A 3-year-old Corgi mix in need of 'a home where she can blossom!' gives her new owners the slip — and then returns. She might be showing them who's really in charge.
First of all, unless you want a rescue dog, you face the withering judgment of do-gooders who have devoted their lives to saving pups from the boneyard.
I live in Silver Lake, not far from a sprawling dog park. And if an abandoned infant were spotted on the curb of that busy corner, across the street from a dog with a thorn in its paw, I guarantee you dozens of people with porkpie hats and tattooed peace signs would rush to the aid of the dog instead of the child.
"Rescued from a high-kill shelter" is a description often used by dog relocation agencies in Southern California. To get one, though, you've got to fill out forms and answer lots of questions. As I recall, applying for a mortgage wasn't quite as involved. And many of the agencies insist on a home inspection, as well as a donation fee of up to $450.
Be that as it may, my wife and I had been delaying the inevitable for years, telling our daughter she wasn't yet old enough to handle the responsibility of dog ownership. But she's 9 now, and it was time.
Our weeks-long search led us on a recent Saturday to Tailwaggers pet store in Hollywood, across from the Scientology Celebrity Centre, where adoption fairs are hosted by a group that calls itself Dogs Without Borders.
No, Toto, we're definitely not in Kansas.
The dog that caught our eye was a 3-year-old Corgi mix named Hannah, who was described as "a very timid, shy and fearful little girl" in need of "a home where she can blossom!"
Maybe we should have taken that as a warning. But Hannah was cute, and when a volunteer took us to lead the dog on a walk, Hannah turned to make sure my daughter was following.
Can there be any doubt that dogs are smarter than humans? With one look, Hannah had seduced us into agreeing to foster her for a week.
When we got home, Hannah — renamed Ginger by our daughter — cowered. Tail between her legs, she stood still as a statue, her eyes vacant. She refused to walk on a leash, or walk at all, or do anything, so I carried her down to the bottom of our driveway and did exactly what she wanted me to do.
I unhooked the leash.
Why? OK, it wasn't the best idea I ever had, but I was trying to signal that she could trust us not to keep her in bondage. We were standing right there, after all, and she didn't seem interested in moving.
Or so I thought.
Ginger bolted instantly, running like an escaped convict, with me and my daughter in her wake. She rocketed around the corner and out of sight. I ran back home — on two artificial knees — to get the car, determined to re-rescue our rescue dog.
My daughter had waited five years for this pup, and I'd lost her in five minutes.
My wife called the adoption agency to tell them we had a situation on our hands, thinking someone might find Ginger and see the Dogs Without Borders number on her tags.
"That was idiotic!" the adoption person scolded.
I must admit, they had told us rescue dogs can be runners, and that we shouldn't let them off the leash. On the other hand, if you're going to call yourself Dogs Without Borders (was the name Free Range Dogs already taken?), what message are you sending?
We put a photo of Ginger on Craigslist and posted fliers in the neighborhood. The idiot in question then drove for miles, through the day and into the night, with my daughter on lookout in the back seat, crying so hard she became dehydrated.
Copyright © 2013, Los Angeles Times
First of all, unless you want a rescue dog, you face the withering judgment of do-gooders who have devoted their lives to saving pups from the boneyard.
I live in Silver Lake, not far from a sprawling dog park. And if an abandoned infant were spotted on the curb of that busy corner, across the street from a dog with a thorn in its paw, I guarantee you dozens of people with porkpie hats and tattooed peace signs would rush to the aid of the dog instead of the child.
"Rescued from a high-kill shelter" is a description often used by dog relocation agencies in Southern California. To get one, though, you've got to fill out forms and answer lots of questions. As I recall, applying for a mortgage wasn't quite as involved. And many of the agencies insist on a home inspection, as well as a donation fee of up to $450.
Be that as it may, my wife and I had been delaying the inevitable for years, telling our daughter she wasn't yet old enough to handle the responsibility of dog ownership. But she's 9 now, and it was time.
Our weeks-long search led us on a recent Saturday to Tailwaggers pet store in Hollywood, across from the Scientology Celebrity Centre, where adoption fairs are hosted by a group that calls itself Dogs Without Borders.
No, Toto, we're definitely not in Kansas.
The dog that caught our eye was a 3-year-old Corgi mix named Hannah, who was described as "a very timid, shy and fearful little girl" in need of "a home where she can blossom!"
Maybe we should have taken that as a warning. But Hannah was cute, and when a volunteer took us to lead the dog on a walk, Hannah turned to make sure my daughter was following.
Can there be any doubt that dogs are smarter than humans? With one look, Hannah had seduced us into agreeing to foster her for a week.
When we got home, Hannah — renamed Ginger by our daughter — cowered. Tail between her legs, she stood still as a statue, her eyes vacant. She refused to walk on a leash, or walk at all, or do anything, so I carried her down to the bottom of our driveway and did exactly what she wanted me to do.
I unhooked the leash.
Why? OK, it wasn't the best idea I ever had, but I was trying to signal that she could trust us not to keep her in bondage. We were standing right there, after all, and she didn't seem interested in moving.
Or so I thought.
Ginger bolted instantly, running like an escaped convict, with me and my daughter in her wake. She rocketed around the corner and out of sight. I ran back home — on two artificial knees — to get the car, determined to re-rescue our rescue dog.
My daughter had waited five years for this pup, and I'd lost her in five minutes.
My wife called the adoption agency to tell them we had a situation on our hands, thinking someone might find Ginger and see the Dogs Without Borders number on her tags.
"That was idiotic!" the adoption person scolded.
I must admit, they had told us rescue dogs can be runners, and that we shouldn't let them off the leash. On the other hand, if you're going to call yourself Dogs Without Borders (was the name Free Range Dogs already taken?), what message are you sending?
We put a photo of Ginger on Craigslist and posted fliers in the neighborhood. The idiot in question then drove for miles, through the day and into the night, with my daughter on lookout in the back seat, crying so hard she became dehydrated.
Copyright © 2013, Los Angeles Times
