Bonding with Bobby

When you live with a dog, things can go from good to bad as quick as a shot, with no warning.  If I'd forgotten that, I was reminded of it today by Bobby, the impish Cocker Spaniel who's a bundle of cuteness and mischief.

The first time I saw Bobby on Petfinder, I fell in love.  It wasn't hard.  He was adorable and winning and it was hard to imagine that there could be anything but sweetness in that doleful face.  I hadn't lived with a Cocker Spaniel since I was a young child, but having shared my life with Springer Spaniels for almost 20 years, I figured I knew what to expect.  I was wrong.

Bobby was a doll during the long ride from New York to Massachusetts on the warm September afternoon that I met him and brought him home.  He was coming with a rap sheet, so I had entered into our adoption contract advisedly.  Through no fault of his own, he'd landed in a kill shelter, but had been miraculously rescued by Pamela Schechter of Companion Critters, who cuddled him and coddled him and gave him a spiffy haircut so he'd make a good impression.  Bobby had lasted at his original adoptive home only 48 hours, having been asked to leave after he bit his adopted "father" as he tried to collar him when he fled from their fenced yard.  I was cautious, but initially undeterred.

After only a few days, I was ready to bring Bobby back.  His fascination with my cats bordered on mania.  They were terrorized, spending their days quivering under my bed while Bobby strutted his stuff.  I couldn't believe what I'd done to them; I had been assured that Bobby liked cats, but he sure didn't show any respect or affection to Neil, Glenda, and Django.

Not only that, but I discovered that Bobby's name should have been, "Mr. Into Everything."  After having lived with several mild mannered Goldens and Springers for so many years, I was completely unprepared for a dog who not only surfed counters but regularly safaried into kitchen cabinets, waste baskets, and purses, eating everything in his path.  He was a seven-year-old in a seven-month-old's body.  I hadn't signed up for that.

But instead of relinquishing Bobby, I decided to take him on.  A few sessions of training were only marginally helpful.  The trainer thought she could use conventional methods to bring Bobby around, but none of them worked on a little guy who wasn't used to being told what to do.  I tried EFT and though for 24 hours, Bobby didn't flinch when he spied one of the cats, the magic quickly wore off.

It finally hit me that Bobby was like no other dog I'd ever had.  I had to learn his rules, and play by them, if we were going to make any progress.  That meant lots of sweet talk and encouragement, and never trying to grab an item of contraband from his mouth, lest I become bite victim #2.  I praised him and loved him and even when he exasperated me, I forgave him.  Again and again.  And he forgave me.

I became the student, and Bobby, the teacher.  As I softened, so did he.  We grew closer, in spite of myself.  Even the cats noticed the difference, gradually gaining the confidence to mingle with Bobby without fear.  On days when I spend hours bent over a computer, Bobby's little face peeks up from under the table as if to say, "Take a break.  Pet me."  And I do.

Yet I hadn't understood how much Bobby meant to me until this morning, when somehow, he scooted away as I opened the door to retrieve a just-delivered package.  Perhaps because his mostly white coat blended with the snowy driveway, I didn't see or feel him go.  It was only when my other dog, Tennessee, tried to push the door open as I was closing it, that I realized something was amiss.  I turned around expecting to see Bobby waiting in the hallway behind me, but he wasn't there.  I rushed around the house, frantically calling him, but then, in horror, I understood that he'd bolted.  My heart sank.  I could feel the adrenaline rising as I flung open the door and screamed, "Bobby!  Where ARE You?!"

And there, sitting quietly as though nothing had happened, was Bobby.  Not a fugitive, but just a little Cocker Spaniel who, after more than a year, understands that this is his home--a place where he is loved and appreciated for who he is.  A place where he belongs.

Welcome home, Tennessee

When I saw Tennessee's picture on PetFinder, it called to me.  There was something about the soulful expression of this sweet-looking dog that made me want to meet him, even though I couldn't imagine that he hadn't already found the perfect home.

As it turned out, he hadn't, and his kind foster Mom, Marie, graciously invited me to drive down to her home in Connecticut to see if we might be a match.  When I arrived there this morning, Tennessee greeted me a bit tentatively before I could even get out of my car, letting out a few half-hearted woofs, as if he considered it his duty to announce my arrival.  But he soon approached me with polite curiosity, and seemed to welcome the gentle touch of my hands and fingers as they caressed his soft body.  Marie said this was the first time Tennessee had shown such interest in a prospective adopter, and I cautiously held my breath, hoping that the spell wouldn't be broken.

It wasn't.  With each passing moment in the company of this doe-eyed dog, I could feel my heart melting more.  I can't say it was love at first sight, because I could see how much Tennessee loved Marie, and I knew that if it were up to him, he'd happily have stayed with her forever.  But at the same time, I sensed that this cinnamon-coated boy might let me into his special world, too.  He willingly jumped into the back seat of my car, though he started to fret a bit when he realized that we were literally leaving his comfort zone.  Once on the highway, he settled right in, and even relaxed enough to take a nap.

It was what happened when we got here that seemed so remarkable.  Within seconds after we walked in the door, my feisty cat, Django, marched right up to "Tenny" to welcome him, immediately sensing that the big dog meant him no harm.  His older brother, the orange tiger, Neil, soon followed, never even blinking as he ventured close enough to sniff.  So far, so good.

If I had any concerns about how my dear Springer Spaniel, Tish, would react to the newcomer, they vanished when she simply looked at Tenny as if he had always lived here.  And honestly, that's how it feels.

Welcome home, Tennessee.  Welcome home.