No Guarantees but Love

Recently we volunteered at a festival booth, for a dog rescue. I held Buster. Most clearly, Buster’s melting acceptance held me. He resettled his head against my arm, he didn’t complain when I shifted him to make change or tear off raffle tickets; and when we sat down during the dachshund races, he lay against my shirt (Proud Owner of a Rescued Dog) without fuss and with a good deal of contentment.

Several people were interested in him, but most of them drew back when they learned his age: 9. “I want a dog that will live a long time.” “I want a dog that’s playful.”

The Make a Wish foundation is built on the dreams of the tragically and very young ill. Last night’s news had a thirty second clip on a 14 year old, shot dead at a house party. Maybe we should comment that she had 8 years on the 6 year old who was killed in a drive by shooting, or 12 years on the 2 year old who was squashed by a pet python, or 13 years on the baby who died a crib death. But those are people, you could say: what about dogs?

We could remember the loved 1 year old dog who died of reaction to a routine immunization vaccination, or the 5 year old who developed cancer, or the puppies who never survived in that dog mill – because their mom never had even the most basic care. There are no guarantees of tomorrow – for any of us, no matter what our age, financial status, social standing, or happiness level. Each day is a gift. What the people in rescue do, is accept today, and work their butts off in hope for tomorrow.

Dogs come into rescue from three major areas: overloaded shelters, owner turn ins, and mill busts. Maybe we laud the release of dogs from the hell holes of mills, and understand how a shelter built to house 50 animals now faces housing 250, but how could an owner turn in a dog?

Very heart-breakingly. The owner dies, and the family members have no space in their homes for an animal that Grandma loved. The owner goes into assisted living. The owner loses a job, moves into an apartment that won’t accept animals. The owner is going through a divorce, being deployed overseas, must get the animal away from abusive boyfriend. There are many stories of despair and loss behind the dogs who come in, dogs who are deeply loved.

Very easily. Owners have turned dogs in to rescue because, “We redecorated the living room and the dog no longer matches the furniture. Do you have any in our new color scheme?” Or, “He’s 10 years old, and we want a puppy.” Or, “My husband’s getting a sex change operation and we can’t afford both the operation and the dog.”

The dogs are heart-breakingly grateful to escape the mills, the abuse, and the chaos. But when they come into rescue through owner turn in, they’re often stunned. The world that existed for them, for 5 of 8 or 10 years has disappeared. They grieve. Eventually, most of them find love with a new family. For a long time, they remember the people they gave their lives and hearts to.

Buster was an owner turn in. He’s 9 years old – too old for many prospective adopters to seriously consider him. One lady with two children and tears in her eyes held him close to her, and he snuggled in. Maybe she is his new mom. Maybe his family will appear in two weeks or two months. In the meanwhile, he is safe in body and learning to life with his grief as he moves toward a new life: a dental, getting his vaccinations up to date, high quality food, and lots of compassion. We do what we can: we do everything we can.

There are no guarantees in life, except love. The best guarantee of all.

Space

We built a wonderful new bookcase, modified Arts & Crafts, and decided we are finished buying books. Books on the shelves are wonderful; books that need to be moved from the shelf, to the shelf, to another room on the shelf, multiply. How could we have found so many books that we need? At one time and another we did, and the books, never leaving home, reflect our past and present interests. They are beguiling to read, challenging to ponder, and in toto, difficult to contemplate. Since we avoid taking them off the shelves unless we’re forced into it, when it was time to return them to order, we behaved in character.
Our first response was mutual denial. “This is your book,” extending a volume toward each other, “I was never interested in this, so you need to find a place for it on the shelves. Your shelves.”
Our second response, as predictable, was to reshelve books, sort books (discover multiple copies of some of our books), rediscover books we had enjoyed reading, wanted to reread, never got around to reading but wanted to. And realize that indeed, somehow let off the shelves, they had expanded and we had more books.
“I have a problem,” I told him.
“That sounds personal.”
Undeterred, as well as unwilling to admit personal culpability for all the books I had needed at various points in the past, I explained that though the new bookcase was full, I still had six sagging stacks of books on the floor. They were categorized, though. “The acupressure and acupuncture.”
“Well, stick it to ‘em.”
Philosophy.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Before I ran out of their space, most of the religion books made it on the shelf.”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“Astronomy. Half on the shelf and half on the floor.”
Instead of telling me to find an answer in the night sky, he did one of the things that makes him endearing. “Tomorrow, let’s go out and buy you another bookcase.”