THE REDTICK COONHOUND
After all the awful things that had happened to us in Springfield, Ohio, over the previous twelve years, Al and I finally talked seriously about leaving. He’d been working in the federal government for over thirty-five years and was now considering taking his retirement in the next few months.
We’d returned from a vacation at Topsail Island on the coast of North Carolina, where we met a man walking down the beach. The man told us he had just retired and was checking out places where one could live well on a retirement income. He’d recently been to a mountain town called Murphy, in the far western tip of North Carolina. After that visit, he and his wife decided that Murphy was just what they were looking for: not much snow, moderate weather, a town with amenities, some good restaurants, shopping, hiking, but best of all, a low cost of living. The mountain town sounded pretty good, so we booked a cabin in Murphy the following spring, only a few months away. It’s serendipitous how things like this happen to people like us. We took the word of a man we didn’t know about a place we’d never heard of before and decided to check it out in person. I suppose it was better than trolling the Internet for a future home.
The man from Delaware had been right; the town was delightful. It took eight hours to get there from our house in Ohio, and we spent a week on top of a mountain overlooking Murphy. We stayed in a cute little cabin with views that captured our hearts and blew our minds. From our vantage point, we could see miles of mountain ranges over three states, lush green hillsides, valleys with cultivated farmland, and a pretty historical town of about 1,500 people.
The town itself was charmingly pretty. Many of the downtown buildings date back to the turn of the 20th century. Along one street is a historical marker describing the area’s tragic story of the removal of Cherokee Indians in the l800s, known as the Trail of Tears. Beautiful lakes were everywhere, and trout streams flowed from north to south and east to west. We ate out every evening, trying a different restaurant each night. It was important to us that Murphy had many decent restaurants, at least one great brewery, and a movie theatre, which it did.
*
We returned to Murphy that next fall. Al had registered for a 5K running race sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce. It began at the nice park downtown, with a scenic walking, biking, and running trail that meandered along the Valley River. There was a Wellness Center nearby, where people could swim outside during the warm weather and inside under a heated dome during the winter. It also had inside facilities and exercise equipment rivaling a good gym. The Wellness Center was a bonus that convinced us to consider choosing Murphy as the place we wanted to live once Al retired.
Early the next spring, we decided to check out Blue Ridge, Georgia, a town about thirty miles southwest of Murphy in the North Georgia Mountains. We stayed in a cabin south of Blue Ridge in a community called Cherry Log. We spent our time checking out all the galleries and shops, walking down the streets, eating at unique restaurants, and hiking in the area’s many trails and parks. Blue Ridge is a picturesque, early 20th-century village where one can ride a train up the nearby mountain and stop to eat in a small town along the way. However, Blue Ridge is primarily a tourist town where many folks from Atlanta come to shop, eat at fancy restaurants (to us), and escape the hustle and bustle of a big city by renting or buying a cabin there. We liked the town well enough, but in-town parking was difficult to locate. In addition, we learned that the cost of living there was considerably higher than Murphy’s because housing, taxes, and food were more expensive in Georgia. So we crossed Blue Ridge off our list of places to live but enjoyed our time in the colorful area.
*
Wanting to spend a day hiking in the mountains, we’d read that a great place to do that was at Carters Lake, south of Blue Ridge, past the town of Ellijay, Georgia, then west to what looked like a remote area in the middle of nowhere.
The minute we parked our Jeep Wrangler at the trailhead on Carters Lake, we saw the dog. I immediately recognized that she was a Redtick Coonhound by the distinct reddish-brown tick-like markings on her coat and the hound characteristics I’d seen on many other dogs, including my parent’s dog, Andy. She was emaciated and had been nursing pups by the look of her hanging and swollen teats. We exited the Jeep and went over to check her out. There was no collar on the Coonhound, but she was bright and friendly toward us. We looked around the parking lot, hoping to see another vehicle and the dog’s owner. Still, ours was the only car seen anywhere in the area. Al searched for food in the Jeep to give her and found a Nature’s Valley granola bar. I broke it up into small pieces, and she came over to sniff it but didn’t eat any. Having no other food, we decided to hike the trail ahead. The trail marker stated that it was three miles long, relatively difficult, and went down to the lake, then wove itself back up to the parking lot.
