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Old 09-09-2013, 17:29:56   #1
MDA
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Location: updated his email address and can look but not post
Rescue me

Skip to the next post if this is TLDR and you want to get to the laughing at the fuckwit part.

Six arrived tonight, right to the house. A man and his daughter brought her, the last in a long chain of volunteers that picked up, drove, and delivered her, our first foster. It’s dark, but as the crate comes out of the SUV, I can see her squeezing herself flat in the bottom, trying to maintain her balance.

This is her second time through the system, she’s seven years old. A red tri, small. At least, she should be small. She doesn’t need coaxing out of the crate, she’s done with that; but she immediately sits down, unmoving, panting. She’s clearly, grossly, overweight. She’s also got a rare and unsubtle bouquet. We’re told that, despite the former owner’s assurances she’s been given Frontline, she’s got fleas. I call her by name and she goes belly down on the pavement, but stretches her head out in my direction. Submissive, friendly, terrified. My wife is naturally able to manage a higher pitched greeting, and she’s not afraid to sound a little silly in front of strangers. She gets a little less fearful response and Kris takes the leash.

The father provides us with a bag of food and tells us that he had one that was doing well and got really attached. Then he tells me had to put him down a few days ago. He wouldn’t stop trying to attack strangers. Two days later I realize he’s preparing me… sometimes they come to us too late to be saved. We say our goodbyes.

We get Six into the light by the front porch, and I run my hand through her hair. The fleas boil up and then scatter back into her hair. She’s infested. This is the kind of infested you see on those Animal Cops shows. I wonder how many of the volunteers will be flea bombing their vehicles tomorrow. God, she reeks. She’s fat, her eyes are bloodshot, her nails are long and broken, and she’s jumping at every sound. We were warned earlier in the day about fleas. I grab the shampoo and my wife leads her to the bathroom. Six won’t get in the tub. She presses herself flat on the tile floor and I can’t get the leverage to get her up. Any dog can make itself heavy, but I think Six used her chubby cleavage to suction herself to the tile like a fat red barnacle. She gets more and more terrified and tries to scuttle past me into the corner. As she gets more frantic, I start worrying she’ll snap at one of us. We’ve also been warned she pees sometimes. I don’t want particularly want to be chewed on or peed on, and Six doesn’t need that kind of first night experience with her foster home. We agree to move the party to the driveway. I’d rather do this in good light, but you take what you can get. If we can get rid of the funk and just *most* of the fleas, everyone will be more comfortable. She tolerates the bath, and all the sudsing of flea soap into places fleas like to hide. Score.

An hour passes. She’s staying very close to both of us, anxious if one of us leaves the room. She keeps a piece of furniture between herself and me, but applies no such restriction to my wife. She submits to petting. Emphasis on the word “submits”.

Bedtime. She won’t crate. We can work on that later, it was more out of fear for our carpet than for Six. We get her into the kitchen and baby gate one doorway while putting the crate with a treat and a towel in the back as bait at the other. Maybe she’ll sleep in there if there’s no one around trying to force her.

One a.m. my wife is awakened by a jingling collar. Six is at the bedside, clearly pleased with herself and delighted to have found my wife. The baby gate has been skillfully removed from the doorway, and is still upright, leaning against the kitchen cupboards like someone with hands had put it there. Our own Aussie was capable of similar feats with baby gates, and heavy glass shower doors (he preferred sleeping in the shower). I caught him doing it a few times without him knowing and it’s remarkable what a nose can do. The best part is the little Aussie bum-waggle they do when they make a some progress.

We surrender the bedroom and Six places herself in the doorway, probably so we won’t wander off and get lost without her knowing. She wants to be close, and she’s willing to go to great lengths to get there, and that’s the most promising part of the evening.

Last edited by MDA; 09-09-2013 at 17:55:51.
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