The (sheltered) men in my life.

No, this post isn't going to be about my husband nor is it about my son. Actually, it's going to be about my dogs. (If you're a rescued cat lover, I have one of those too, but she's a girl...so suck it up and read on.)


Have you ever been into a shelter or pound? I don't ever remember going as a child, and knowing my mother, she would have spared us of that torture. But when I was 18, I ventured into the Mahoning County Dog Pound, a 72 hour kill facility, for the first time in my life. I was interested in attaining a puppy and I had every intention of saving a life.

I'll never forget the noises I heard the moment I entered the door to the outer hall. The block building was full to the hilt with dogs, every cage full. Some of them even had a few dogs sitting together, and a few others had full litters of puppies in them. And very few of them were quiet.

Instead, they were screeching and barking and yipping and doing what they could to get my attention. I had never felt so wanted in my life.

I was told which dogs were not friendly, and indeed, when I passed the crates, I was welcomed with a snarl or a warning bark. But for the most part, there were wagging tails and smiling faces and ears facing forward, as 50 plus dogs tried to garner my interest. I passed the older ones, though, and headed to the puppy crates.

I wanted a baby. Something to be trained and brought up in the way I wanted to. I was looking for something I could care for, something young and vibrant, as I was living with death. You see, I was staying with my grandparents at that time in my life and my grandfather's health was rapidly declining as he lay in the living room, dying from pancreatic cancer.

I needed to bring a life home. I needed to focus my attention on something that was going to live, something I could actually rescue and keep from dying, because I knew there was nothing any of us could do for the man who spent 18 years raising me as if I was his own daughter.

So I had the keeper open a pen full of wiggly brown balls of fur and one of them chose me. He was soft and cuddly and he couldn't lick my face fast enough. On top of it, he smelled like cocoa. It was love at first sight and without another look back, we left the dog pound together.

It was the first time I had ever bought anything that large, as all my prior pet purchases were always able to live in a tank. So with the puppy on my lap, we headed home. I named him Speagle because I could tell he had some beagle in him, and I just liked the name. I snuck him into the house past my grandfather, because I knew in his condition, he wouldn't have wanted a dog in the house. But my grandmother and I both felt it would help us a little bit as long as it didn't hurt him.

So Speagle spent his days in my room way in the back of the house, playing and waiting for me to arrive home from school, when I would spend the rest of the evening romping around after him. Things were going well until his first bath, when a floppy, wet puppy raced through the house and the smell of cocoa permeated the rooms. Suddenly, my grandfather realized there was a dog afoot. He called me over to his hospital bed and asked to see the animal, so dutifully I produced the puppy. As I watched his nose crinkle and his eyes darken, I knew what was next. He began retching from the smell of the puppy and waved me off immediately.

You see, his cancer and pain medicine had changed his ability to tolerate certain smells. We were limited to what we could cook, bring in the house to eat, or even with what perfumes or bath soaps we used. For example, popcorn would have him heaving almost immediately, as would any type of meat product. And it became apparent to us that chocolate also gave him the same reaction. Without another word of discussion with me, he spoke to my grandmother the next day and demanded the puppy be taken back to the pound. She broke the news to me after school and suddenly I was faced with a horrible realization. I had just saved this puppy from death a mere month before, and now I'd have to put it back in a place where it was sure to face the same fate as before.

I couldn't do it.

I sat down with my grandmother and insisted that she give me the time to find the puppy a good home. He was a great dog, very loving and obedient for how young he was, and I couldn't let him face death twice. Lucky for both of us, she agreed and she lent me the money to place an ad in the paper.

We had him a new home within a few days and together, we drove to drop him off. I can remember crying as I held the puppy out for the man who was taking him off my hands; I was unable to say anything to him but I remember that he was Greek and had just moved to America. His family was replacing a dog he had left back home. When the older woman and the family surrounding him started telling him the puppy was for him, all he said in broken English was, "Dog?" and then Speagle was gone. The group enveloped him and the puppy, each trying to get a look at their newest family member.

I turned and walked back to Nana, who seemed a little melancholy herself. Without speaking, we got in the car and drove home, happy to see the dog had gone to a family who welcomed it so, but sad to see the little guy go at the same time.

So flash forward 16 years. Our rottie had just passed away and my husband was beside himself with shock and despair. I waited a month, knowing we had put down another of our dogs 18 months prior and had also found yet another one a home where she could be the only dog in the pack.We were down to one at the time, Koty, our 12 year old standard poodle. And as Patrick sat in the living room, I headed out to petfinders.com for the umpteenth time to look for our next baby.