When we began our hike, the Redtick followed us on the trail. At one point, she moved ahead and led the way down to the lake, then back toward the parking lot. I was out of breath on the last half of the trail, but the dog sprinted up the path like it was nothing. She was a beautiful dog, and Al and I marveled at her strength and agility. Every now and then, she’d halt to let us catch up. I’d praise her, pat her head and smile at her. She had the prettiest eyes, and by the look of her teeth, eyes, and coat, I guessed she wasn’t much older than a year or so. Once she seemed comfortable with me, I gently ran my hand down her back, legs, and belly. I could find no broken bones or abrasions, indicating that she most likely had not been hit by a car or physically abused. I finally decided she was a young dog who’d recently had pups, and once weaned, she’d probably been dropped off at this remote park like garbage. It was a terrible shame what someone had done to such a friendly, sweet dog, and the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to do something to help her.
I did not know then that a female Redtick Coonhound sold for a lot of money since their pups are hard to find, and the breed isn’t that prolific. But, to some people, she was a valuable animal for the puppies she could deliver, just like in Ohio's infamous puppy farms.
Once back in the parking lot, we saw a heavy-duty truck pull into a parking space several spots down from ours. I noticed a U.S. Army Corps of Engineers emblem on the vehicle's side. Two men got out, called to the dog, and she came over to them. One man took the rope in his hand and tied it around the dog’s neck. She didn’t bulk at all, just sat there quietly. The other man put his arms around her middle, picked her up, and hoisted her into the truck bed. It was then that they saw us standing there.
“Hey,” I said, walking over to them. “What are you going to do with that dog?”
The man who appeared in charge wore a shirt with the same Corps emblem on his pocket. “Poor thing’s been here looking for food for over a week. She’s slowly starving. We’re about to take her to the pound. But if you want her, you can have her.”
I didn’t know what to say. So finally, I turned to Al, and he also looked conflicted.
“We can’t take her, even though we’d like to,” Al said. “We're from Ohio, came to Blue Ridge for a vacation. Once we head home with all our belongings packed in the Jeep, there’d be no room for her. I wish we could, but I don’t see how it’s possible. Plus, we’ve never had a dog.”
I hurried to ask, fearing the man’s answer, “What will happen to her?”
The man in charge said, “Don’t know, but she’ll die without food. So you guys go on your way now. I’m afraid there’s nothing more you can do here.” The second man jumped up on the truck bed, tied the other end of the dog’s rope around one of the upright posts, then jumped back down. They slid into their seats, the truck started noisily, and they drove out of the parking lot. In the back of the truck, the Redtick Coonhound stared at us. Then, as she tried to keep her footing, the Army Corps vehicle drove off, disappearing around the bend.
We got in our Jeep and returned to our rental house in Cherry Log, near Blue Ridge. Unfortunately, the cabin we’d rented was a complete dump and looked like no one had cleaned it in a year. So we decided to cut our vacation short and leave the next morning. While we tried to sleep that night, a hound dog was howling outside in the dark. It was surely a sign, I thought.
I was quiet for most of the way home to Ohio. Al had the radio on, listening to the Cleveland Indians on SIRUS. The Redtick Hound haunted me. I couldn’t get her sweet face out of my mind. I’d failed her as a human and even more so as a Guardian of the Road. Al had been right. As adults, we’d never had a dog, and I sure didn’t remember much from the dogs we had raised during my childhood. The Jeep was terrific, but it was a two-door, and there wasn’t much room for anything in the back, especially a dog crate we’d have to buy. Even so, I kept second-guessing our decision not to rescue her. Finally, Al broke my silence with a question.
