My Life In Rescues

I never intended to become a serial rescuer. In fact, as an adult, for the longest time, I refused to get a dog. But life had other plans for me, and so far, I have rescued five elderly dogs. My son likes to joke that I run a K-9 nursing home.

I grew up with dogs around me. My first ever pet was Linda (Spanish for beautiful), a German Shepherd/Great Dane mix. She was as tall as I was at eight years old, my guardian angel standing on her hind legs. Every day she would walk to the school bus stop to wait for me and escort me home. We lived on the country-ish side when I was a child, and my family considered dogs to be yard animals. That was not a harsh situation for the animals in the eternal summer of Cali, Colombia. The dogs were only allowed inside just past the door threshold in case of a rainstorm, and they had Snoopy-styled doggy houses outside. The one exception was when my parents sent me to summer camp. I was gone for a month, and Linda was distraught. She cried pitifully every night until my parents allowed her in. for the whole month, she slept on my bed, then spend the day roaming around the yard. When I returned, Linda settled and went back to be a contented yard dog. From time to time, she would escape through the fence and come back pregnant (neutering was not a thing in Colombia in the 1980s). We raised maybe 6 or 7 of her puppies and found loving homes for the rest. Eventually, in her old age, one day, she was just gone. We couldn’t find her anywhere.

From those early experiences, I thought having dogs was a big chore I was not prepared for: those were big animals; bathing them was a difficult task, and my grandmother constantly complained about having to cook a whole extra pot of food every day for the dogs. Truthfully, they should have used store-bought pet food, but grandma had an aversion to food waste, so she would come up with recipes for the dogs as a way to keep the pantry updated. Needless to say, as an adult and a single mother, I was radically opposed to having a dog, thinking how much work that would be on top of a full-time job and a kid. But kids always want pets, and after a brief experience with domesticated rats that ended up with me paying an insane amount of money to an exotic pet veterinary to give medication to a rodent, I decided to bite the bullet and get the kid a dog.

Eddie Van Halen, My First Rock Star.

After deciding to get a dog, I determined I did not want a puppy or young adult; I was not ready for that kind of energy. A small, adult dog would be the right fit for me. I found Eddie on a website called Pet Angels. He was a 10-year-old Shitzu mix, tan or greyish though you could not tell for sure, so matted and dirty he was. Also, his hair was so long the head and buttocks looked about the same. I used to joke that I paid attention to what direction he walked to know which side was the face. A nice old lady dropped him at my house, no documents of any kind. He stank. I tried bathing him, but it was as if the water just run over the matted fur, not penetrating. All the dogs I had growing up were short-haired, so I had n idea what a groomer was supposed to do. I took Eddie in the next day. When I went to pick him up, I didn’t recognize the dog the groomer gave me back. Shaved short and sparkling clean, it turned out he was white, so white his skin under the fur was pink. I wanted to give him a rocker name, and Eddie Van Halen suited him well. He was sweet but not cuddly, the kind of dog that sets himself close to you but not on your lap. Eddie became my son’s soulmate, always by his side. After about three years, he got severely sick in a matter of weeks, probably cancer. After Eddie passed, we cremated him, and my now adult kid still carries the ashes with him wherever he moves.

Joan Jett, Bad Girl Extraordinaire.

With me going to work and my kid in school most of the day, we thought Eddie needed a friend. We found pictures of a female on the local Humane Society website. She was another Shitzu, black colored. In the photos, she looked sweet, an elderly lady too, around 12 years old. We took Eddie with us to the shelter to see how they interacted. They seemed ok with each other, and a couple of hours later, she was home with us. Because of her night-black fur, we called her Joan Jett.

