Casey-Dog At the Bat

Early 2013: New House

The best thing about becoming a first time homeowner is dreaming up all the things you want to do now that the house is yours and there’s no pet deposits, nobody to say “NO” to you owning something bigger than a cat.

My first house was on a half acre of land overlooking a completely dried out lake. At the time I had no way to know that in a couple years and a few hurricanes the lake would be completely filled again and gorgeous, but I was thrilled with my “waterfront” property all the same.

There was a big bay window in the dining room that gave a beautiful view of the shabby street, neighbors, and a gorgeous oak tree that I fell in love with. Another majestic oak stood smack dab in the middle of my backyard, and the other plants and flowers never ceased to give me a sense of peace. I loved that house.

I had two cats, one which was skittish and not easy to deal with and the other was the love of my life. Both of them were adopted, the first many years ago from a woman I’d met in the theatre who’d had litter born under her house. Xavier was a Hemmingway cat, with an extra thumb on each of his forepaws. He was a huge tuxedo tabby that thought he was a dog. He needed people. He was always with whoever was in the house, always sitting right there. I loved that cat every day of his 16½ years and still miss him.

But now I had a big house and I wanted a dog. The house needed a dog. There was even a little pet cemetery right by the lake where the previous owner had buried her loved pooches. It was time.

Mid 2013: The Dog

I started browsing the rescue sites somewhere in the middle of the year, thinking “if one comes around that works, I’ll go for it, but I can wait a little.”

I couldn’t wait. My brother was a long time dog owner, so I decided to run my choices through him. One after another he kept pointing out red flags, and while I wanted to be a dog owner I wasn’t ready for too many red flags. First dog, after all.

But then I found this picture of a gorgeous pooch with red and white fur and a bajillion speckles all over his body. His eyes were deep brown and soulful and my heart melted. I read the ad over and over again. It claimed he was an “Irish Setter,” and that he was about a year old. I knew he wasn’t an Irish Setter. It was obvious that what I was looking at was a hound.

I showed it to my brother. Neither of us could find a problem, so I contacted the foster family and spoke to them about him. She asked a lot of questions about the space, whether he’d be able to run, why I wanted him. When she was sure it wasn’t to take him hunting she agreed I could see him. She’d been considering keeping him because he was so sweet.

I drove a half hour to meet the dog, but stopped on the way to buy a leash and collar, bowls, toys, treats, food. I’d told myself and my parents I was just going to see the dog, but I knew. I really, REALLY knew.

And I wasn’t wrong. When I arrived, that dog came right up to me and started snuggling and kissing me. His tail was wagging in circles so fast you couldn’t see more than a blur. He was attached to me the entire time we were there, save for the one moment he had to go pee.

He’d been growing up on a horse farm with horses, so he wasn’t a coward. He was a bit on the scrawny side, and the foster mom told me he was a finicky eater.

There were two larger dogs that were theirs, so I wondered about the “finicky eater” part, but I said nothing. While petting him, I found a mark in the middle of his underbelly that looked like he’d been cut or gouged. It was far too high to be from being snipped.

I learned my dog’s history. He’d been picked up by a kill shelter on the side of the road when he was only five months old. He was a day away from being put down when the foster family rescued him. Had he been killed, it would have been a crime because there was never a nicer dog.

Freckles, because that’s what they’d named him, was afraid of cars. I believe the mark came from an injury when the first owners tossed him by the road from his car. It broke my heart to see how much he was drooling and shaking on the ride home, but we made it. While I was driving, I called my parents to tell them. I also asked for their help picking out a name.

I wanted an Irish name because of him being mislabeled an Irish Setter, and I’d been bouncing between Finn and Murphy, but my father landed the home run when he said “Casey. As in Casey at the Bat.”

The rest of the ride home, I cooed at him, calling him by his new name. He drooled but looked happy to be with me. When I got home, he followed easily on the leash into the house. The next half hour was spent watching him explore a room, then run back to check on me, then explore another room, then check on me. I grew dizzy with his excitement, and found myself laughing.

I have not stopped laughing yet.

We took a walk, then I tried feeding him. He stepped up to the bowl with the expensive dog food, sniffed it, then stepped back and looked at me. I grew nervous he wouldn’t eat, and he was so thin that I was determined he get food into him so I trod into the kitchen and grabbed a container of peanut butter. One scoop of that, Casey sniffs it again, and begins to eat, slowly.

Thrilled that I succeeded, I call my brother and tell him all about it. He laughs, we talk a bit, and he suggests parmesan cheese…as it’s easier to get on the food and mix with the food. So the next day a sprinkling of parmesan cheese goes on and before I can blink…

The food is gone.

I have never seen a dog eat so fast. I don’t even think he tasted it, it was just an inhale and it’s gone. This happened for well over a year. I’d put food down and it would vanish. I only needed to sprinkle the parmesan on two more times before he realized that the food was for him. This was no finicky eater. The poor thing had been bullied from food by the other two dogs and he was so gentle that he’d let them have it all.

The next challenge was the car. A trip down to my brother’s house two hours away led to a very wet crate. I figured on putting him in a crate in the car with a towel over to calm him. That didn’t work. After rinsing him down and the crate down, we let him dry off outside while we talked.

Later that day, we took him to get his shots and then the five of us: my brother, Casey, my brother’s two dogs, and I, went to the dog park.

Casey was nervous, but after the dog park, there was less drooling. He did a little better on the way home after the weekend. I took him to the dog park by me three times before he decided he loved the car.

Now, he can’t wait to get in the car, he eats at a normal pace, and he’s the most snuggly, gentle, balm when I’m down. My two cats are both gone…one to an elderly woman, and my beloved Xavier to his final rest, but Casey keeps my heart filled every day, and I can honestly say that Mudville would be cheering if this Casey were in their lives, because he always hits a home run to my heart.