Happy International Dog Day!

Ruby and Sissy approve this message (even though it's a day late)

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When I divorced my husband of 25 years, he said he didn’t want the dogs. They’d been our kids’ pets since they were little, so I looked for a rental house with a fence where our furry companions could live out their senior years in peace and comfort.

Sweet Maggie began her decline first. When I knew we were close to a goodbye, I thought long and hard about Lucy and how much she would miss her canine sister from another mister.

I considered getting a puppy to keep Lucy’s spirits high. I talked it over briefly with my dog lover, George, because I knew he would align with me instantly. Then we planned our trip to the Toledo Humane Society to meet a litter of border collie mix pups that had just come from an abuse and neglect situation in Mississippi.

All but one of the pups were female and named after Disney princesses. The only male was called Prince Phillip. When we first met Cinderella (who would later become Ruby), she was shaking in a corner, all alone, this gentle princess.

“They’re all skittish, but she’s the worst of them,” the volunteer told us.

“We’d like to meet her,” I said.

I’d never seen a pup so afraid or so anxious. We moved slowly and spoke softly so we wouldn’t frighten or startle her. This video is the first moment we met our sweet girl. That’s George’s gentle hand petting her.

It was love at first sight, and we brought her home immediately. That scared dog hid under every piece of furniture she could find. At first, she wasn’t interested in a dog bed, she just buried herself under pillows and blankets. It was as if she wanted to become invisible.

“What kind of horrific thing has to happen to a dog to make her not even want to be a dog any more?” my cousin, Sherri, asked when she first met Ruby.

I didn’t know. And I didn’t want to know. I was sure my love would cure her.

I placed piles of blankets and pillows in corners all over my small rental home. Ruby seemed to like corners the best. I would walk from pile to pile in the morning to find her. Eventually, she decided she liked to be under the couch the most, and I would get on the ground each day to attach her leash so I could gently coax her outside to go potty.

Ruby never barked. She never wagged her tail. She didn’t play with toys, she didn’t want to be petted, and she wasn’t interested in treats. When she made a surprise appearance in the family room from time to time, the kids and I all spoke in whispers. We made no sudden movements. When I went to bed at night, I could hear her crunching her food in the darkness. She still prefers to eat at night in a dark bedroom.

Ruby is a runner. She must be leashed at all times, or she takes off like a bolt of lightning. Our neighbors know that now. She’s a beauty to watch when she runs, but we’re never really sure she’s going to come back. If she happens to slip out of her collar as she’s done a couple times in our RV park, our neighbors stand outside with cheese, calling her name, and trying to coax her home. So far, so good. But once, when she was still a new pup, she slipped her lead at a truck stop and ran straight toward the interstate. I chased her all over the premises, sweating and crying and begging for help. I’d get within a couple feet of her, and she’d take off again. Eventually, I got within diving distance. By sheer luck of the draw, I caught her. I’ll never forget the feeling of holding her tightly in my arms, both of us shaking with fear and adrenaline. I got a martingale collar for her the next day. It’s the only thing she can’t slip out of—and only if we’re holding her by the ring itself.

Now that Ruby is seven-ish, she’s figured out her likes and dislikes, and we know all her quirks. She prefers to spend most of her time in a crate under the table. When she’s anxious, she digs frantically as if trying to bury herself in a hole. When that doesn’t work, she prefers to hang out in a bathtub, shivering and waiting out whatever sent her there—gunshots, fireworks, thunder, motorcycles, heavy winds. You name it.

Once Ruby is in a safe space and we drop her leash, she likes to pull it herself. It is, quite possibly, one of the cutest things you’ll ever see.

When Ruby is on a walk and realizes she’s close to home, she begins to scoot and pull in a funny little way we call the “crab walk.” She’s so smart and so eager to get to the place where she feels safe.

Although she never plays with toys, she did go through a phase where she hoarded them.

Ruby isn’t really interested in other dogs, and she used to be afraid of all humans. Now, she actually gets excited when we have visitors as long as she’s carefully sniffed and vetted them first. But she’s still very cautious around statues. You never can tell with statues.

When Ruby was a year old, her vet suggested that getting a second dog would help her acclimate.

“Another dog will teach Ruby how to be a dog,” he said.

I mentioned that advice to a few co-workers, and immediately one of them said, “I have the perfect dog for you.” His wife worked at a veterinary clinic, and they were fostering a special dog through her medical needs.

Bumblebee (as she was known then) was hit by a car in the middle of a brutal Indiana winter and left in a ditch to die. She would not have lasted much longer, but an Indianapolis Power and Light worker who was up high in a bucket lift saw her body in the snow. He took her to the nearest emergency clinic, where they were set to euthanize her.

But my co-worker’s wife tried to give her food and water and discovered that she was food-motivated, and food-motivated dogs have a will to live. Bumblebee had two broken hips, a broken front right leg, numerous cuts and contusions and so much road rash from being dragged by the car that hit her that the fur on her back will never grow back.

“She’s the best dog,” my co-worker said. “Just come meet her.”

And, of course, it was love at first sight again, scars and all. Bumblebee was the sweetest, most energetic little bundle of love in the universe. She then became Sissy Bee, after my mom. My mom’s name was Caroline, but everyone called her “Sis.” Before Mom passed, she looked at both Ruby and Sissy, and with a little sarcastic twinkle in her eye, she said, “Why couldn’t you have named the pretty dog after me?”

But Sissy is beautiful in so many ways. I always say she’s exactly who I want to be when I grow up. She’s been through so much, but she is the happiest, most loving dog I’ve ever known. She’s smart and social and adores every human she meets. She’s so grateful for treats, for toys, for belly rubs. Her life is all about pleasing others… and belly rubs. The only fancy thing she knows how to do it sit, but that’s our fault, not hers. She’s definitely a willing student.

