After Cowboy's waiting months to see his friends Monty and Bruno, we were finally going to meet up with them at a huge wave pool for an afternoon. I was as excited as Cowboy when Coco, their mom, invited us; it felt like Christmas in June. And Cowboy woke up bright and early the day of our outing; he set a record getting his swimsuit on. Unfortunately, it was a moving-through-molasses kind of morning. I’d fallen out of the habit of keeping the swim bag by the front door, fully stocked and ready to go on a moment's notice. To get to the pool by 11 a.m., I’d need help.
"Fix lunch for us, Cowboy," I hollered, while gathering towels and sunscreen and goggles and lipstick - yes, lipstick - it helps divert attention from the lack of mascara as well as the lack of skin elasticity in my face. Or so I'd like to think. Finally, The Bag was ready. As I rounded the corner to the kitchen, I saw Cowboy had made lunch. He’d also promptly eaten it. Our departure was further delayed while we made a second lunch.
As we ran out the door to my van, I noticed something under our other vehicle. Two eyes peered back at me when I bent down to look. A brown and tan dog looked back at me. With the 100-degree weather, I knew he or she was looking for shade.
That dog might need water, I thought. But that thought was superseded by visions of Cowboy’s reaction if we had yet one more delay. Feeling guilty for my neglect, I called my dog-loving neighbor Vanessa to see if she’d noticed the dog around the neighborhood, and asked her if she could take water to him, which she did.
Cowboy’s reunion with his friends was a breath of fresh air. But in quiet moments between visiting, I kept praying for that dog under my car. When we came home, the poor thing was sitting in the shade right next to the garage door. He hurried back under the car, with his tail tucked under him, when we opened our car doors. The water Vanessa left seemed untouched.
“Hi baby,” I said, still keeping some distance in case he was afraid. I brought more water out in a clear bowl, thinking perhaps the red cloth travel bowl looked strange to him. But he still wouldn’t drink. I scooped water into my hand and held it out. Soon, he was drinking out of my hand. Elated, I brought him some dry dog food and returned to the house. Three minutes later, I came out to check, and the food was completely gone. He started wagging his tail, and came out from under the car to be near me. The change in his demeanor was amazing.
“Yeah, I get hangry too,” I explained to my new friend. I brought out only a little more food, not wanting to cause any stomach issues in the extreme heat, and he gobbled it down and drank more water.
From the guest room window, my own dogs Pete and Bobbie Sue could see me fraternizing with a rival; they howled and barked the entire time. I tried scooting closer to the garage door to hide from them, but they sensed my betrayal.
Every time I went into the house, the puppy went back under the car. I had to find help quickly; there was no way that dog could take the heat the next day, and I couldn’t bring a strange dog into the house or backyard due to Cowboy’s apprehension when he first meets a dog, especially a bigger dog.
I googled all the animal shelters in the area, and my first question for each one I called was, “Are you a no-kill shelter?”
“No,” they all replied. The employee of the last facility said. “The nearest no-kill shelter is on the other side of Houston.”
And so, I instant messaged Eden, a woman I knew to be a dog fanatic. In fact, the first time I met her was at a dog park several years ago. I’m convinced, were she on a deserted island, a dog would find her.
“Hi Eden,” I texted. “There’s a dog under my car who needs a home. Can you help me?”
What ensued was my crash course in Intro to Dog Rescuing. I learned about fostering and adoption in a matter of minutes, frequently checking on my furry squatter outside.
“Be careful if someone claims to be the owner,” she explained. “You will ask them specific questions to see if this is their dog. Is the dog a boy or girl? Does he/she have a collar and if so what kind and color? Things that the true owner would know. Ask them to bring shot records to claim the dog.”
Eden had a connection with a local rescue society, but we needed a foster family for the dog to go to before a rescue could happen. And that could take too much time. I posted pictures of the dog on my personal Facebook and on a couple of lost pet Facebook pages. And then I thought I’d better find the answers to the questions Eden had given me to ask possible owners. So there I was, trying to coax the dog out from under the car, so I could see its gender. Being quite shocked and embarrassed when I suggested looking at his underbelly, the dog refused to budge.
“Go take some kind of smelly food to bring him out. Like tuna or something,” Eden advised when I called her.
I emptied a can of chicken into a small container, as Bobbie Sue glared at me with smoke coming out of her ears. You never give me a whole can, she said with her glaring eyes. It’s true; licking the can is usually the most she gets. But then, she’s hardly starving.
Sure enough, that lovely chicken aroma brought out the dog; I could almost see the smelly vapors luring him, like the visual smells in old Looney-Tunes cartoons. It worked like a charm. As soon as he was out in the sun eating chicken, I lied down on the driveway to look at his or her undercarriage. Which, by the way, is not easy to do with a dog that keeps moving. I can only imagine what the neighbors were thinking.
Finally, the dog turned sideways, and I saw that he was a she. I’d assumed it was a male because, of course, it was a lost dog who clearly had not asked for directions home. She had a pink worn collar, as well as a harness. But no tags.
