Street roots
13
Nov. 22, 2013
The new addition to the family isn’t what was expected
n August, Ramona and I drove to Salem
to meet Regis, a fluffy little puppy whose
picture we’d spied on a rescue society’s
website. He would be the yin to our
Newfoundland-mix Vera’s yang, when we
brought her near-toxic level cuteness home
eight years ago. I’d been cruising websites
looking for a love match for about a year —
it s been my husband’s family tradition to let
the current dog train the next one for a
couple of generations — though I was the
driver on our effort - almost 40 and not
reproducing past young Ramona, seven, I
allowed I’d have another dog if not another
baby. This little Pyrenees mix looked just
about right - used for guarding herds of
sheep in Europe, and, it turns out, Texas,
the breed characteristics looked like a fit -
good with kids, “protective of property and
family.” Sign me up!
Have you ever bought a used car? Dealers
now call them “pre-owned,” the language
implying that someone has done you a
service by getting initial ownership out of
the way for you. Language is tricky that
way—and it turns out that the descriptor
“Protective” has a few different meanings.
More on that in a minute.
When Ramona and I peeled ourselves out
of our un-air conditioned Volvo and looked
around, a bustling volunteer named Mary
leapt from her car, leash in hand. And as
she did, the guttural bark of a hellhound
followed her. She waved, turned, and led
from the back seat a gangly white dog who
tumbled to the ground as though he were
still learning how to navigate his long legs.
In the time since the photograph had been
posted online, little Regis had gone from a
fuzzy twelve-weeker to a five-month-old
teenager. But Ramona ran to him, no
disillusionment on her excited face. And I
looked into the deep, complicated, dark eyes
of the dog I had a sinking feeling would be
my new best friend and nemesis.
He let Ramona walk him on leash. He
licked our hands. He sniffed the other dogs
in the dog park, but showed no interest in
playing. Somehow, his face, gnawed on and
scarred by a wild animal or a barbed wire
fence sometime between wandering away
from his mother outside Waco and his being
rescued, communicated sadness and hope at
the same time. Was I anthropomorphizing?
Maybe. I taught Ramona that word in the
I
Melissa Favara
Melissa Favara
teaches English in
Vancouver and lives
and writes in North
Portland, where she
parents Ramona, age
7, hosts a bi-monthly
reading series, and
counts her husband
and her city as the
two great loves o f her
life.
car back to Portland, the new dog in the
back — on the hour trip, we renamed him
Charlie, after the gangster Lucky Luciano
on account of the scars.
Back at home, we had a week to decide
whether to keep him; I made the earliest vet
appointment I could, five days later. And we
entered the world of rescue raising.
We knew there would be more work with
Charlie than with Vera, who came to us with
a clean slate. We were committed to taking
in a dog that needed us under the theory
that we are pretty dog savvy people, had a
lot of love to offer, a big house, a good yard,
and the best elder canine sister in the
world.
Fast forward three days after Charlie’s
arrival. I’ve just returned from the fenced
dog play area at Normandale Park, and
Charlie has just played for the first time!
Full-on play bow, rolling with a smaller dog,
taking swipes with his front paw—a really
good citizen. I pat him, give him a treat, and
go upstairs for a short nap, and then I come
downstairs again to discover a vast puddle of
urine on the antique rug Marshall’s mom
brought back from India, a steaming pile of
poop in the dining room, and my 1950s
vintage Pendleton Peter Pan-collar jacket
crumpled on the kitchen floor, delicate little
bites nibbled all the way around the edges
of the collar.
The next day, second helpings of
everything — Charlie shows progress: he’s
sitting by my side of the bed with his chin
on the mattress, smiling, tail awag when I
wake. When my 20-year-old cousin, who lives
in our den, comes home from dishwashing
at a brewery, leftovers from the line in hand,
Charlie decides they should be his, and
snaps harrowingly close to Joe’s more
tender parts. He cuddles with Ramona on
the couch. He snaps at her fingers when she
reaches down to retrieve an origami frog
she’s made and that he found interesting.
And he barks. That flock protection we’d
watched admiringly online, where the
Pyrenees dog holds off a pack of coyotes
with his tremendous voice? Charlie’s like
that. But he appears to be inspired to
protect our house from people walking by
on the sidewalk, idling cars, cyclists,
skateboarders, the neighbor taking out his
trash, the mailman, helicopters, and air.
Especially air. He’ll go a half an hour
protecting us, loudly, from air, easy.
And yes, he’s still here, with Thanksgiving
approaching. When he was new, a day
before the vet check and two days before we
had to decide, I felt a bump on his right
shoulder - it felt like a marble of bone
affixed to the joint. Though we’d been
thinking of possibly not rising to the
occasion, when I felt the lump and, being
Somehow, his face, gnawed on and scarred
by a wild animal or a barbed wire fence ...
communicated sadness and hope at the same
time. Was 1 anthropomorphizing? Maybe. 1
taught E* nona that word in the car bach to
Portland, the new dog in the back — on the
honr trip, we renamed him Charlie, after the
gangster Lucky Luciano on account of the
scars.
me, typed it into Google, only to see the
word cancer pop up, my eyes had filled with
tears. I’d grown accustomed to his chewed-
up face. I felt an unexpected stirring - and I
realized that Charlie, though he wasn’t the
pup I’d bargained for, meant something to
me already. Maybe it was because I, too,
was feral in a way, as a first generation
college student and blue-collar kid who now
has a professional job and still feels like I’m
learning my manners. When the vet said it
was a bonespur and that Charlie made good
eye contact and his hips checked out, I
signed on the line that was dotted.
We’re still experiencing a step forward
and two back — he’s our problem child.
Ramona is never with him unsupervised,
I’ve cleaned up a level-five bad belly incident
after Charlie ate a roll of paper towels and
defaced pretty much the whole basement
floor. But watching him at the dog park run,
tail high, smiling, keeps me in the game.
Ramona wants him to stay — she coined his
nickname, Charlie Boy. And that’s just it-a t
9 months now, he’s a boy — a kid — my kid.
My goofy, untrained, feral kid. Wish us luck.
We’ll keep you posted.
T o g eth er
R
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