my daughter’s room because she was worried about him chewing her toys, he growled at him and bared his teeth. I was freaked out. The dog was showing aggression. My husband was stern with him in letting him know that was not okay. I came home wondering if we needed to return him and then he greeted me all happy and followed me around the kitchen. I thought one more chance, but he needed training.

I took him to PetSmart and enrolled him in a training course. It was a grueling 8 weeks and many hours of training at home and a year of walks every morning with training included. I could not ever get him to stop pulling despite using the techniques from class, but I did get him to sit, stay, drop it and take it. I also taught him more patience and way less jumping. He still does jump on occasion, especially children. He really likes playing with kids, so we just watch him more when people come over. Certain people are not comfortable with him because of the stigma of Pit bulls, so we sometimes put him in our room or take him to Grandmas. He loves going there, but he got so much better and never growled at us again.

My children tumble on him and lay on him and he just lays there and tries to lick them. He will pull the rope with them and seems to instinctively adjusts his force because he never pulls them over, even though he easily could. My favorite is when he lays on my lap even though he is heavy, it’s kind of like a weighted blanket. He always comforts me when I am dealing with my anxiety.

I finally found my dog. I hesitate to say it, but I think I like him better then Angel. He really feels like my dog. I found him and I chose him. More accurately he chose me. One of the most interesting things, is his name was Simba, given by the shelter. Maybe not a common dog name, but I thought it was fitting and maybe a sign he was met to be in our family. He is an exceptionally good boy, and I finally got to rescue my first dog.