The ball that threw itself

Jordan and I walked through the seemingly endless rows of barking, jumping, and tail-wagging dogs, searching for the “one.” Most families congregated around the “green-collared” dogs—dogs with no major behavioral issues—introducing their shyly excited toddlers and young children to these mellow canine companions.

We spent our time in the yellow- and orange-collared section, the dogs with various health and behavioral issues. In walking these rows, one must be comfortable with being growled at, charged at, and treated as an adversary. I was disheartened. We had walked through the dogs, and none stood out to me. As I looked at Jordan, he shrugged. Apparently, this was not the day.

We turned the last corner and saw Poppy, a white and black speckled borderjack, hiding under her bed in the corner of our cage. She was as hidden as a dog in a shelter could reasonably be. And even amid anxiety, fear, and deeply set anger, kindness brightened her eyes. Poppy still had a lot to share and give. I knew then that she needed a home and people to love her again.

We found the attendant and asked him to arrange a play date outside. I wanted to see how she experienced the world outside cages and constant stress. He raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised that we would be interested in a dog reserved for the “red-collared” certified handlers. His manager found us as we were waiting, explaining that this dog was not the dog for us. This dog was too broken. This dog was not going to be a successful adoption. I thanked them for their frankness but reassured them that Poppy would be no more of a challenge than my previous adoptions.

We waited in a large, empty play yard. It felt like a prison, with eight-foot chain-link walls, a small guard station, and an emptiness that was hard to shake off. After 20 minutes, nervousness began to creep up; I found out later that Poppy was delayed because she was fighting the staff. She was paralyzed with fear. She did not want to move from the safety she carved out in her small corner of the kennel.

Finally, they managed to persuade her into the play yard. She promptly laid down at the far end, resigned to deal with the situation. The attendant came in, bringing a pail of balls to throw. I carefully walked over to the end of the play yard, trying not to startle her. I rolled a ball over to her. She eyed the encroaching ball with a gaze reserved for a frenemy, but made no move to engage with it. I rolled another. And another. Each ball was disregarded. There would be no fetch today.

I sat down against the chain-link fence and beckoned Jordan to join me. Together we sat for ten minutes, talking about whatever came to mind. Occasionally, I threw a ball to the far side of the play yard. We paid no attention to Poppy other than rolling a ball over to her. Each ball was dispassionately assessed.

We continued to talk until we were interrupted. A ball rolled over to me and tapped against my shoe. I turned to look, and Poppy stood about five feet away. A ball had thrown itself against my shoe. She tried to look casual about the ball, because of course it was not her that threw it, but a gentle wag of her tail betrayed her. There was excitement beneath the surface.

I picked up the ball and looked at her, excitement in her eyes. She simply could not contain it anymore. I threw the ball to the far end of the play yard. She exploded in a burst of energy, determined to catch the ball before it landed. Poppy slowed as she brought back the ball, remembering her situation. But she dropped the ball, and it rolled back to me. I picked it up and threw it again. We were off to the races, and Poppy was determined to win.

And as the staff clustered around the play yard, marveling at this new dog, Poppy and I ignored them. We were engrossed in playing a serious game of fetch. And when she was worn out, panting loudly yet still wagged by her tail, she dropped her ball near my feet. She plopped her body down, looking up at me expectantly. I obliged, sitting on the ground near her, carefully still giving her space. But space was not what she wanted. She stood back up, closed the distance I left, and laid down, resting her face on my knee and looking directly into my eyes.

We were lifelong friends.