My parents' new house came with a 14 year old red lab, Maxie. Maxie was old, but in good health, and we figured that she'd make it another couple of years and then pass away. Maxie didn't run away from you, or into the road. Maxie didn't nip (though she did bite Mom if Mom got too close to Dad, Maxie's person). Maxie didn't jump up. She barked-at hot air balloons and taught my brother's Beagle puppy Chester to do the same. Maxie and I were buddies, so long as I wasn't distracting my father's attention from her. She lived to be 21. I found her the night she died. The farm isn't the same without her. Sure, Chester is now six, and his companion beagle Sarge is seven. But nothing replaces the presence of that red lab. Maxie, in conjunction with Maggie and Georgie, taught me that older dogs are something I enjoy very, very much. Their companionship was remarkable.
I have been a cat person my whole life, but for a multitude of reasons, I decided in the fall of 2009 that I wanted a dog. I'd been mulling the idea over for many months, and I knew I wanted an older dog who needed a home. Usually a rash person, I knew I had to wait for the right dog to come along. I wanted an English Bulldog- short, stout, adorable, with an under-bite, loyal, and snory. Unfortunately, those cost the same as an entire paycheck, so I knew that unless I found one for adoption at the shelter, I wouldn't be starting my dog-ownership career with a bulldog.
One day at work, I was describing my ideal dog qualities to the women I work with. One, a definite dog person herself, startled up and said "there is a Brussels at the shelter that is exactly what you want!"
A what? "What the hell is a Brussels?"
"A Brussels griffon." She went on to describe the breed for me: loyal, small (a good thing when living in a room in a house with a small back yard), under-bite, and snory. I logged onto the local shelter's web site and found a picture of the dog she was talking about, who was named "Quincy." He certainly had the underbite. He wasn't very big. He was hairy. Long story short, the dog on the website was a hot mess.
("Quincy" September 2009.)
The next day I went to the pound, on a hunch. I've walked through countless pounds in my life and never been motivated to take home any of the dogs. The cats all make me sneeze (a cursed allergy) so I'd never been real motivated to take any of them home with me either. I presented my ID and began to wander through, passing cages with Chihuahuas (a breed so common in my current place of residence that they are referred to as squirrels) pit-bulls (adorable, but I can't afford the insurance on a pit-bull) and a cute little Chocolate Pomeranian that I'm sure some of my friends would have wanted me to adopt on the spot. And there, in the kennel next to the Pom, was "Quincy." He wasn't barking or yapping or showing off. He simply looked up at me through the overly long eyebrows, with his mustache creating wings off his face. To put it simply, he was ugly. He was hairy. He was skinny. He moved funny. And from the second I looked down into the brown eyes staring up at me, I knew he was mine.
I wandered around a while longer, always coming back to cage 14. My little guy didn't change-just continued to look up at me in his patient, all understanding way. After a while, I went to the woman in the front and asked to adopt the dog in 14. She nodded, and checked her records. "UGLY?! YOU WANT TO ADOPT UGLY?!" I affirmed that I very much did want to adopt the dog in kennel 14. She looked at me doubtfully and sent me back to get him out and pet him. He settled into my arms immediately and I kissed my heart goodbye. This was my dog. I returned to the front and confirmed that I indeed wanted him.
Another woman had joined the one in front. "UGLY?!" the new one asked for confirmation. I nodded, grinning happily. "Yep. That one." As I was filling out the paper work, the shelter's humane society contact came in and was greeted by the original worker saying "Guess what! she's adopting Ugly!!"
I got the story on my new pet from the Humane Society worker: He was 9 or 10 and had arthritis in his rear legs (hence the funny movement). His owner had kept him outside all of his life. His name had been Jake. He was neutered. When the owner and his girlfriend had split up, she'd let the dog get out. The pound had picked him up and called the owner, who quite passionately said he did not want the dog back and for the pound to dispose of the dog, which they were faced with having to do the following day, as he had stayed the limit on his welcome. He was a sweet dog and never caused issues.
They opened the cage and placed my baby in my arms. The cost? $30. Perfect for my first year teacher's salary. As I was collecting him and my paperwork, the second lady in the office offhandedly mentioned she'd been calling him Quasimodo, after the hunchback of Notre Dame. I looked at my baby and said "Hey...Quasi." His eyes met mine and he gave a snort, which I have learned to be his noise of contentment. That was easily settled. Quasimodo. Quasi for short. We left the pound and went to the store, where I got the best dog food I could find, a leash (his nemesis), a food and water bowl, medicine for the arthritis, treats, and a dog bed which cost me as much as his entire adoption. We went home, where my new guy got a bath, a brushing, and a haircut. Not too bad.
My roommate's reaction was "What the HELL is that?" He wouldn't bark for the first two days. He liked to be petted but didn't seek attention. He slept and snored at the foot of my bed in his bed. Because of the damage to his back legs, he could not go up or down stairs. I took him to the vet for his rabies shot, where they told me he was suffering from malnutrition (the former owner's doing, not the shelter's) arthritis, and was abused. My poor, poor little Quasi. He got his shot, his nails trimmed, and a clear bill of health, minus a few bad teeth, which need to be removed. I asked if they had a date of birth, as his former owner had employed the same vet I was now consulting with- September 16th, 2000. 9 years exactly before I had adopted him from our shelter.
Since September, I have seen radical changes in my dog. He started eating. His love of water became apparent quickly. "Wah wah" is his favorite word. Through walks, medication and good nutrition, his arthritis improved. He now goes up and down stairs, though it takes him a bit longer than it would a completely healthy 9 year old Brussels. He learned to talk: and boy, does he!! If he's left alone (or goes upstairs without waiting for me) he lets you know he does NOT approve being by himself. He often goes to work with me on days when we have no students, and he sleeps contentedly next to my desk. I took him home with me at Christmas, and he went to work with my mom a couple of times, where he greeted customers and gave them all an earful. When I arrived to pick him up, having realized my mother had stolen him that morning while I slept, he followed me everywhere I went: mom said he'd spent the entire morning looking for me. The customers (after trying to convince my mom to sell them my baby) commented on how he never took his eyes off me.
He was granted his middle name of Lorax due to his resemblence to the Dr. Seuss' character (and his tendency to bark at the trees in the back, as if having a conversation). Quasi's love for me, his mommy, overwhelms me. My little rescue dog turned out to be the rescue I needed.
(Quasimodo Lorax, Christmas 2009).
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