You Had Me at Woof: How Dogs Taught Me the Secrets of Happiness (13 page)

Within minutes his age went from six to ten years old. Between perspectives, human error, and the total chaos that is a shelter, color is about the only fact they get right. I’m often amazed I don’t end up taking home a zebra.

Tara sent a request to see if the CACC could have a behaviorist evaluate him. It was going to be nearly impossible to find a foster family without other dogs, and the ones with dogs were wary of one who wasn’t going to get along well with the home crew. She also offered to come in herself and have a look if that wasn’t possible.

The woman at the shelter said probably no to the behaviorist, but she herself had taken Sherlock out with a Chihuahua and he had seemed fine. He was really a sweet dog. Tara decided to go meet Sherlock; this was her report:

I read this and was laughing so hard Paul came over to see it and then he was laughing, too, and then I e-mailed it to Mattie and she called me up laughing. She also said, “You’re going to take him, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to pick him up—well, not physically because I don’t want a hernia.”

The fat jokes were rolling!

SHERYL HAD WRITTEN BACK
to Tara that it was as she had suspected, that the personality information had just been misleading. She also wanted to see if Tara thought the dog was six or ten.

Tara wrote:

It was always significant to me when a volunteer said they’d take a dog if they could. I met a lot of dogs and didn’t want them all. Paul and I talked a little about it. We thought the potential comic aspects of Sherlock would be great and didn’t think it sounded like he could do any significant damage, especially if he couldn’t move that much.

I read under the note for me to pick him up that they still needed a foster home to get him started on a new, thinner life. I told Sheryl that I would pull him and foster him. We were all excited. We waited to get the call that he was free to leave.

It took a week. Saturday night they said he’d be available for pickup anytime after 9 A.M. on Sunday, so we planned to go then. After breakfast and walking Bea, we boarded the crosstown bus.

The shelter in East Harlem was not as bad as some of the others, though the relentless sounds of barking made me feel ill at ease. It always felt insignificant to be taking one dog when there were so many more. And usually we would be taking the most adoptable one—a lovely purebred Boston terrier. Small dogs and purebreds are the most desirable at a pound, especially in New York City.

We arrived and were sent back to the offices of New Hope, the group who works with rescues. The contact, Lisa, was waiting for us. She told us to fill out a form and she would get Sherlock. She came back in with the handler, and when I first saw him the word “manatee” came to mind. He had a tiny (or was it just regular-sized?) head on this huge body. He also had Bordetella, or “kennel cough.” So he was obese and coughing and he had discharge coming from one of his eyes. It really sucked; if we’d been able to take him before the one-week waiting period, he would not have been sick. They gave me a ten-day supply of doxycycline and eyedrops and said, “Just keep him away from all other animals.”

“Um, what about our dog?” I asked, stupidly.

“You have another dog?” Lisa said, like I’d been trying to hide something.

Paul jumped in. “Yes.”

Starting to move on to her next project, she declared, “You need to keep them separated.”

“We live in a New York City apartment,” I said and held my hands close together to indicate that our apartment was only four inches wide.

She shrugged and said, “Well, your other choice is to leave him here and get him in ten days.”

We didn’t know what to do. I called Sheryl on my cell phone. I briefed her and she said, “Oh, bloody hell!” Most of us with dogs that aren’t boarded opt out of the kennel cough vaccine. I was trying to remember if Bea had had it. I knew she had it when she was young because the breeder had given it to her, but I wasn’t sure if that would still be effective.

“Can you call the vet?” Sheryl said. It was Sunday. The vet was upstate, and they weren’t open. The thing was, we really wanted to get Sherlock out of there. It wouldn’t be good for him to stay there in his condition; clearly, he was not thriving. We decided to take him. Worst case, if Beatrice got the cough, she’d get treated. She was such a healthy dog, so we crossed our fingers and signed Sherlock out.

The first step was putting on the collar we brought for him. It was like trying to harness a whale with a ponytail holder. The collar was the largest one we had—a size medium. Bea wore a petite/extra-small. Sherlock was more of the Big and Tall variety. Fortunately, they sold collars at the shelter and we picked out a lovely teal harness and matching leash that were probably meant for a Newfoundland or a Saint Bernard. The man who worked in the store also gave Sherlock a free stuffed animal—a white squeaky dog and a pink one for Violet.

