Bradley (code name: The Gryffon)

I'll let you in on a little secret: sometimes Tim and I "rename" the dogs. We call this guy "Gryffon" (although Tim might argue me on the spelling of it). I'm writing this entry, I get to spell it like I want. :D

Gryffon, er, Bradley is an Irish Wolfhound mix. What the other part of the mix is, well, that's up for debate. Maybe Labrador? He's a really down-to-earth, relaxed sort of dog. He gets along well with both hyper puppies (one a terrier, one a German Shepherd) that we introduced him to. As you can see from the following photos, he really is a gentleman even under duress:

The smaller dog is Pepper, who we had planned to feature as well, but she, like the German Shepherd puppy, was adopted today. As sweet and adorable as the younger dogs are, Tim and I are both really drawn to Gryf. He has a lot of character in his somewhat scruffy face and his kind eyes. At first he was very timid, scooting back to the far end of his kennel when we'd come visit. But his caution gives way to trust eventually and he enjoys a walk outside and a scratch behind his ear. He's not glompy or overly-salacious with affection. Perhaps with time and the comfort and security of a forever home, he'll come out of his shell and express his affection more readily. He's a great dog and will just get better with time and love.

UPDATE 9/10: Our sweet boy was put to sleep this morning. Someone wanted to adopt him, but apparently he was too ill to be adopted out. I'm so sorry we couldn't save you soon enough, Gryffon. We loved you, though. I hope that made your last days a little bit better. Good bye, buddy.

Arlene

There is nothing quite as comforting and reassuring after a rough day/week/month as cuddling a sweet, snuggly, furry puppy or kitten. Having lost so many dogs during the distemper outbreak, seeing this little face again was a joy and a sign of hope. She is a mix of... well, I'm not sure and I don't recall what the kennel card says, but she is likely going to be a big girl when she grows up, which is why she's still at the shelter. But just look into those big chocolate-drop eyes and tell me she wouldn't fit right into your heart.

Arlene survived the distemper outbreak in spite of her tender age and precarious location. After all that, it would be such a tragedy for her not to make it out. Hopefully, someone with room to spare will come for her. She will give that person a lifetime of cuddles and comfort.

UPDATE 9/1: Arlene was adopted! What a lucky dog and what a lucky owner! I'll miss her but I'm so glad she's safe!

Rusty

Rusty is one of those dogs that's both easy to overlook, and really difficult to (and one that I should have featured days ago - I really apologize). He's a mix of... well, dogs. I'm pretty sure. Beyond that, there's some kind (or many kinds) of shepherd in him. And if you have a soft spot for mutts, he's your man. Or dog.

Fair warning: Rusty isn't a dog for the faint of heart or the timid of spirit. Like Sarge, if Rusty had a sleeve, his heart would be worn proudly on it. He's about five years old at our best guess, and I wouldn't be terribly surprised if a lot of that was spent as a stray, or possibly just not having a lot of pinky-up-when-you-drink-your-tea kind of social interaction. What he lacks in sophistication, he easily makes up for in friendliness, though.

When walking him, don't expect a lot of calm and tranquility on a quick jaunt to the mailbox and back. Rusty is definitely a dog of action, and he needs a couple of minutes of quality exercise to shake out his inner puppy before he can settle into a groove. If you don't feel like jogging, he's fine with that; he'll simply run around in circles like a carousel animal until he gets winded, and just a tad dizzy. After that, it's chocks away and he's your number one wingman.

If the first thing you notice about Rusty is his joie de vivre, the second will probably be all of his diplomas from the School of Hard Knocks. His face is peppered with scars and grey hair. There are scuffs on his eye, mouth and elbow that tell of a possible skidding halt on concrete or asphalt. His swaggering gait has a hint of a limp to it (which might be related to the skinned-up elbow). At one point, a child petting him said, "I don't think he likes that dog over there. It sounds like he's growling." Putting my head down close to his, I noticed that instead of growling, he was laughing - and likely, an earlier broken nose had given him a peculiar, gravelly pant.

Reading back through this entry, I feel like I've done Rusty such injustice - I've pointed out every flaw and quirk that would make the faint of heart... well, faint. But the right person will see the character and history in every grey hair and every scar. And they'll know how to smooth off the rough bits, laugh at the pratfalls, and burnish the larger-than-life qualities that make Rusty absolutely shine.

UPDATE (Aug. 4): Things keep getting more frustrating at the shelter. There's construction on the street just outside (you can even see it in the top photo), so no one is really coming in to look at dogs or cats. Seems like the only people driving the extra couple of blocks to get there are doing so to drop off more animals they don't want.

Rescue groups have come, and come again - pulling what animals they can to place in "no kill" shelters and foster homes. But they're full. And the shelter is full. And every time I see Rusty's smiling face as he asks for just one more walk outside, just a few more minutes of palling around... My heart breaks a little bit more.