“You are obsessing over that Hound, aren’t you?” He turned to look at me, then back, to keep his attention on the road.
“Yes, I am. I can’t get the Redtick Hound’s face out of my mind, Al. It is a travesty, but she’ll probably be put down at a pound somewhere in Georgia. It breaks my heart.”
“If she means that much to you, do something about it. Find her, and I’ll go down to Georgia and bring her home.”
I nodded, then tears welled up in my eyes. Al was such a good man, and I hadn’t told him that enough. And so I did, and also how much I appreciated his support. From that day on, I intended to thank him for the many times he’d supported me throughout the years, especially when it came to my dedication to animals. I also promised to do everything I could to find the Redtick Hound so we could bring her back to Ohio.
*
Nine months before our trip to Georgia, I’d been invited to display my watercolor paintings of birds in a one-woman show at the prestigious Glen Allen Atrium Gallery in Yellow Springs, Ohio. It was a fantastic opportunity for me to show my new paintings. I’d painted daily for months to build an inventory of many large and smaller bird paintings. I’d spent two years teaching myself to paint in this demanding medium. For more than twenty years, I’d used oils to paint intricate flowers and scrolls. So using watercolors with birds as my subjects was a big challenge. I use a technique known as photorealism. With a brush that holds thin, short bristles, I apply hundreds of tiny strokes of watercolor paint in multiple layers to depict the details of the birds I’ve studied most of my life, from songbirds to raptors. Most people in the region regard Glen Allen Gallery highly. I was honored that they’d invited me to display my paintings in their Atrium.
So when I returned to Ohio from our trip to Blue Ridge, I should’ve been painting in my studio, but instead, I spent a week searching for the Redtick Coonhound. I first called the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers’ office at Carters Lake and spoke to the manager in charge of the project there. I told him what happened, from when we pulled into the trailhead to when the U.S.A.C.E. men left with the Redtick in their truck. I explained that my husband and I wanted to adopt her and would return to Georgia to pick her up. My problem, of course, was that I had no idea where they had taken the dog. All I knew was what they told me: she would be taken to the pound.
The project manager promised to check with all his men and get back to me. He also looked up area pounds/shelters that I could call and gave me their numbers. I spent hours talking to local shelters, describing the dog, and giving them the date the Corp personnel left with her in their truck after saying they’d be taking her to the pound. The one horrible fact I discovered from my first call to a shelter on the ranger’s list was that the pounds were all kill shelters in Murray County, Georgia, where that part of the lake is located. I quickly learned that shelters in more prosperous counties…closer to Atlanta….had ceased using that method. Because of the lack of funds, shelters in poorer counties could only keep animals for a limited time. If animals were not adopted, then the shelters had to euthanize them. So the clock was ticking on that poor hound’s life, with only one person trying her best to rescue the dog, me.
Researching subjects on the Internet was not as easy then as it is now. But I did come across the name and number of a North Georgia group of volunteers called Homeward Bound Pet Rescue of Ellijay, Georgia. They did their best to get dogs in pounds or shelters adopted, placed with a family for re-training, or a new approach (at that time) called: Foster Homes for Dogs. I spoke at length to the woman who’d started the group and was impressed by their successes. I told her my story about the Redtick Hound, and she promised to call her connections at area pounds and shelters to try and locate her if the dog had been surrendered to any of them. She would get back to me if there were any developments to report.
*
After the first three days of searching, calling folks in that region, and finding false leads, I was discouraged. I was afraid if too much time passed, the dog might already be doomed to a terrible fate.
I woke the fourth morning to a ping on my computer, indicating I had a new email. I scrambled out of bed, hurried to my little office around the corner, sat down, and clicked on the email icon.
About a dozen new messages showed up in my inbox, all from different senders. The first was from the Georgia volunteer woman who helped find shelter dogs homes. In her email, she said she might have located our dog and the shelter would send me pictures of her at their pound. She listed the name and number of her contact person there.
