Barron

I went out to the humane society on Tuesday. I was scheduled to work out, but didn't really feel like it, so I punted. That is to say, I did something I wanted to do that would give me more energy, namely walking dogs.

The weather had been off and on all day, spitting rain and threatening more, so when I got to the shelter, I was surprised to find that almost every dog had already been walked twice. (Often there's a direct correlation between weather and walks. Golden day? Dogs get walked. Raining day? More volunteers stay home.)

The only dog who hadn't been walked twice was Bo, a five year old German Short Haired Pointer who I'd walked twice before. I started towards Bo, but then realized that the "Get Acquainted" room was empty. That's a room the humane society uses for people to meet the animals they're thinking about adopting. When it isn't being used, we can use it for socializing puppies…which is another way of saying I got to snag a puppy from its kennel and play with it. (I still can't believe this is considered a volunteer position. I'd think people would pay to do this.)

Of the two half-lab, half-Dalmatian sibs available, I chose Baron, the black with some white on him, rather than Barnabas, his white with some black on him brother.

Every new dog encounter is an education. Baron was eager for attention, giving little jumps in his cage…but when I opened the door, he ran away. I crouched down and made gentle little noises to reassure him, and he came close enough to pet. I stood up, to take him to the Get Acquainted room—and he ran away, clearly scared. I crouched down. He came back. I stood up. He evaporated.

Eventually, I got him calm enough to carry, and then stood up with him. I carried this wiggling ball o' fur into the Get Acquainted room and put him down. He skittered and leapt. I took off my jacket. He flinched.

If you're getting the idea that Baron's a bit skittish, you're right. Something or someone has scared him. My wife and I talk about the shelter dogs often, and we sometimes refer to "the break," as in when did the break in his trust happen? When did the person who was supposed to take care of him…not? How old was he? Was he, like Baron, at an age when warmth, love, and continual physical contact are essentially biological necessities? Or was, like my dog Drake, enough older for them to simply to be accepted and expected before they vanished?

Once the coat was off and down, and all sudden movements slowed for a bit, Baron settled in to a nice and loving routine. I'd throw a tennis ball. He'd flail after it. He'd come running back. Half the time he ran under a little plastic bench in the corner, as if for shelter, then came to me. The other half of the time he ran straight to me. Both routes ended up with a joyous jump into my lap and a snuggle.

After about every third or fourth throw, he'd hang out for a bit, smelling my shirt or sweats, lolling on my jacket, or just tucking his snout under my chin or against my belly. It must have taken all of three minutes to get him from scared and hiding to a living love sponge.

The only problem after that was that apparently he doesn't like my singing (but then, who does), and that he thought I left to walk Bo too soon.

Greg