UPDATE (August 8): Rusty was picked up yesterday by a rescue group! I'm not sure which one yet, but I'll try to follow-up if I can find out more.

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Smitty (AKA, "Buster")

Weekends at the shelter are usually a great time - some of the most amazing folks volunteer there, and Saturday is when most of them can shake loose from the daily grind and come play. One of my favorite volunteers is a guy who always seems to have an extra bit of happiness to share around, and a real way with dogs both large and small. After having spent time exercising dogs ranging from Chihuahuas to a St. Bernard, he got ready to call it a day and hopped in his car.

A few minutes later, he came back into the shelter with this young fellow in tow. While leaving, he had seen a couple of guys in a truck slow down a bit, chuck this poor dog out onto the sidewalk (at about 10-15 miles an hour), and speed away. Without pausing a beat, he had pulled over, scooped up the pup, and whisked him back to the shelter to be checked out.

When I got back to the shelter (I was away when it had happened), young Smitty was sitting in his kennel, shaking and looking around nervously. Moreover, he hadn't touched his food. I sat down next to him, casually looking around and waiting for him to calm down. Smitty - who I straightaway nicknamed "Buster," owing to both his earlier pratfall and his deadpan face - sniffed at me cautiously, then licked the air nervously. I gently petted his shoulder, and he crawled right into my lap and promptly fell asleep. I felt so guilty when I had to finally get up and go, but he took it in stride, and nibbled a bit at his dinner.

Monday, Sophie and I decided to brave the rain and take Buster out for a few photos. He was very calm and friendly, though he kept trying to crawl up into my lap whenever he had the chance. Remarkably, he seems to have walked away from his tumble with only a few minor scratches and scrapes, which made me very happy.

When I had to clean his kennel later on, I simply clipped his lead to one of my belt loops, and he followed me so well he never even took the slack out of the leash. And when I was in the kennel next door with Chester, I would periodically glance up to see Buster's eager face bounce up over the kennel wall, then back out of sight. It seems like now that he's seen a bit of comfort and affection, he's very hesitant to let it slip away.

Best of all, I saw him smile today - something I hadn't seen since he came in.

UPDATE (August 1):

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UPDATE (August 14): Two weeks. Buster was with us for only 13 days, then he was gone - the "kennel cough" that he'd contracted had masked the only early symptoms of canine distemper, a far more serious (and lethal) infection. By the time any tangible symptom had appeared (in Buster's case, myoclonus of the facial muscles), it was far too late. In less than twenty-four hours, he was beset by pneumonia, encephalitis, disorientation and seizures. He might have been able to hold on another day, perhaps less; and if by some miracle he survived (CDV is untreatable), he would have suffered horrifically and been left destroyed both physically and mentally.

It was an impossibly painful decision, but we decided that Buster's last memories should be ones that would give him comfort, not agony or fear or hysteria. He was euthanized by anesthesia overdose yesterday, and his body cremated to prevent any other animals from being contaminated.

I can handle the grief - the sorrow, the pain of loss. I can cope with the guilt that I'd let him down so very badly, and wasn't able to save him. The only thing I can't grapple with right now is the anger; the abject disgust for the reason he was in the shelter in the first place, the reason he got sick. The reason he died.

The chance that a mature dog will contract CDV is remakably small, assuming that the human who is responsible for him gives enough of a shit to keep his vaccinations up-to-date. Because someone couldn't be bothered though, Buster is dead.
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Rufus!

Just a couple of weeks after we began volunteering at the animal shelter, Sophie ran across this tiny ball of fur. It looked to everyone like a cross between a Husky and a potato (because up until a certain age, all dogs look pretty much like potatoes). As Sophie sat with the puppy, named "Rufus," snuggling and comforting it, the Shelter Director walked up and nodded in their direction.

"That puppy's too young to stay here. It'll need a foster home." She punctuated the latter sentence with what novelists refer to as 'a significant look'.

After discussing it with Sophie, we agreed that - ready or not - someone would have to step up, and it might as well be us. Thus began two months' worth of attempted house-training, socializing, and looking for a good, stable owner to adopt him. The sleepless nights came as an added bonus. Four aborted adoption missions later (and five other foster animals come and gone), we finally threw in the towel and declared him a "foster failure," as the shelter employees teasingly refer to it. Since he had spent 75% of his life with us thus far, we figured he could stick around for the rest of it.

Rufus has his own Blogger page, "Raising the Rufus," where we basically natter on about some of the ups and downs of bringing up a puppy (now an adolescent dog) in our bizarre little world. Maybe we'll even discuss some things that we learn along the way about what to do - and what not to do - when forging a relationship with (hopefully) the furriest member of your family.