The next email on the list was from that contact person. A woman I’ll call Ginny was the intake officer at a pound near Blue Ridge. She said the attached photos were of a hound they accepted the same day ours was supposed to have been dropped off by the Corps employees.
I clicked on the attached photo, then enlarged it. The dog was much older, black and white, a hound, but not our Redtick Hound. I took a deep breath, then let it out slowly to control the erratic beat of my heart. Then, picking up my phone, I first called the volunteer in Georgia, thanked her from the bottom of my heart for helping us, but explained the dog in the photo sent to me from the pound near Blue Ridge wasn’t our dog. She promised to keep looking, and I sent her a picture of a Redtick Hound from an image search I’d made while talking to her. I suggested that the image could be sent to her contacts so they’d know what to look for. Perhaps to them, a hound was a hound, I thought but did not say it. She said an email would go out to the pounds on her list, and she’d attach the image so they’d have a photo to go by.
The rest of the emails were either notes from an employee at a pound, saying they did not have any Redticks then, or longer emails from other shelters saying something similar. I thanked them, attached the reference photo, and gave them my phone number in case our dog should show up. By then, I was afraid I’d reached a dead-end, but I didn’t want to give up hope. If I gave up hope, that female hound we were championing could face euthanasia.
By Friday of that week, I had become both desperate and depressed. With no luck, I had nowhere else to turn since I’d spoken to any pound or shelter within 80 miles of Carters Lake. So I decided to take a bike ride to let my mind rest for a bit when the phone rang. It was the man I spoke to at the Army Corps of Engineers’ office at Carters Lake. I eagerly asked him if he’d had any word about the Redtick.
“Yep, and I have good news,” he said.
“Tell me, I’m sitting on pins and needles.”
“Sorry that I didn’t get back to you for almost five days. One of my men has been out on vacation. He was the only person working at the lake I hadn't spoken to about the Redtick Hound you told me about.
“So, did you find her?”
“Yes, I did, in a way.”
“Oh, gosh, tell me.”
“After they left the trailhead with the dog, Dan, our employee in the truck, called a friend of his who’d been looking for a hound he could take hunting. When the Corps employee told him he had a young stray female Redtick Hound in his Corps truck, the man offered to drive to the lake and pick her up. Dan promised that his friend, who has her now, is a terrific guy, owns a small house near Carters Lake, and has a wife and a little boy who love dogs. So I think we found her a good home in a roundabout way.”
I was incredibly relieved and sad at the same time. “Thank you so much for your help on this search of mine,” I said. “I am so glad the Redtick has a home and even happier she never went to a pound. But I must ask you this: Are you sure she has a good home with a family?”
“Yes, mam, I’m sure, and I understand why you’d go to such trouble to save that hound. You might not believe this, but I would’ve done the same thing you did. I’d also try to find her and then rescue her if possible. I happen to love animals more than I like most people.”
I told him I felt the same way. Then, after I thanked him again, I ended the call.
*
THE ANGEL IN CINCINNATI
My husband was genuinely happy the dog had a future and wouldn’t be a starving stray searching the woods for food anymore. I agreed with him but still felt lost.
Then Al said wisely, “I know you’ve always been a cat person. But honey, if you’d like to have a dog, why don’t you look for another one we both could love? Who knows, maybe we could find one at an animal shelter. Only, let’s stick to Ohio for our search this time. It would save me a long drive. How ‘bout that?” He smiled at me.
I returned the smile. “Okay, I think I’m gonna do that. After all these years living with a Guardian of the Road, you should know how hard it is to change my mind when I get obsessed about an animal. I have always had a soft spot in my heart for dogs from the Hound breed. When I was searching for the Redtick, most of the shelters I called said they had difficulty adopting any of the Hounds. I love Black and Tan Coonhounds, Beagles, Bassett Hounds, and especially Bloodhounds. But first, I needed to research how one cares for a dog. I have no idea what you do to train them, so I’ll read up on that too.”
