Considering how long it takes our family to make a decision about anything (this includes what to have for dinner; make of that what you will), I was pretty sure if we were to ever get another dog, there would be months of planning, discussion and research before we came to 'yes'.
So I can't help but credit the Universe for the turn of events that broadsided us this month.
One of my dearest friends and a three-dog-owning, foster mom of rescue animals had been trying (unsuccessfully) to get us to foster a dog for ages. She knew, after we lost our sweet Bailey several years ago, our hearts just weren't ready to open our hearts to a new pet. In her view, fostering would benefit all involved: we could flirt with the feeling of pet ownership again, and we'd help dogs on their way to their forever homes, with no long-term commitment necessary. Still, my husband resisted.
Enter Exeter. My friend called me on a Thursday with a half-joking question: would we be interested in emergency fostering a 2-year-old German Shepherd mix for the weekend? Just until a new foster family could be found? I needed more information. She sent me a link with a photo and info on the dog, and said he was in NYC for the night but needed to be placed before Saturday.
I showed my husband the picture and explained the situation.
"It's just for the weekend. Look, he's super cute, though what is up with that name?" We laughed, and I reasoned that we still had all the toys, bowls, crate etc. that had belonged to Bailey. Plus, my friend would bring him up from the city for us on Friday! We'd have a beautiful autumn weekend of play and walks, and be doing a good deed. It couldn't be easier! He was skeptical, but indulged me.
Friday evening, the dog rode the train from NYC to Westchester, then sat the car with my friend, who drove him to our driveway. He was sweet, shy, beautiful and well-behaved. We showed him around the house so he could get his bearings, where he was and wasn't allowed to go, and immediately put the kibosh on his couch-surfing habit.
After a piddle incident in the playroom (mainly, I assume, due to his nerves and not knowing where the exit was,) he had a walk, drank some water and slept (reluctantly) in his crate.
Saturday, my husband and I went to the local pet store for necessities--dog food, a rope (he really liked tug of war with the smaller toys we already had) and cookies. We had been calling him Exeter, the name the rescue had given him, but he didn't respond to it and we didn't particularly like it anyway. Do we change it? we wondered aloud. We only have him for four days. But it's a dumb name. Yes, but what if an adoptive family wants to rename him something else and he gets used to what we start calling him? My husband said, if he were to rename the dog, he'd call him Sirius, the dog of the hunter Orion, according to Greek mythology. Plus, the dog was black, so we had a neat little Harry Potter reference thrown in to boot (Sirius Black, who'd also had an unhappy early life).
We decided to start calling him Sirius, though sometimes called him Exeter, afraid to commit to either name, just as we weren't ready to commit to keeping the dog ourselves. Needless to say, the dog responded to neither name.
Upon returning from the pet store, my husband held open the front door to let me in. Of course, the dog walked out. He stood on the porch a moment as if disbelieving he was actually outside untethered. Then he took off down the driveway, gathering speed as he ran toward the corner and main road nearest to our house.
Calling to him was fruitless, of course. He had tags but no identity. He was a wanderer, a foster, having gone from home to home, south to north, city to suburbs over a matter of weeks.
"No! Exeter! Stop! Come! Sirius! No!"
As I chased him up the block, praying no car would come over the hill and hit him, my 20-year-old son followed me out with a leash. I lost sight of the dog but pointed to where I'd seen him go, and told Ben to keep looking; I was going back for the car.
A million thoughts raced through my mind. What do I tell the rescue? We lost the dog less than 24 hours of getting him? How would I post a "missing dog" status in my community groups?
"Missing: black and brown, German Shepherd mix dog, approximately 45 lbs. Does not answer to any name. Not food-oriented. No owner but has a collar and a chip." Putting my phone number and address would be as embarrassing as having lost him in the first place.
Was the Universe trying to tell me we were not cut out to be dog parents again? Had we gotten too old, too careless?
By the time my son and husband cornered Exeter-the-Exiter/Sirius two blocks away, he'd befriended a lovely family with two boys and a female dog named Layla. Thankfully, he's also neutered.
I was winded, the dog was scolded, and we were all too tired for tug-of-war with the new rope. At least, we told ourselves, we'd only have him for three more days. Surely we could manage that.
Narrator: "In fact, they could not manage that."
To be continued....
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