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hebbycakesThis is a story written by my mom. And it's true
“What was that all about!” I had to ask myself last Friday evening. My Thursday started out normally enough - a good brisk 20 minute walk followed by a day of paperwork, errands, Curves and an appointment for one of my daughters.
Then, because I had found homes for my two fostered cats (I volunteer for the pets at the Greater Sudbury Animal Shelter) I went out to get two more. The usual routine is that I get the two that have been there the longest and who are friendly, take them to my vet to get fixed, and then find a home for them.
I don’t foster dogs for a variety of reasons - the top two being that there are people who already do and that most of the adoptable dogs at the Shelter do get new homes. The same cannot be said of the cats. I don’t fault the shelter folks for this - there simply aren’t enough homes for all the stray and abandoned cats in Sudbury or in any other city.
And I am not a dog lover in the same way that I am a cat lover. To me, all cats are remarkable - it’s part of having the “cat-lady” gene. But dogs - I only go crazy for very special ones - Big Old Sloppy-Mouthed, Brain Underdeveloped Dogs. BOSM BUD for short. You know the kind. They only bark if there is a chance someone will throw the ball for them - the one they’ve just eaten half of. The fact that this same “someone” might also rob the house and frighten the owner is of little consequence. All Rover wants to know is, “Do you play fetch?!”
But every once in a while, I get sloppy myself. According to the GSAS website, there was an older 25 pound old border collie that had been there for a while. I have a border collie myself, so I couldn’t resist visiting this lad while I was waiting for the paperwork to be done on the two cats. Just looking at him I could tell he was not a border collie - he didn’t have this secret-agent purpose-driven look about him. And he was more like 75 pounds. But he was drooly and silly-looking and ... you know where this is going.
A few minutes later I was driving to the animal clinic some 30 minutes away to drop off the cats to get fixed – with the dog I’ll call “Rover” who does not like driving in the car. Picture this. It is raining like crazy so I can hardly see. He is panting and crying so my windows are fogging up. I don’t have a crate for him and we are in the van so he is playing musical chairs. You don’t have to tell me how dangerous this is – I already know.
And to top it off he smells of wet dog and manure. The lad at the shelter tells me, as I am leaving, not to bath him for at least a day. This is because he has been given a topical treatment which is supposed to kill any fleas, but this dog has fur that rivals that of a St. Bernard / husky mix. I suspect it could take more than a few drops of insecticide to fumigate this lad. I am thankful I am only fostering.
My “own” cats were not impressed – terrified is more the word. One lost bladder control in the kitchen. Thankfully, the dog was more afraid of them, than they of him. My “real” border collie, Pudge, took an instant dislike to “the competition” and my shih tzu, Trotsky, figured I’d brought home a small horse so this had nothing to do with him.
But me, I actually had some fun. When after supper I threw the ball for my border collie, Rover joined right in there. In fact, after five minutes Pudge dropped out, practically passed out – but Rover kept on chasing the ball. My neighbour Karen and I were agreeing – there is no way this dog is 8 years old. “Look at him. The more I throw it, the more he runs.” And I am cheering him on.
Finally, after about 15 minutes the dog pretty much collapsed and we went into the house. After he had an after supper nap, he got up and could hardly hobble. It wasn’t until then that I realized that he was definitely an older dog - part of the reason he was chasing the ball way past his endurance was because it was making ME happy.
Unhappily, I had to return Rover to the pound. He had this ability to walk through our fence – and living on the speedway that I do ... well, I had already lost two furry friends this way. But both Rover and I had 24 hours of joy. Me, I got to have a few hours of purposeless, non-driven life with an adoring BOSM BUD. And Rover - he got a daypass while serving his time, waiting for his new life to begin.
Jan Carrie Steven is a lay preacher and pastoral care visitor at All Peoples United Church.
“What was that all about!” I had to ask myself last Friday evening. My Thursday started out normally enough - a good brisk 20 minute walk followed by a day of paperwork, errands, Curves and an appointment for one of my daughters.
Then, because I had found homes for my two fostered cats (I volunteer for the pets at the Greater Sudbury Animal Shelter) I went out to get two more. The usual routine is that I get the two that have been there the longest and who are friendly, take them to my vet to get fixed, and then find a home for them.
I don’t foster dogs for a variety of reasons - the top two being that there are people who already do and that most of the adoptable dogs at the Shelter do get new homes. The same cannot be said of the cats. I don’t fault the shelter folks for this - there simply aren’t enough homes for all the stray and abandoned cats in Sudbury or in any other city.
And I am not a dog lover in the same way that I am a cat lover. To me, all cats are remarkable - it’s part of having the “cat-lady” gene. But dogs - I only go crazy for very special ones - Big Old Sloppy-Mouthed, Brain Underdeveloped Dogs. BOSM BUD for short. You know the kind. They only bark if there is a chance someone will throw the ball for them - the one they’ve just eaten half of. The fact that this same “someone” might also rob the house and frighten the owner is of little consequence. All Rover wants to know is, “Do you play fetch?!”
But every once in a while, I get sloppy myself. According to the GSAS website, there was an older 25 pound old border collie that had been there for a while. I have a border collie myself, so I couldn’t resist visiting this lad while I was waiting for the paperwork to be done on the two cats. Just looking at him I could tell he was not a border collie - he didn’t have this secret-agent purpose-driven look about him. And he was more like 75 pounds. But he was drooly and silly-looking and ... you know where this is going.
A few minutes later I was driving to the animal clinic some 30 minutes away to drop off the cats to get fixed – with the dog I’ll call “Rover” who does not like driving in the car. Picture this. It is raining like crazy so I can hardly see. He is panting and crying so my windows are fogging up. I don’t have a crate for him and we are in the van so he is playing musical chairs. You don’t have to tell me how dangerous this is – I already know.
And to top it off he smells of wet dog and manure. The lad at the shelter tells me, as I am leaving, not to bath him for at least a day. This is because he has been given a topical treatment which is supposed to kill any fleas, but this dog has fur that rivals that of a St. Bernard / husky mix. I suspect it could take more than a few drops of insecticide to fumigate this lad. I am thankful I am only fostering.
My “own” cats were not impressed – terrified is more the word. One lost bladder control in the kitchen. Thankfully, the dog was more afraid of them, than they of him. My “real” border collie, Pudge, took an instant dislike to “the competition” and my shih tzu, Trotsky, figured I’d brought home a small horse so this had nothing to do with him.
But me, I actually had some fun. When after supper I threw the ball for my border collie, Rover joined right in there. In fact, after five minutes Pudge dropped out, practically passed out – but Rover kept on chasing the ball. My neighbour Karen and I were agreeing – there is no way this dog is 8 years old. “Look at him. The more I throw it, the more he runs.” And I am cheering him on.
Finally, after about 15 minutes the dog pretty much collapsed and we went into the house. After he had an after supper nap, he got up and could hardly hobble. It wasn’t until then that I realized that he was definitely an older dog - part of the reason he was chasing the ball way past his endurance was because it was making ME happy.
Unhappily, I had to return Rover to the pound. He had this ability to walk through our fence – and living on the speedway that I do ... well, I had already lost two furry friends this way. But both Rover and I had 24 hours of joy. Me, I got to have a few hours of purposeless, non-driven life with an adoring BOSM BUD. And Rover - he got a daypass while serving his time, waiting for his new life to begin.
Jan Carrie Steven is a lay preacher and pastoral care visitor at All Peoples United Church.
