A Tail of Two Urchins

The other day at Edgemont Park, my son and I saw a magnificent German Shepherd regally strolling down the path with his owner.  The dog, aptly named "Commander," took our breath away.   He was ninety-four pounds of lean power.  His muscles rippled under his rich, thick, glossy coat.  As if this weren't enough, his intelligent eyes clearly understood the profound mysteries of the universe. 

My son glanced dejectedly at our own two shaggy little mutts romping maniacally in the grass, before pointing to the German Shepherd and announcing, "Now that's what I call a REAL dog!" 

I countered defensively, "What do you mean, 'a real dog'?  Our dogs are real!"

"MOM!" His eyes flashed at me challengingly.

I tried not to cringe as I glanced sheepishly at the two absurd creatures.  They were sniffing each other's butts.  I sighed.

'Sheepish' is the operative word here.  I must admit our dog, Jazz, looks more like livestock than a housepet.  Jazz has a round, fuzzy white body and a black face, short skinny legs with pointed feet and a terminally silly, short tail that looks, my son says, "like an egg covered in fur." 

Also, she has large, black, bat-like ears.

For ownership of this oddity, I'm completely to blame.  I should never have strayed (pardon the pun) from the Golden Retriever page of Petfinder.com.  But that fateful summer of 1999 we had decided to rescue a dog, and we just couldn't find any goldens in need of rescuing.  There was, however, on the Australian Sheepdog page, an URGENT posting for a 6-month old puppy in West Virginia.  She had only a few hours to go before she was euthanized. 

The blurry photo, I decided, must be a mistake.  She couldn't look like that.

A New York rescue group was only too glad to transport this comical creature from the shelter in West Virginia to a meeting spot in New Jersey.  Jazz, it turned out, looked exactly like her photo.  An Australian sheepdog mixed with several other mystery breeds (or, if you like, species), Jazz still inspires a range of quizzical commentary from passersby.  "How, er . . . cute!"  they say, or perhaps, "What happened?"   But Jazz is a very intelligent animal.  Understanding that nature has played a practical joke at her expense, she cops a half-defiant, half-apologetic attitude towards the world, waddling past curious onlookers with her mismatched head held high.

Our next dog, Fionn, was supposed to change our luck.   When I saw him it was love at first sight – he was an adorable white, miniature mop.  I adopted him on the spot and we named him Fionn --"fair one" – after a Gaeilic warrior.   Ha!  No one would laugh at this storybook-perfect dog!

Um, not so fast.   Fionn was harboring a terrible secret.  We discovered it the first time we gave him a bath:  his skin was covered in bizarre pink and grey spots.  The soggy creature looked like a dirty sidewalk that somebody splattered a strawberry milkshake on.   Hmmm.

Then we made another alarming discovery: Fionn needed orthodontia!  Overnight, it seemed, his jaw began to jut forward in a way that can only be described as wrong. One tooth especially protruded over his mustaches at a jaunty angle.  I was utterly dismayed.  My husband and I discussed the situation late at night when the kids were in bed.  We fretted, how can we afford braces for the two kids and Fionn?  Especially in this recession?  It was a tense time for our family.

And then it got worse.  Fionn proved to be a juvenile delinquent and an incorrigible thief.  He stole Jazz' pup treats and marked his territory with unrepentant glee.   He had a rap sheet at the groomer's.  I tearfully explained to my husband that it wasn't his actions that bothered me, it was his lack of remorse.

What it comes down to is, both Jazz and Fionn are rescue dogs.  No one else had wanted these kooky little critters.  Jazz was a tangle of neuroses and fears when we got her.  Fionn, a PAWS dog, came from a puppy mill.   No wonder they acted like Dickensian street urchins.

We took in these two bedraggled creatures because . . . well, someone had to.  The way I looked at it, we were lucky to be a position to help them: we had a fenced-in yard, enough money for vet bills and dog food, and time to devote to their care.  Because they'd both come from bad situations, they needed time to heal and learn to trust.  We were able to give them that.     

Let's face it -- I probably will never have a majestic creature like Commander.  As much as I admire him, I know perfectly well that dogs in need of rescue have my phone number on speed dial (my son told me so).  I guess I'll always have a "sheepish dog" or some other unexpected situation sitting winsomely on my kitchen floor, looking at me with adoring eyes.   And I will always cave in  immediately.  I have no illusions about my character -- or lack thereof.