A whole group of my friends went out last night for a birthday celebration. In keeping with New Year’s Resolution #1, I wore a silky brown criss-cross t-shirt, my DKNY sweater, the Gap jeans that I had tailored, and my witchy Danskos. I blew my hair dry and even put on some lipstick.
I arrived a little late for dinner because my pit bulls had been piled on top of me on the couch, and that’s a pretty pleasant state to be in. There was a space at the table across from an apparently single male in my age bracket. He was cute, had a little beefy-Matt Damon thing going. We chatted over our meal. We discovered we had the same taste in TV shows. He mentioned struggling to come out on Friday nights these days because of the two dogs that he had at home who really enjoyed cuddling.
The whole gang moved to a bar, and dude and I sat together, still conversing easily. He invited me to his Superbowl party.
It got late. Finally, he put on his jacket, looked me in the eyes, and said, “So…”
And I’ll tell you, nothing makes you feel like Marla Hooch like when the guy you’ve been flirting with all night asks if your beautiful, thin friend is single.
The transport, who runs a shelter down in Beaufort, and I agree on a pick-up spot: Cary, after my weightlifting “competition”. We meet in the parking lot. She has the little blue pit—probably not more than 55 pounds—on a red leash. Buffy, as the dog is called, is very nervous. Tail as far between the legs as it’ll go.
The lady tells me that there’s a woman who breeds pit bulls down near her. “Whatever she doesn’t sell, she dumps at the shelter.” We let out a sympathetic, exasperated sigh.
“Buffy hates the crate, but she’s housebroken,” says the lady. She hands me a blue, plastic folder containing some medical records. And with that, she takes her leave. She’s already spent nine hours in the last two days on the road, delivering dogs to foster families.
I walk Buffy back and forth on a grassy strip in case she needs a potty break. She doesn’t go. She’s trembling. Eyebrows perpetually knitted. I pet her and coo at her.
Some of my friends come out of the gym to say hello. She’s making wide arcs at the end of her leash, trying to keep as far away from everybody as possible. I sit on the sidewalk, hug her, and pull her into my lap.
Lindsay: What happens if you fall in love with her?
Me: If? I think that’s inevitable.
I don’t actually answer the question.
Buffy curls up in the back seat for the ride home, even endearing herself to avowed cat person, Kate M., with her pitifulness. Once at the house, I force her into a crate (coaxing with treats did nothing), walk Redford and Violet for an hour, and then introduce everybody. It goes fine. Some limit-setting, but Buffy’s submissive, so it works out.
I take her outside to try to get her to go potty. She stays at my feet.
She won’t eat. Not treats, not kibble, not anything.
I settle with Redford and Violet in their room. Even after I correct them, every time Buffy comes to the door, they woof her out. She goes into the kitchen, pees on the tile, and poops on the doormat. So, not housebroken.
Day 2
Everybody does their morning stretching, and Buffy comes out of the kennel wagging her tail. Yay! It wags!
She still won’t eat. I pour some chicken broth over her kibble and microwave it for ten seconds. She eats.
I guess the imprinting has taken place. Buffy won’t leave my side for a minute, except to pee and poop in the kitchen, which she does again, despite repeated trips to the yard.
She still resists the kennel, but I am no-nonsense with her. I give her a treat once she’s in there, but the entry requires my physical insistence.
We walk the 2.5-mile neighborhood loop. Buffy is tense. She does pretty well on the leash though she pulls out of her collar a couple times. I just put it back on her, as she doesn’t even seem to think about bolting. So different from Violet “Freedom at Any Cost” Scott.
At one point, I’m sitting at the computer, and I turn to see Buffy with her paw on Redford’s shoulder. Classic wrestle-with-me move. They don’t. Yet.
Day 3
She eats. Faster than Violet, and that’s saying something.
I put her in the kennel and go to work. Worry, worry, worry. I come home. She’s fine.
She pees and poops in the yard! There is much jubilation and giving of treats.
There’s wrestling in the living room. Fast and furious. It’s adorable.
Day 4
Headed out for work, I pick up the treats and tell Buffy to get in her kennel. She gets in. No arguments. Good girl, Buffy.
I decide to try to leave her in the yard with Redford and Violet while I go to the gym. Just an hour, no big deal. She’s been getting along great with them.
When I come home, she’s not there. I curse and, for the next 20 seconds, spin horrific fantasies of her kidnapping. I start to run into the house to get a flashlight when she trots up the street and around the corner to the back door.
Good god, the relief. Both of us feel it, I can tell. I can’t believe she’s pulled a Shawshank Redemption—I was only gone an hour—but I vow to search for the escape tunnel tomorrow.
Day 5
I look for a hole under the fence. Then I figure it out.
Parkour!
That’s the shorter gate that leads off the deck, but she also has to have jumped from the steps to the yard over the gate leading to the deck. Could my foster dog possibly have a 43″ vertical jump?
In the evening, I try to get her to go out because I think she might have to go potty, but it’s raining, and she doesn’t wanna. I walk into the kitchen a little bit later. She’s mid-pee. I clap my hands and go, “Ep, ep, ep!” She looks at me, and I think she understands that I want her to stop, but she can’t stop.
Day 6
Buffy’s going number 1 and number 2 regularly out back, and she runs to me when finished because she knows I have a beefy treat for her.
I confine the dogs to the yard so my friend, her one-year-old, and I can sit in peace on the deck. Buffy and Redford do wild laps around the shed. Buffy gets tired of being that far from me, and I witness the jump over the tall gate. My foster dog is a hard-core parkourist.
Day 7
I realize in one week I’ve never heard Buffy make a sound. No barks, no snarls (play or otherwise), no whines. Is my foster dog a mute?
My brother: How’s the foster dog?
Me: She’s cute and sweet and wonderful.
My brother: Does this mean you’re going to be Amy3Dogs from now on?
Me: No… Probably not.
Excellent peeing and pooping in the yard happening. I’ve potty-trained my foster dog!
She pees on the living room floor as I write this.