After much deliberation, and taking the advice of Eden, I called a nearby shelter. The little girl had already wandered into the street twice, and it was clear she didn’t know the dangers out there in the world. It was my third call to that particular shelter that day, and I’d asked as many questions as I could.
“Are you going to put her down if nobody claims her? How does this work? Can I call and check on her?”
Two hours after meeting this dog, and I was emotionally invested. After the chicken delicacy, she followed my every step, jumping up on me to play. I went to the house to get a big sheet, laid it on the grass, and sat down so we could get to know each other. She crawled on my legs and kept trying to lick my face. Everywhere I moved, she moved. Clearly, we had bonded over the chicken.
“You look like a Layla,” I told her. “That’s what I’m calling you.” Then I sang her the song; I’m sure Eric Clapton would be proud – not so much of my singing as of her name. Layla, clearly part German Shepherd, was in my lap most of the time.
“Oh. You’d like Keith Urban,” I told Layla as I pulled up YouTube on my phone. I played “Blue Ain’t Your Color,” and she cocked her head from side to side as she watched Keith sing, in much the same way I do. When I played some Whitney Houston, Layla turned away. Clearly, Layla’s a country music girl. And a well-groomed one; she smelled good, and her teeth were sparkling. I figured she was still a puppy. I took pictures. I took video. And she took up residence in my heart. I wished we could keep her.
“In a little while, someone is going to pick you up, Layla. They are nice people, and they are going to help you and give you a place to sleep tonight. And they can help you find a family. I don’t want you to get hurt out here. But I’ll never forget you.” I was surprised by the tears that ran down my face. Our time was precious. I couldn’t believe the little girl I’d met a short time ago, with her tail tucked under her as she hid in the shade of our car, was now acting as if we’d been friends forever.
When the nice man I’d spoken to came to pick her up, it took everything in me to not start building on a new wing of the house just for Layla.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m calling her Layla. And she likes Keith Urban.”
He smiled and called her to him. But she didn’t budge. I knew she already trusted me, and I felt like the Ultimate Betrayer turning her over to yet another stranger. There’s no telling how many she’d seen in her journey to being lost. Stalling another minute, I told him that Layla was clean and very well groomed, and her teeth made me think she was a puppy.
“She looks like she’s about six months old,” he replied.
I knew I needed to help her leave. But it’s hard to watch a part of your heart walk away on four feet.
“Come on, Layla. It will be okay.”
She followed me to the truck, and her tail stopped wagging and once again tucked under her, as the man bent down to pick her up. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done watching her go into that truck.
“It’s okay,” I told her, not sure who I was reassuring more – her or me. Peeking through the openings in the little window of her compartment, I kept encouraging.
“I love you, Layla. You’re going to be okay.”
I still can’t think about that moment without crying.
“Can I please call and check on her each day?” I asked the understanding man. He said I could.
And so, it was done. I posted more pictures on social media, and prayed a lot. It was a Wednesday. I checked on her Thursday to see if she had a microchip; she didn’t. On Friday, I spent the day praying and checking Facebook pages to see if anyone knew her family. Nobody had come forward to claim her.
On Saturday, a lady answered at the shelter. I asked her all about the puppy, and she reassured me all was well. “Yes, she is happy. Yes, she is wagging her tail, and has warmed up to us.” Relief enveloped me, and rather than sounding upset with my calling, the woman with seemed pleased to give me information.
“We are calling her Layla,” she continued. I was thrilled that the man who picked her up passed that name along. Maybe someone at the shelter will adopt her, I thought.
I knew the vet would be in to check on her on Tuesday. After that, she would be free to be rescued or adopted. Time was ticking away, and I doubted her family would find her.
Monday afternoon, I called the shelter to tell them nobody had come forward on Facebook. “Well, someone is coming at 2 p.m. today to meet Layla,” the wonderful shelter woman told me.
“What?” I gasped. “Oh my gosh. That’s great.”
Somehow I mustered up enough restraint to keep from going up to the shelter at 2 p.m. to put the potential owner through my own rigorous screening process. But at 4:30, I was told, “It went very well. The woman who met Layla is a friend of a volunteer here, and she’s coming back tomorrow with her family, to see how it goes.”
On Tuesday afternoon, I held my breath as I dialed the shelter. Again, the female employee I’d spoken to previously answered.
“Layla was adopted by that family,” she told me. “It was amazing. Their dog, also a German Shepherd, and Layla were very compatible. And the lady’s child got along perfectly with her too. It was a match made in heaven. She’s in a good home. In fact, our shelter volunteer had told me, ‘If this family adopts her, she’ll have it made for the rest of her life. She’ll never want for anything.’”
I was over the moon.
“Oh, and they changed her name,” she added. “They are calling her Cassie.”
“Awww,” I replied, “I like that name.”
Wherever Cassie is today, I know she has a bright future. I’ll always remember the date she got a new family; it’s Cowboy’s birthday, the day he joined our family. And I wish I could’ve watched my friend on her ride to her new residence. She must have been thrilled. Because, as we know dear reader, there’s nothing like coming home after a long, difficult journey.