Foremost in my mind was Katy. First, we must find a dog that she’d accept and get along with, which was important. Next, I researched various methods of teaching dogs the skills they need for safe and healthy lives. I read several books from the library about house training puppies, treats for tricks, benefits of crate training, and methods that taught them to respond to commands. I didn’t realize it, but Al also picked up my library books and read them. Finally, I started searching for a hound in need of a home. It didn’t have to be a Redtick Hound; any hound would do.
*
For reasons I wasn’t sure about at the time, I decided that along with finding the right dog for us, I wanted to research where animal shelters and pounds got their funding. I learned from reading their website that my local dog shelter was supported by funds from the county commissioners. They seemed to have funds from their budget to cover their costs, but it also appeared to be a complex issue. It was a no-kill shelter, which I was glad to learn. When I spoke to a woman there, she told me they had no hounds, but my name would go on a waiting list. Someone should call me if a hound was surrendered or picked up as a stray.
Then I contacted a shelter north of my town. It was also a no-kill shelter but seemed to barely cover costs with assistance from the commissioners and fees they charged for adoption, shots, and neutering. The facility had rave reviews on several sites from folks who adopted animals there, so that was reassuring. When I called, they had no hounds up for adoption but took my name and number in case one came into the shelter.
After researching and speaking to employees at shelters in dozens of Ohio counties, my overall impression was that in larger areas where budgets were significant, they didn’t seem to have major financial problems and were almost always no-kill facilities. But funding issues seemed precarious to me in the smaller, less populated counties. Those same poor counties almost always had kill shelters in place. It’s not only in Ohio that poor counties struggle to fund their animal control problems, but I found the same was true elsewhere. Once I look closely at other states, I feel sure I will see the same financial discrepancies between counties.
For the sake of time, I gave up on shelters, mainly because none of them seemed to have the breed of dog we were looking for then. So next, I turned to the web and hit paydirt.
I went on Google and typed in how to find a pet to adopt. Oh, boy, if you want to adopt a pet, you should try it. There were an amazing number of listings that offered animals for a fee. First, there were dog breeders with specific breeds they were selling. Next, I noticed individual listings of folks who had animals for sale. And finally, there were lists of websites that showed animals needing homes, free of charge or for a small fee. Most encouraging, numerous national/local volunteer and humanitarian operations, like the one in Georgia, assisted families so they could adopt shelter dogs and cats at little or no cost. The opportunities were nearly endless.
One site I especially liked (at that time) was Petfinder. Using their site’s filter, I typed my city of residence, how far I’d travel to find a pet, what breed, male or female, puppy or an older dog, color, AKC/ancestry papers, or none. I entered all the required data, and Petfinder only took a minute to display a list of similar animals in the area I wanted to search.
The process was kind of like Zillow for dog hunters. I checked hound for the breed, chose any age or color, and 100 miles from my home, plus no papers needed. I hoped for a Redtick, but what came up was a Black and Tan Coonhound. The entry stated he was six months old, potty trained, gentle, and located 90 miles from Springfield in a small town east of Cincinnati. They listed a woman's name, address, and phone number as the contact. Then a picture of a Black and Tan Coonhound male puppy was posted on the page. The photo showed a puppy about six weeks old, but it appeared to be an earlier posting since the one up for adoption was now older. His name was Morgan Wild Child. Was he cute? Absolutely.
When Al opened the door, I hurried to tell him what I’d found on the site. Once he settled in from work, we discussed what to do next.
“Al, what do you think we should do about this Coonhound near Cincy?” I asked
“Call the contact person and get more information. Maybe we should see the dog in person if we like what she says. I want to listen too, so put her on speakerphone.”
“Really?” I was thrilled he’d quickly agreed to the idea and wanted to listen.
