A Dog Rescue Story

I waited a year before thinking about adopting another dog. It was twelve months of healing the loss of a rescue who helped me through some of the most challenging years of my life. Luna was the dog my ex-husband said I couldn’t have, but I adopted her anyway, probably knowing he wouldn’t be around much longer. After Luna was gone, I dreamed about her a lot, and she still visits my dreams sometimes. For someone who has always had dogs, a year felt like forever, but I knew I needed that time to heal.

Almost like clockwork, I began feeling that familiar itch for another dog after twelve months. I started searching rescue sites, visiting dog shelters, filling out forms, making donations, and dreaming of my next pet. It turns out that rescuing a small dog from a shelter requires both luck and timing. The little ones go first, so you must be there early and wait in line, only to find out you were too late. I had to stop going to the city animal shelters because they made me too sad. I spent hours walking around the cages, wishing to save them all but knowing I couldn’t. There were a few parameters that I had set for the dog of my dreams. I didn’t want a puppy, but I also didn’t want to rescue one that would only be with me for a short time. On the form, I stated that I desired a cat-friendly small dog between one and two years old.

One shelter emailed me updates about rescues that met my parameters. After a few false starts, because the dogs were adopted before I had time to visit, I found the one I wanted, and the shelter owner said she would hold it for me. It was pouring rain on the scheduled visit day, which is unusual for Los Angeles. The shelter owner came out to meet me and said she couldn’t show any dogs that day because of the rain. I begged and pleaded, knowing my next pet was behind the concrete wall, but she wouldn’t budge on her decision. I felt devastated on the drive home, and when I inquired about another visit a few days later, the dog was gone.

My next attempt was the following weekend. My boyfriend and I drove straight from a wedding to the shelter with our hearts set on a dog we had seen on the site. We arrived on a crowded visitor/volunteer day, which felt chaotic. After so many rescue attempts, I couldn’t remember exactly what the dog looked like, so we walked around the cages set up under tents. I stood by one with my eyes on a little dog, and the shelter owner appeared behind me. She told me that she had been mistaken about my dog of interest. It turned out that she was seven years old and had been returned because of aggressive behavior. My boyfriend encouraged me to keep walking around to lift my spirits, pointing out a small, scrappy black dog with dandruff curled in a ball in the top left cage. I shook my head no. The shelter owner said the dog was one year old and finally at a safe weight for her to be adopted. After some convincing, I agreed to take her for a walk.

My boyfriend and I sat on a bench with the dog on my lap while we waited for someone to bring us a leash. The little mut perked up, wagging her tail and wiggling with joy. Her name was Stella, which wouldn’t work since my ex-husband was engaged to someone by that name. With the leash on, we began walking down the street, and she had a prancing bounce to her step, which made me laugh. Every person we passed, she would dance on her hind legs like a circus pony. The tips of her ears bobbed in unison with every step, and I grew happier with every step I took, too. We inquired as to whether the dog was cat-friendly, so the shelter lady took her in the back and “cat tested” her, returning with confirmation that she was, in fact, cat-friendly.

I named her Finn, and she escaped through the front door that first week like a lightning bolt. It was dark, and we lived near a busy street. My boyfriend and I followed, catching glimpses of a little black ball whipping past us. We called her name, which was futile since she had only known it for a short time. I feared the worst: losing the dog forever or witnessing her getting hit by a car. She beelined past me at greased lightning speed and straight back to the front door. We had many more hiccups along the way. It appeared that she wasn’t cat-friendly but somewhat obsessed with relentlessly chasing our cat, Lily. Thankfully, that has subsided to Finn chasing Lily while the cat holds her ground without fear and Finn walking away, knowing the cat could kick her ass. During the first few months, Finn expressed firm boundaries: no touching her hindquarters, don’t bother her when she’s sleeping, and if you scolded her, she scowled like a wounded animal, which made sense to me because she was. I knew how it felt to be wounded because I was, too, and over time, we earned each other’s trust.

It’s been almost two years since I adopted Finn, and we have grown into a beautiful rhythm. I still come in hot, but Finn has learned I have good intentions. When we cuddle at night, and I pull her into my arms, she lets out a slow, warm growl. I used to wonder if it was okay that she growled, but I realize that is her way of expressing love. We all express love differently; it takes time to understand what each signal means. Like humans, animals have past experiences and triggers while also wanting to love and be loved. I have learned a lot about myself from Finn, but mostly, it’s possible to hold a place in your heart for a lost pet and find space to love a new one.