Damaged Goods

Saddle up my last nerve, boys, the foster dog's going to climb up there and sit on it for a while.

A person should not have three dogs. A person should not have three large breed dogs. A person should not have any dog that is young enough, hyper enough and clever enough to get up on a table, take a person's cell phone down, and sneak out of the house with it in their mouth (tucked behind her ear? under her arm, all newspaper-like? How the hell didn't I see her walk out with it?).

Foster dog came to us by way of Sister's mobile rescue unit (read: picks up stray dogs in her Matrix on the way home from the grocery store). I
hinted a long time ago that I would eventually tell the internet her story, and since I am ready to pay someone, anyone, hundreds of dollars to take her off our hands, today seems to be a good day to go public with her profile.

(Coincidentally, "hundreds of dollars" seems to be the cost of a new phone without a new contract, according to the Cingular bastards who scornfully told me on Saturday how unfortunate it is that I do not have cell phone insurance. Please alert me to anyone in the Dallas area selling knockoff Motorolas out of the trunk of their car. I'm in the market for a Goatarola 220v.)

Sister happened upon an abandoned house that seemed intent on keeping a malnourished pit bull puppy in its clutches, if the chain bolted around her neck was any indication. Had there been food and water left for the dog, the chain was fastened too tight for swallowing. After much coaxing, Sister managed to lure the quivering, mangey mess into her car, to the vet, and later into her house. As the new arrival threatened to be the last straw on the overburdened camel's back of her marriage, we agreed to keep the stray on the weekends. Weekends turned into weeks, turned into fostering, turned into please-don't-tell-us-this-dog-is-here-to-stay.

I think this dog might be here to stay. She moved in nearly five months ago. She weighed less than 20 pounds at her first vet visit and is now at a temporary plateau of 50. We cleaned her up, taught her a few things and gave her a strong name that, according to its Indian significance, implies fierce determination and an unbeatable nature. Oddly enough it is also a name consistently mispronounced, despite running prominently in movie credits such as Pulp Fiction, the Kill Bills and
Be cool. The foster dog only has destruction credits; they include our walls, carpet, multiple blankets, socks, water guns and paper products, clothing, and of course her crowning achievement, a camera phone.

On the other hand, she also has a lot of (misguided, bitey) love to give and there is the slightest possibility that she is growing on us. But if anyone out there is in the market for a healthy, completely vaccinated, microchipped young tasmanian devil, just let me know. Until then, she'll be (as Supernanny says) in the Naughty Chair.

1 comment:

Blogger Lisa said...

I know what you mean about the damaged stuff. When we got home from our honeymoon in France, we got a dog. She ended up eating the only momento I bought from our trip -- a very expensive pair of shoes. But its been 6 1/2 years now. We still kept her and after a year, she calmed down.

SHe was a stray too. And she has given us more love than I could ever hope for.

Thanks for taking the stray. Her story is common and heartbreaking. And I hope that if you aren't able to keep her, that she will find another home where she's well treated and loved like she was in yours.

4:42 PM  

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