“Yeah, really. The dog in the picture is cute, don’t you think?” He asked.
“I thought so too. Okay, I’ll get the phone, and we’ll call her right now.”
The woman who answered sounded friendly and eager to help. For the sake of her privacy, I’ll call her Barbara. The dog up for adoption on her website was now a six-month-old Black and Tan Coonhound that she’d saved from a pound in Brown County, which was not that close to Cincinnati. Barbara called him Morgan Wild Child because he was full of energy. She claimed he was a sweet dog that sometimes howled for the pleasure of hearing his own voice.
“Barbara, how did you save him, and why did you go to Brown County to do it?”
“Well, it’s become a mission of mine to try and save puppies from kill shelters, mostly in Southwestern and Southeastern Ohio. I have loved animals all my life, and when I learned that in the southern half of this state, many poor county shelters kill puppies they can’t adopt, I felt compelled to step in and try to save them if I could. So I mailed my business cards to those animal shelters and others, along with a letter that explained my mission. If they have a puppy or litter of puppies about to be euthanized, I will pick them up, bring them here, and find homes using my website. I also get a lot of referrals from individuals with litters of puppies wanting my help. As for Morgan, I got a call from a pound in Brown County with a Coonhound puppy about to be put down. So I got in the car, raced to the pound, and picked him up that morning.”
Now it all made sense to me, especially after the research I’d done on kill and no-kill shelters. Back when this happened, I knew that some pounds and shelters didn’t post pictures of animals for adoption because they’d never set up their shelter’s website. Since web development and training personnel are costs that continue long-term and can be expensive, they usually don’t have the funds. I realized Barbara was providing a free service to help them avoid putting down puppies that might be easier to adopt if more people knew about them. I was impressed by her mission and dedication.
“I charge $75.00 to adopt a puppy,” she continued. “That money goes for their food, shots, vet visits, and any health needs they may have while they’re with me. So I spend more than I make from the adoption fee, but it helps defray some of my costs.”
“I have to ask, is Morgan the only puppy you have right now for adoption?”
“No, along with Morgan, I also have two litters. I must keep them in my lower level, or they’d run me out of the house. I have a litter of six newborn Beagle pups whose momma died after giving birth. I am bottle-feeding them now, but in six weeks, they’ll be ready to adopt.”
“You said there were two litters. Tell me about the other one.”
“The other litter of nine pups was found in a hole under a barn not far from here. A neighbor said the mother had run off or was missing for days. In the litter, there are two groups of pups. One set of four is part Retriever and part Pitbull. The mother was a Retriever because the neighbor who brought them to me had seen her several times. You can tell that one father was a Pitbull, as the puppies have a lot of Pit in them. The other father was at least part Retriever because all the other puppies resemble Retrievers with some hound mixed in. That’s purely a guess. They came to me starving, but now they are nine weeks old and healthy. Since they lived in a dark place for weeks without human contact, they are scared of humans, at least right now. I am sure they’ll get over it with the right families. I can honestly say they are some of the cutest puppies I’ve seen; that’s after dozens and dozens of litters I’ve adopted out over the years.”
I looked at Al, standing beside my desk and listening on the speakerphone. He nodded, and I took that to mean we should look at them all.
“Barbara, we are humbled by all you have done. My husband and I would like to come down and check out the puppies. I won’t promise we’ll adopt one, but it’s possible. Al works until noon tomorrow, so we’ll leave here soon after that. It’ll take us two hours to get from Springfield to your house. Would around three in the afternoon be okay with you?”
“Oh, yes, that would be fine. I will look forward to seeing you. Just so you know, I give any dog leaving here worm medicine, but you’ll need to bring something like a carrier to take them home in… if you decide to adopt one. Is that okay with you?”
“Yes, that’s great. We’ll see you tomorrow at three. We’re eager to meet you too.”
