Blockhead, or maybe Snuffy, part 1
For the past 11 days Tom and I have been struggling with a dilemma. We found a puppy and don't know what to do with him.
We live in the country and there are tons of country dogs around here (read: loose, unfenced dogs with no collars who 'belong' to various people who live in a one-mile radius of wherever you see the dog). We weren't sure if this little guy was someone's country dog or just lost.
He's probably about 6 months old, still smells like a puppy, nails still nice and sharp from being new. He's kind of funny-looking: shortish legs, longish body, big blocky head, long floppy hound-dog ears. We found him one morning on the way to school to give finals. He was cowering by the front porch. It was icy that morning and he was cowering so, that we decided to bring him in and put him in the bathroom and figure out to do with him when we got home.
He was a good boy and didn't wet in the house. He had an indentation in his fur where you could tell he had been wearing a collar, too. We gave him a fleabath, and decided he could sleep the night at our house. The greyhounds loved him. They thought he was so cute and cool! We all slept well.
The next morning, he was a fiend in the kitchen, prying open cabinet doors with his snout, begging like you wouldn't believe. The greyhounds didn't like that; they're very well behaved and you could see the annoyance in their faces at how wild he was being. We struggled with what to do; this is not the kind of area where putting up flyers would be useful. We decided to put him back outside. After all, he could be someone's country dog, and the collar indentation supported that. Maybe he'd just go home. We would have just offered him a little hospitality, that's all. Like a little bed-n-breakfast hotel. We put him outside and he snuffled off, nose to the ground making these snorting snuffling sounds that are undescribable. We went to work, came home, la la la, went to bed, heard whining and scratching, opened the front door, and there he was. He came in, began acting like a fiend in the kitchen, and we put him in the bathroom for the night.
The next day, we put him outside, went to work, came back, he showed up that evening, we put him in the car (he is very very heavy) drove to our friendly neighbor's house and asked if they knew where this little dog lived. They said no, but try Pastor Rutherford, he knows everybody.
I need to explain a little more about our street. It's rural. Long gravel driveways lead back into the woods at least an acre in most cases before you see a house. People here? Well, I don't want to be a strange car going down their long creepy driveway at night. We ourselves have a long creepy driveway and my first thought when someone comes up it is "Who the hell is that??" Additionally, there is a church on our dead-end street: an evangelical church. If you don't know about evangelical religions, the people seem very nice but they fall on the floor and speak in tongues, etc. Plus, I read in an obituary notice that pastor's three daughters did an interpretive dance at the funeral of an old man who was an attendee of the church. Tom and I do not want to attend this church. Everyone who lives on our street attends this church except the friendly neighbors I spoke of, a single mom who lives across the street, and us.
Armed with all this knowledge, Tom and I decided reluctantly to go see Pastor Rutherford. We had dropped off a lost weenie dog there once before; the teenage son answered the door and he knew whose dog it was. That young man had the thickest glasses I had ever seen on someone who was not mentally retarded. I know that sounds mean, but it's true. He was a very polite young man, though. Anyway.
We arrive at the Rutherford's and nobody is there! Tom saw cars leaving the church, though, and we knew we had to make a decision quickly. We plunked Blockhead down on the porch, got in the car, and sped off. I suffered guilt over this, but c'est la vie.
Three nights ago it was bitterly cold: in the 20's and everything was iced over. Wet watery sleet was coming down. We heard a yowling coming from the woods. We tried to pretend it was nothing. Eventually, Tom opened the door and put on the light. After a moment, Blockhead appeared. He was cowering and begging to come in. We brought him in and put him in the bathroom for the night. The greyhounds were excited to see him.
The next day we wrestled with these options: take him to the dog pound (certain death), take him to the humane society (might not be possible, and besides, what kind of life is a life in a cage?), turn him out again and hope he goes home, dammit. If Blocky were cuter, the humane society may have been a good choice, but this dog is not cute. He is not going to be the one to get picked. BESIDES we still didn't know if he was someone's country dog! I didn't want to be responsible for driving some little boy's dog an hour away to the nearest humane society and then having the congregation at The Rock (that's the church) praying for his safe return home.
