A few weeks before we married, my husband Mark announced he thought we
should get a dog – we were renting a row house and our land lady
foolishly said “little dogs” would be better to have since
they didn’t cause as much trouble as “big dogs.”
Little did she know, little did I know.
Having grown up with Labrador Retrievers, I sat in disbelief when Mark
presented a magazine ad featuring the breed he wanted – this dog
was also being used as the poster child for a carpet cleaning product
– great omen.
What stared at me from that page looked like something you’d see
living under a bridge in a Grimm’s Fairytale – a
bulgy-eyed, under biting, pushed-in face troll. What was THAT!? It was
a Boston Terrier. A far cry from the regal Labrador to which I had
grown so accustomed since the age of two. In fact – it was a
“little dog,” a “yappy dog”– something I
never imagined myself owning let alone liking. Something distant aunts
and relatives owned who lived in Florida. How assuming I was.
Blinded by love, eager to please my future husband and excited to start
our “family” despite the breed factor, I found myself
e-mailing the Boston Terrier Rescue League about getting a puppy. We
soon found ourselves in West Minster, MD at a Boston Terrier match
– sort-of a practice dog show.
“Do you HAVE to have a puppy?” Mary, the rescue league director, asked.
“Uh … no, not necessarily” we replied, looking at
each other with indecision. We couldn’t appear callous and
un-open to the idea of giving a homeless dog a needed family. Besides,
not only would be helping an animal, but we’d get one already
house-broken and mannerly, right? Or so we thought.
“Well, I have Angela …” Mary reported …
“I call her my ‘bitch with an attitude’,” and
smiled to herself. As we learned, dog people always refer to their
female canines as “bitches.”
A week later, Mary and Angela walked up our stoop for the first meeting
and home inspection. Mark and I were nervous as all get-out – as
though we were having some Head of State visit. The house was clean, no
low-lying dangerous objects, pictures of past pets proudly displayed to
show that, yes, we loved animals.
Angela entered our home and lives with guns a’blazin’ as if
she were Yosemite Sam. Right out of the gate she barked –
screamed, rather – at Mark – nipped, jumped, snapped, ran
around our home like a whirling dervish – tore across our
furniture, our bed, through the kitchen and dining room, snorting the
whole way. I was horrified while Mark was secretly delighted despite
being nearly mauled by this 17 pound terror.
After the excitement and initial drama, we spent a few hours together
and the inevitable verdict was upon us – surely Angela would not
be staying with us after her horrid behavior and reaction to us.
However, to our shock and amazement, we were asked “So, do you
want to give Angela a try?” Mark went to purchase our first bag
of dog food.
I was beside myself when Mary left sans Angela. Not only did I
painfully miss my beloved Labrador – even her destruct-o tail and
horrible retriever breath, but I had no clue how to handle this black
and white maniac who was now living in our once serene little
‘Pottery Barn’ house with perfect sofa cushions. Angela was
far from the perfect pet, certainly didn’t have perfect behavior
and my image of our prefect pre-nuptial family was becoming a perfect
mess – any day dream of bragging to wedding guests about
‘the new baby’ was out the window. No more images of
spending catalog-perfect days at the park or sidewalk café with
the dog!
There was a summer thunder storm that night, the kind humid Washington
summers are famous for – as the rain teamed upon our roof and
windows, I sat at a loss on our couch. Angela quietly hopped up without
being called, walked next to me and lay down with her front paws on my
lap and calmly looked up at me as if to ask, “What’s the
matter?”
I nervously patted her on the back, in fear of being bitten, to thank
her for her company and looked into her large round brown eyes. Much to
my surprise she gave me a kiss and my heart began to melt for this
crazy thing that so badly needed a family to love her.
Unfortunately that tender moment was not indicative of the following
months with Angela – friends and family were bitten, she was
called horrible names, she escaped, ate Christmas gifts and we spent
hundreds of dollars and hours with dog trainers and experts on
aggressive canine behavior. Not to mention the library of books we
accumulated.
We later learned that Angela was a puppy mill product sold from a
shopping mall pet store to a married couple – both of whom had
severe cognitive disabilities. She was never socialized nor had
obedience training expect for the months with the rescue league. We
also learned that we were Angela’s “third strike”
– if it wasn’t us, she was out … and out in the
biggest way possible, headed to the farm in the sky.
Horrible days and numerous displays of the worst canine behavior
possible in all of Northern Virginia nearly made us throw in the towel
countless times. Luckily we learned her dysfunctional past after
deciding not to return her. I became a veteran of dog parent
embarrassment and learned the art of canine apologies and writing
“I’m sorry” notes. “She was just scared,”
“She didn’t recognize you,” “I can’t
imagine what got into her …” and all the rest.
Despite the trials and tribulations, when it was just the three of us
we learned to love Angela and her faults – we weren’t
perfect pet owners either. We loved that she greeted us wagging her
“stump,” that she protected us from the riff raff in the
neighborhood, that she played ball all hours of the night and let me
dress her up in ridiculous costumes and take rolls upon rolls of her
pictures. We found Angela to be one tough cookie with a heart of gold
that needed to be uncovered in a safe harbor. We knew she loved us and
knew she knew we loved her, too.
Two Boston Terriers and houses later, I have undeniably fallen in love
with these ‘yappy little’ dogs who I once viewed with
judgment and disdain. Yes, it’s a freak show when we walk all
three of them through the Acres, but we have something to talk about
for the next week and when they’re good, it’s ten times as
rewarding.
Angela isn’t as spry as she was six years ago – her eyes
are getting cloudy, muzzle grayed and hearing seems to be fading. Her
fur gets a little matted, too, but to look at her and think of the
alternative is unimaginable.
If Angela were a person she’d be smoking a cigarette and putting
on fire-engine red lipstick. I’d be right beside her, giving her
a light and thanking her for teaching us a thing or two about imperfect
love.
---Amy E.
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