Dear Sally,
In 2004, before I found you I
had been both to the city animal pound and the humane society twice. That August I made my first visit to the
bi-annual ‘Super Pet Adoption’.
The Super Pet
Adoption is an event hosted, financed and promoted by various state and local
animal organizations. On the designated weekend hundreds of animals, (literally), although primarily dogs, are delivered to a parking lot
volunteered by a Pet Store.
I wandered through
make shift temporary kennels stuffed with hay and covered with tarps to protect
enclosed padded feet. Industrial sized
containers were constantly refilled with fresh water and there were land mines
of poo in every direction. The stifling smell
of urine, hay and hot asphalt greeted numerous human shoppers. The scalding late summer
sunshine was soaked in saliva.
The dogs knew they were
in hell. They knew one of us was the
only way out. It was a frenzy of excited barking, long tongues waving and furry
bodies lunging at each person making their way through the narrow maze of
kennels.
I took my time at
each enclosure, looking over pinned up cards giving each occupant’s information
–breed, age, gender and a quick synopsis of the animal’s background and
personality.
After a couple of
hours in the exhaustive heat my search had proven unsuccessful. I started down the last line. Puppies, pit bulls and mutts alike were
quieter, worn out by the hot noise and smells.
At the second to last
pen, I was stopped by a card that started with the words ‘Allie -Australian Sheppard-Lab‘.
An Aussie mix? I was raised by an
Aussie. I looked down to find
myself being eyed by a very thin, mangy black dog wearing a wicked scar on the
inner crook of her left eye.
Your stare was direct
but not aggressive. You’d crammed yourself
into the straw in the further most corner. Your card advised your name was
Allie, one to three years old, half black lab, half Aussie, crate trained,
recently rescued from the pound by a local rescue. As you stared at me, I couldn't help staring
back and I smiled.
Huh. I asked for a leash and took you out. You were
awkward with me; not knowing what to do with my offered hand, or how to walk on
a leash. You did not recognize any
commands, you did not respond to your name but you did continue to stare
intently into my eyes.
I decided you were
too young, too un-trained, had a very scattered background –the care/worker
advised your history comprised of three homes and four rescues or
impoundments.
I sadly asked you one
more time, “Sit.” You sat. I looked at you. You looked me.
I was coaxing you up
for a repeat when I glanced over and saw a different person working with a
different dog. Upon repeat, this you again
copied them.
I decided to walk
away, to think it over. I called my
mother and consulted her. The other
hiccup was I couldn't quite afford you; older dogs were half the cost of
younger ones. She encouraged me to
follow my instincts, promising she would fund the other half of the adoption
fee.
I went back; I
brought you home and renamed you Sally.
When I left the east coast, during my last visit, my physiologist had recommended
I always have a dog because an animal distracted me from me. When I had settled in California for a few weeks, I followed her advice and adopted a much much older dog. I was fond of him, but his already advanced age helped me keep my distance. Regardless of how that admission sounds, this
is where I was in life. I lived alone, I moved a lot; I
was a ‘gypsy’ as my short term friends would joke. I belonged with nothing and nothing belonged with
me.
The violence of my
teen years and divorce relentlessly stalked me. Despite miles
of separation, I still woke up nearly every night screaming at 3am.
I had so little trust in myself - I was
afraid of everything. What is really sad? The person I was at this time was a dramatic improvement from the
person I was before. By the time I had decided to head to Utah, I was at least functioning. I didn't have
public anxiety attacks anymore, I could hold a job, laugh; I paid bills and
even began painting a little again.
Oh Sal, I was still such a mess when I met you. I didn't trust you and you certainly did not
trust me; it was an uneasy six months, remember? You cautiously learned basic commands and I
diligently walked you every morning and night but we didn't bond. You had your stories and I had my stories and
we kept them to ourselves.
Then we had a
break. One hot summer afternoon, I’d
gotten off work and found an eaten pair of favorite shoes in the living
room. I flipped; yelling, I threw the
remains of one at you and stormed into the kitchen to take a breath. A minute later I calmed down and walked
back into the now empty living room to stare in horror at the open
door. You were gone.
Panic hit my chest like a lead ball. This apartment was by a very busy street…
Dashing out, calling your name, I looked out across the ‘streaming-with-cars’
street, and there you were, sitting by a tree on the grass. You were staring at me; eyebrows low, mouth tightly shut, anxious eyes waiting.
I shut up, slowly walked over and sat down next to you.
I shut up, slowly walked over and sat down next to you.
I was unspeakably relieved
to see you. You were anxiously relieved
I was looking for you.
I sighed and told you
I was sorry. You sighed in reply and we both relaxed and rested, leaning on each other. After a while we got up and as we crossed the
street together, I realized
you were looking for traffic too, just like me….
A couple of nights
later I had a dreaded 3am. Unlike the
dog before you, who hid because I frightened him, you came and put your head
next to my head, whining to wake me up.
Then you let me cry and hug you. I
never faced a 3am alone again. After
time, 3am came less and less until I realized one day I had not had a 3am in
years.
We had an unspoken pact between us, I would always have your back and you would always have mine. You have never been great with words commands but you are amazing with facial and hand signals. We went everywhere together, to every fair, festival, shop, park, road trip; we were glued at the hip. I began to be braver and make real friendships and real conversations. Hell you even went on a couple of dates with me. I chuckle now remembering what a suspicious and disapproving chaperon you were.
A few months after
our ‘moment’, I met my knight in shining slightly dented armor and eventually
I married my hero, a soaring hawk with sharp intelligent grey blue eyes. Together
we live a life of adventure and friendship. 
Today, a decade after you and I
first met, I am more than a functioning adult.
I am a thriving human being. And
I know it is in part because you trusted me that I learned to trust me
too. You Sally girl, you were a missing link.
You are old now; I think you are as puzzled by this as I am. Despite being on a fairly intense regiment of pills, natural food and regular walks, age descends on you anyway. You've not lost any of your 'marbles' but you haven’t any of your legendary patience left for small children and dogs. I don’t care. I put you behind baby gates when needed and walk you in the evening when the younger dogs are gone.
This morning was a
really tough morning for you. You fell
trying to stand and fell again trying to go up the stairs. I watched you hunch your shoulders, resigned;
you stayed down, eyebrows lowered.
I put down what I was
doing, got out some more painkillers and while I waited the twenty minutes for
them to take effect, I laid your quilt out in the back seat of the car and got your leash
and collar. I could tell they hit when
you picked your head up to smile at me and wag your tail. I helped you stand (painkillers, unfortunately, don’t make you stronger) and get into the car. We picked up my sweetheart for a coffee
lunch break. A couple of nice ladies
cooed over you at the coffee shop and you happily visited with them while we ordered. Afterwards you and I made one more quick stop
before heading to a favorite park.
How we laughed as
we pulled up. I let
you set the pace and direction and was astonished at how far you wanted to
go. When you were tired, you changed
course and headed for the shade in a grove of trees. There you laid down and I sat down.
You smiled and I smiled.
But I'll tell you every day anyway, thank you for helping save me.