So what to do? I'll finish the story later, gotta go!
For the past 11 days Tom and I have been struggling with a dilemma. We found a puppy and don't know what to do with him.
We live in the country and there are tons of country dogs around here (read: loose, unfenced dogs with no collars who 'belong' to various people who live in a one-mile radius of wherever you see the dog). We weren't sure if this little guy was someone's country dog or just lost.
He's probably about 6 months old, still smells like a puppy, nails still nice and sharp from being new. He's kind of funny-looking: shortish legs, longish body, big blocky head, long floppy hound-dog ears. We found him one morning on the way to school to give finals. He was cowering by the front porch. It was icy that morning and he was cowering so, that we decided to bring him in and put him in the bathroom and figure out to do with him when we got home.
He was a good boy and didn't wet in the house. He had an indentation in his fur where you could tell he had been wearing a collar, too. We gave him a fleabath, and decided he could sleep the night at our house. The greyhounds loved him. They thought he was so cute and cool! We all slept well.
The next morning, he was a fiend in the kitchen, prying open cabinet doors with his snout, begging like you wouldn't believe. The greyhounds didn't like that; they're very well behaved and you could see the annoyance in their faces at how wild he was being. We struggled with what to do; this is not the kind of area where putting up flyers would be useful. We decided to put him back outside. After all, he could be someone's country dog, and the collar indentation supported that. Maybe he'd just go home. We would have just offered him a little hospitality, that's all. Like a little bed-n-breakfast hotel. We put him outside and he snuffled off, nose to the ground making these snorting snuffling sounds that are undescribable. We went to work, came home, la la la, went to bed, heard whining and scratching, opened the front door, and there he was. He came in, began acting like a fiend in the kitchen, and we put him in the bathroom for the night.
The next day, we put him outside, went to work, came back, he showed up that evening, we put him in the car (he is very very heavy) drove to our friendly neighbor's house and asked if they knew where this little dog lived. They said no, but try Pastor Rutherford, he knows everybody.
I need to explain a little more about our street. It's rural. Long gravel driveways lead back into the woods at least an acre in most cases before you see a house. People here? Well, I don't want to be a strange car going down their long creepy driveway at night. We ourselves have a long creepy driveway and my first thought when someone comes up it is "Who the hell is that??" Additionally, there is a church on our dead-end street: an evangelical church. If you don't know about evangelical religions, the people seem very nice but they fall on the floor and speak in tongues, etc. Plus, I read in an obituary notice that pastor's three daughters did an interpretive dance at the funeral of an old man who was an attendee of the church. Tom and I do not want to attend this church. Everyone who lives on our street attends this church except the friendly neighbors I spoke of, a single mom who lives across the street, and us.
Armed with all this knowledge, Tom and I decided reluctantly to go see Pastor Rutherford. We had dropped off a lost weenie dog there once before; the teenage son answered the door and he knew whose dog it was. That young man had the thickest glasses I had ever seen on someone who was not mentally retarded. I know that sounds mean, but it's true. He was a very polite young man, though. Anyway.
We arrive at the Rutherford's and nobody is there! Tom saw cars leaving the church, though, and we knew we had to make a decision quickly. We plunked Blockhead down on the porch, got in the car, and sped off. I suffered guilt over this, but c'est la vie.
Three nights ago it was bitterly cold: in the 20's and everything was iced over. Wet watery sleet was coming down. We heard a yowling coming from the woods. We tried to pretend it was nothing. Eventually, Tom opened the door and put on the light. After a moment, Blockhead appeared. He was cowering and begging to come in. We brought him in and put him in the bathroom for the night. The greyhounds were excited to see him.
The next day we wrestled with these options: take him to the dog pound (certain death), take him to the humane society (might not be possible, and besides, what kind of life is a life in a cage?), turn him out again and hope he goes home, dammit. If Blocky were cuter, the humane society may have been a good choice, but this dog is not cute. He is not going to be the one to get picked. BESIDES we still didn't know if he was someone's country dog! I didn't want to be responsible for driving some little boy's dog an hour away to the nearest humane society and then having the congregation at The Rock (that's the church) praying for his safe return home.
So what to do? I'll finish the story later, gotta go!
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