Her right leg doesn’t work at all. The vet was going to amputate it, but she learned how to use it as a crutch, she they let her keep it. When she was a puppy, though, it dragged on the pavement, and we’d come home from walks with a bloody paw. Until she figured out how to lift her paw up off the ground when she walked, she wore a little boot to keep her tiny paw safe.

Sissy has two favorite activities, and she would do either of them forever if her body would let her. The first is chasing a tennis ball. She does it over and over and over again until she collapses from exhaustion. We usually stop her long before that because she doesn’t know how to stop herself. (Kinda like my wine guzzling, I suppose.)

The second is rolling in the grass. If grass-rolling was an olympic event, Sissy would definitely bring home the gold. Perhaps we’ll see her competing in L.A. You know who the judges will vote for.

Although ball-fetching and grass-rolling have no substitute, Sissy is willing to try anything. Here’s her first attempt at swimming.

Sweet Sis is my constant companion. My little velcro buddy. She follows me everywhere and rarely leaves my side. She sits on my feet when I go to the bathroom. She starts the night sleeping at the end of the bed and ends up sharing my pillow. When I’m working, she is right there with me, although sometimes she falls asleep on the job.

Since bringing Sissy home, Ruby has definitely become more dog than cat, although she still has her cat-like tendencies. She has learned how to wag her tail, she enjoys treats, and she knows how to bark. Well, mostly. Her bark is kind of a combination of a bark and a sneeze with a little jump thrown into the mix. I wish I had a video to share, but I don’t. You’ll just have to trust me when I tell you it’s adorable.

These two are not snuggly, sleep-together dog siblings. They mostly tolerate each other, and every once in a while, Ruby will accept an invitation to play with Sissy. Sissy never gives up trying, though. They are bonded in their anxiety, and they feed each other with their fears. If Ruby starts pacing because she senses a storm, Sissy gets nervous and hides under my chair. If Ruby jumps up on the sofa to look out the window, Sissy barks in anticipation at whatever might be out there… or not.

Here they are running with Sam on the Salt Flats in Utah together. Kind of. Poor Sissy does her best to keep up with her three working legs.

These two very special dogs have changed my life in so many ways. My actual human children say I share more photos of my fur children than I ever shared of them. They might be right. It doesn’t mean I love them more, but I’m older now, and I’m more patient with the lessons they’re teaching me. Ruby has taught me about honoring needs that might not match my own. When I first adopted her, I thought I could love her into being my constant companion who would travel with me, go on hikes, and spend Saturday mornings at the farmers’ market eating homemade dog biscuits and helping me pick out the best ears of corn. But that’s not who Ruby is. Ruby feels safest in a dark, cavelike dwelling. She chooses to spend her days in an open crate under a table, curled up in a tight little ball of self-safety. She hates being in the car, and it is often a challenge to even get her to leave the rig to go potty. She is a little creature of habit who circles the island multiple times a day in a heightened state of anxiety. She rarely answers to her name, doesn’t make eye contact, and stares off into the distance for long periods of time. When she does this, Julie and I talk about her “ghost friends” and what she might be communicating to them. My unqualified diagnosis of her is some level of canine autism.

But what she has taught me is patience and understanding. I wish I’d had more of that when I was raising my own kids. But with four under five, it was a constant rush, a constant state of movement, a harried and hurried life. Basketball, softball, baseball, lacrosse, swimming, birthday parties, Boy Scouts, Chess Club, choir, theatre… there was always somewhere to be. Some of my kids would have been more content in a quiet, dark, safe cave of their choosing. Some would have appreciated extra time on my lap. Some would have loved an extra story at bedtime. Some would have thrived with some extra praise. These are the things I would have done differently. These are the things I wish I’d have understood when they were little.

Sissy, too, has imparted her own wisdom. Despite what she has been through, she is a dog who loves every human she meets with aggressive joy. Because she is a pit bull, many fear her bark. But she barks because she wants attention. She barks because you’re not giving it to her. And as soon as you touch her, she rolls onto her back to give you her belly. That “vicious” little pibble has the softest, sweetest heart you’ll ever meet. She was attacked by a bigger dog at a dog park once, and she’s wary of other dogs now. She growls at them immediately, and we don’t trust her to make good decisions. Therefore, we keep her tightly on a leash and let her be loved by dog-less humans. It makes me so sad that her unadulterated joy was taken away at a place she loved. Dog parks kinda suck in many ways. But Sissy loves and trusts people wholeheartedly. If you visit our rig, she will jump on you with excitement (because we’re horrible dog trainers), and it will take her a good fifteen minutes before she settles down on your lap (or in your skin if she could figure out how) and sighs loudly with contentedness. Her long, audible sighs are a highlight in my life. Her passion for tennis balls and food reminds me to love the things I love with reckless abandon. She wouldn’t even be here if she hadn’t been food-motived. She’s a reminder to eat dessert first once in a while.

I don’t like to say “they rescued me” because it sounds so trite, but these dogs and their pure, unadultered love walked me through my divorce, saying goodbye to all my little human birds as they flew from my nest into their own lives, the baby steps into my queer life, the loss of my mother and sister, and the loss of my job. They are steadfast and true and needy and quirky and wholly treasured as the gifts they are.

Someday, I’ll write a book about them.

Happy International Dog Day to sweet Ruby and Sissy.

And a special shoutout to my beautiful grand dog, Henry, who I get to meet for the first time in October. George has taught him to “scram” when he wants Henry to lie down, and it’s the best command I’ve ever heard.

We don’t deserve them and their companionship, these beautiful, loyal creatures.

But I am so incredibly grateful we have them.

P.S. Please adopt, don’t shop.