We planned to walk him a few blocks; we were all the way at the East River Drive and needed to get closer to where we could find a cab. So we started sauntering. Sherlock took about five steps and lay down. Coughing and wheezing, a puma he was not. Paul finally remarked that he had to go to work in less than twenty-four hours, so we needed to move a little quicker . . . than backward. So he picked Sherlock up with an audible groan and carried him, noting that in addition to his health conditions he stank like the monkey house.

So Sherlock the dog sprawled out on the backseat of a cab, and Paul the large man and me the tall woman and Violet the human child squished into the windows first for space and then for air. We dragged him out of the car and insisted he walk the five feet to the apartment building. I went up to the apartment and got Beatrice so the two could meet on equal footing, not on her turf. She wanted to go for an energetic walk and he just wanted to find a place to rest. I ended up walking Bea and Paul took Slim, as we called him, home.

He didn’t do much of anything but pant. He found a cool spot of wood floor and lay down (well, more like crumpled). He didn’t want much to do with us or anything, and we had no idea, really, what he was like. It was still a “shock” period.

I posted to the group to let them know we had him.

Cut to two days later. He didn’t get to that size by not being interested in food. We started seeing glimpses of the real Sherlock (Paul was calling him Sherlock Homeless) on day three when I put food down for each dog and he sprinted to his bowl and vaporized it. After licking the bowl clean, he looked up at me; there was a piece of kibble on his nose, but not for long. No food was safe. Getting a little something in his tummy, and a few days of antibiotics under his belt, started bringing him around. He was a fat boy, but he had moves. Well, one move. Humping. He humped Bea. Then he humped the coffee table, his bed (that one made sense to me), and finally, us. I shoved him off, but Violet had more difficulty. I spent my time guarding her from Sherlock’s “funny dancing.”

By the end of week one, he was spry and spirited. His walking was immeasurably better; i.e., he did it without collapsing. And after a bath and a nail clipping, during which we sang the “Merry Old Land of Oz” makeover music (
Can you even dye my eyes to match my gown? Uh-huh! Jolly old town!
), why, Sherlock was ready for his close-up. If he didn’t eat the camera first!

When the antibiotics course was done, Sherlock became his own dog. And he was kind of a pain in the ass. He barked and leaped at Bea and tried to take her on. And, oh, the humping! Though he had fifteen pounds on her, she was the alpha and they started scrapping it up, which we hated. He also started marking his territory—peeing on the edge of the sofa, bed, my desk. He ripped apart the stuffed animal the shelter gave him and tore the eye off of Violet’s before “marking” it as well.

“Why can’t he go back to being a blob, Mom?” she asked.

As the second week was nearing, I gave Mary Lou his photos and a biography for her to put on Petfinder and our site so we could start getting some applicants and send him to his “furever” home.

“Has he lost weight?” Sheryl asked me on the phone.

“Ummmmm,” I sang, “well, he doesn’t look like he’s about to explode anymore.”

“That’s something!” she replied.

I figured he must have been burning a fair amount of calories with his sex simulations.

We knew someone was going to see his photo and fall in love. He was a big fella and that appealed to a lot of people. He kind of reminded me of the cartoon dog Muttley, or an illustration of an English bulldog often seen on New York City T-shirts.

A few days after the ad was placed, a man contacted Sheryl. He wanted Sherlock as a playmate for his Boston terrier. Paul and I were extremely happy; the big fat end was in sight. The man filled out an application, and the people in the group did what they did—interviewed him, called his references and his vet, and arranged a home check. He really wanted Sherlock. It was early in the week and he was willing to drive into Manhattan—seven hours—and pick him up from me on Friday night. The problem was there were no members of the rescue group living close to him, so the home check was really difficult to arrange. Since he’d adopted from a boxer rescue before, I asked Sheryl if we could call them and find out if they’d done a home check. She agreed. We often worked with other rescue groups in that way. I frequently did home checks for groups that didn’t have members in New York City. I checked the Boxer Rescue website and our applicant was on there with his dogs in the Success Stories, so that was already good. I left a message for them and e-mailed them to find out what they knew. The woman who had done his home check got in touch and said they had a lovely, well-kept home and were great owners. All was good and I made the arrangements.

Whenever I was fostering I tended to look at the group site less. Sheryl and Joy always included me on their e-mail exchanges, though, since we all could use as many laughs as we could get.