It turned out she was pretty mean. Like her namesake, she didn’t give a damn about her bad reputation. She would jump on the couch to hang out by herself or nap; then, when it was time to get down, she waited until Eddie was lying down at the foot of the sofa and jumped, always aiming to use him as a safety net. Joan also had a hilarious habit that we called the “eat-fight-f@#k”: at mealtimes, she would growl to make sure Eddie kept his distance, ate the whole bowl, then go find a giant stuffed animal we kept on the living room, pick a fight with it and then hump it. Every single time. At around age 14, she had a cerebral episode, couldn’t walk or eat, so we had to put her down. Farewell, you little mean thing. You may not have been the sweetest, but you gave us a lot of laughs.

Taco: 5.5 Pounds Of Love

After Joan’s pass, we considered another companion for Eddie. He seemed to get quite depressed alone, even if Joan had not been precisely a good sister. Back at the shelter, we found Taco: 5.5 pounds of pure chihuahua neediness. She was supposed to be 12 years old, an older person who moved south had dropped her announced at some relative’s home, and they had surrendered her to the Humane Society. The first time I saw her, she was being held in arms by one of the volunteers. She did great with Eddie, and we took her home. Taco, with her big sorrowful eyes that look like black glass orbs, her mile-a-minute tail wagging, and an insatiable appetite, has proven to be the most longevous and healthy of them all. If her age calculations were correct, this tiny love machine might be the Methuselah of dogs. It’s been eight, maybe nine years since her rescue, which puts her at about 20 years old. In human years that’s about 140. I don’t think we are off on her age for more than two years. Yet, she runs the backyard like a miniature gazelle, making sure to keep neighborhood watch and cracking up passers-by, who turn around trying to find the vicious barking dog that spooked them, only to find the doggy equivalent of a Smurf.

Sammy Hagar, The Tenacious Tripod.

When Eddie passed, Taco seemed fine on her own. I’ve had enough of the ordeal of keeping two dogs, so I thought I was done with that. That was until a cold January morning when I opened my inbox and found an email from the Humane Society. They were looking for a forever home for a precious, tiny little thing they called Christmas Rose. She was 4 pounds of tangled fur and was found limping badly by the side of the snowy road. I can’t even imagine how anyone could have seen her, so small she was. They had to amputate her leg. Her story broke my heart and my will, and I placed the call. I told the shelter that if they did not found another home, they could call me, and I would see her. She was so beautiful there was no way she wouldn’t find a home. Right? Wrong. A week later, the shelter called: three families had tried to take her, and she had refused, barking and biting. I took a deep breath, resigned to my new fate of elderly dog rescuer, grabbed Taco, and hopped on the car. That day I entered the “meet and greet” room and sat on the floor, letting Taco walk around. A volunteer brought the little tripod dog and set her on the floor. She hopped around a bit, sniffing the curious chihuahua that seemed strangely enthusiastic to meet her. Then she hopped some more and, with an impressive jump, climbed on my lap. Dang. I was taking yet another dog home. Being curly and blonde, I called her Sammy Hagar. Of all my dogs, she’s the only one that would sit on my lap all day long, so I grew extremely attached. She was not too loving toward Taco, but the chihuahua lived for her, and Sammy accepted the adoration. They had about two years of good companionship, then Sammy developed a heart valve issue and did not last long. To this day, she remains the Fairest Of Them All (sorry, Taco).

Ozzy Pawsborne, The White Dragon.

Ozzy was not my dog; he was my “grand-dog.” My son rescued him when he was in college. One night, without any warning, the kid texted me a picture of a beautiful white dog holding in his mouth a hobo bag. It was the chewing toy the shelter had given him, and he took it home when he left with my son, like a scene from a Mark Twain novel. Ozzy lived with my kid through college, then stayed with grandma (that would be me) for a few months until his owner relocated to a different city. They spent a total of four years together until the old dog’s heart gave up. That’s the thing about rescuing elderly dogs: they are great companions, but you will be putting them down to rest always too soon.

Today, after too many heartbreaks but even many more worthy happy moments, only the Mighty Taco remains. And she gives no signs of slowing down. Who knows what will happen after her? I know enough now never to say never again.