I had come across so many already. Mixes, most of them. Some I called on, others I passed by knowing they'd be picked up without issue because of their size or color or breed. And then I came to this face --->

My mind went back to my senior year in high school when a puppy that smelled like cocoa had graced my life for a month or so. He was the same brown with the same dark muzzle, and his ears were floppy just like this puppy. It only took me a second to realize we had found our boy.

I put a call in quietly to Noah's Ark and they informed me he was still available.  They were calling him "The Rock" because his muscle tone and gorgeous brown eyes reminded someone there of Dwayne Johnson. I told her without a doubt, please put a hold on him and we'd be down first thing in the morning to see him.

He was six months old and he was listed as a "Boxer/Cur". That's a generic term they use when they don't want to tell you there's pitbull in there somewhere, because pits don't find homes in most cases. But it didn't deter me one bit. I showed Patrick his picture and then we told Jaryd. I'm not sure any of us slept that night as we anticipated meeting this bundle of love.

But the next day, we arrived to a shelter full of potential adopters and several volunteers. Scared we wouldn't get the dog we wanted, we agreed to at least look at the others if he was no longer available. Patrick and Jaryd waited outside the ruckus, and I dove into the melee looking for someone to point me in the direction of my new baby. I was told he was on a walk with a volunteer and would return shortly. It left me in a lurch.

I was back in an old scene suddenly, with dogs barking and screaming, hitting their cages with their paws trying to get attention. I wasn't sure I was going to make it standing up so I bent over and began to rub the head of the nearest dog around me.

Meanwhile, my husband was sitting outside with Koty and Jaryd, waiting for me to bring out "The Rock". As the volunteers started coming back in from the woods, he noticed a puppy pass him that really struck his fancy and he remembers commenting to Jaryd about how beautiful and sleek the dog was as it passed. He decided he was going to ask to see that one if ours had already been adopted out.

But that switch wasn't in the cards. The same puppy Patrick had seen walked back through the doors with the volunteer, passed the 20 people in the room and headed right up to me. He then proceeded to jump on my back and pantsed me in front of this room full of strangers. As I was hurriedly pulling up my drawers, I turned around to see what would be the next love of my life.

It was love at first sight for all of us and we brought him home, happy to have saved a life. As we were leaving the shelter, I gave the family the option of names. "Tater Salad", as a dedication to our then favorite comedian Ron White, or "Diesel". (The boys chose the latter and we later learned he would definitely live up to his name, but that's a story for another time.)

Eighteen months passed and Koty was sliding downhill. We knew she wouldn't be with us much longer, so we went back to petfinder.com and began our search anew. This time, I wanted something smaller in the house, a dog that would fit nicely into Diesel's routine.

I decided on a Beagle mix and focused my search on finding the right one, which is how we rescued Toby Joe. You'll see him on the right, in the back, behind 2 of his brothers from the litter. There were 5 or 6 of them, total, and none of them even resembled Toby, or Mr. Moseby, as he was known back then. Right then, I knew he was special.

Again, we went down and picked him out; this scared, shy little puppy that was in distress from the noise and anxiety of the other dogs. He was shaking and tense, his little body as hard as a rock and about as unforgiving. He couldn't relax and he couldn't trust, he had been through so much more than any of the rescuers knew, but one thing was obvious - humans had not been kind to him during his puppyhood. It took me a while, but I eventually won him over, and before long, he and Diesel were best buds. Now, as those who have heard his protests can attest, the two of them are inseparable.

So where does that leave us? Ahhh, yes. It leaves us in the middle of the love story we have with these dogs. Both rescues. Both originally in kill shelters as puppies because there are too many born every year that people throw away. Too many that aren't sought-after purebreds or designer dogs, too many that look like pit bulls (or have pit in them) and too many that aren't chubby, wiggly and happy, which are the ones families gravitate towards first.

Instead of buying, instead of breeding, we went with the alternative route on these two and we couldn't have asked for better dogs. All of our dogs have been special, no doubt, with each of them having a certain charm that endeared us to them for eternity. But these two, these two are brothers in every sense of the word. And we, their human parents. It's like they remember, and have possibly shared their tragic and scary pasts, and they know we were the ones who gave them homes with warm beds to sleep in, and fresh water to drink, and nutritious food to eat. They are thankful, still, after all this time, and they show us that with their demeanors and their enduring loyalty.

So in closing, I just want to say that from that first puppy 20 years ago to the latest 2, rescuing is the way to go. You're saving a life and the dogs know it. Their fidelity to you for doing so will be their greatest asset as pets and they will never let you down. I haven't met a rescued dog yet that gave up on his rescuers.

And when it comes to love, what better way to spread it than by saving an animal's life? I can't think of  one, can you?