*
Al and I left home at about twelve-thirty, and we were both anxious to see Barbara’s puppies. We put out large bowls of water and food for Katy but hoped to return by early evening. I put the cat carrier and other items I might need in our old Chevy HHR. As we hit I-75 and headed south toward Cincinnati, I thought about how long I had wanted a dog. It probably went back to when we lived in Kent after Marc was born. I wish we’d been able to have a dog while he was young so he’d learn to love not only cats but dogs too. We moved a lot, I was on the road for seventeen weekends each year, and we all had busy lives. Having a dog then would’ve been hard and unfair to the animal. I do know that for years, I have studied everything I could get my hands on regarding dog breeds. There are still dog breed identification books all over the house, with corners bent for specific dogs I would love to have someday.
One of the items on my artist’s wishlist is to be able to portray dogs well. I’ve done dozens of dog portraits in the last few years. In addition, I have what I’d call a rogue’s gallery of my dog paintings mounted top to bottom on a wall in my studio. So to have a dog of my own to use as a model for my work was thrilling.
I was deep in thought and didn’t realize we’d reached the bypass around Cincinnati, where we’d need to get off toward the city where Barbara lived. Al had been quiet too, and I wondered what he was thinking.
“What do you make of Barbara’s story about her mission. She must be one heck of a dog lover, right?” I asked.
“If you want my opinion, she’s probably a Guardian of the Road, too. But since I’m not one, I don’t have a vote on who qualifies.” He turned and gave me a goodhearted smirk.
“You are probably right, but we’ll see once we meet her. You know how gullible I am about people when I first meet them. Everyone is nice, honest, kind to their kids and animals, and good citizens. Then I learn they lie all the time, kick their dog, cheat on their taxes, run away with their lover, leaving their spouse and kids penniless.”
Al chuckled and shook his head. “Yeah, that’s you alright. I listened to what she said, and I think she’s unique. How many people do you know who would dedicate their lives to a cause like hers? Not many, except you! Oh, shoot, did you get some cash to pay her the adoption fee?”
“Remember what I told her…we might not adopt. But yes, I’ve brought her fee and then some. Even if we don’t find a dog we want to adopt, I’d like to donate to her cause.”
“Glad you thought ahead.” Al glanced in the rearview mirror, then added, “I noticed we have a pet carrier in the back, a big roll of paper towels, a large bottle of water and a bowl, a stuffed dog toy that looks like a raccoon, food, and treats….”
“You know me. I always come prepared. I’m a Girl Scout, remember? Besides, Katy will eat dog food and loves pet toys…so no loss if this doesn’t work out.” Secretly, I hoped it would.
Al drove through the city where Barbara lived, then turned onto her street. All we had was a house number and street address to go by, so of course, we went too far and had to turn around. Al parked in front of a small, unassuming house with an older model car parked in the gravel driveway. We both stared at the home for a moment. Even in the car, we could hear a dog barking somewhere inside.
I felt a flush run up my neck, and my breath quicken. This was it. I would finally get my chance to have a dog to love. We walked up the steps to the front door. Before we could knock, it opened, and we got our first glimpse of Barbara. She was short like me, with light brown hair, a bit younger, and attractive with a kind smile that dominated her face.
We greeted each other, and then she led us inside. The first thing I saw was a Black and Tan Coonhound sitting on a couch in the middle of the room. He leaned his head back and howled. Barbara gave him a stern look and snapped her fingers. He immediately stopped howling, jumped down, and went to her side. He was taller than I imagined but still a puppy, about six months old, I guessed.
Barbara patted his head, and he seemed to melt. “This is the infamous Morgan Wild Child,” she said. “I must admit to you that I’ve come to love this funny dog. I hope you don’t want him because if you don’t, I will keep him.” She looked at me then. “I have to work hard not to fall in love with these puppies, or I’d not be able to feed them or myself. But as you can see, I failed when it came to Morgan.” He licked her hand, and she chuckled.
Just then, we heard someone at the door. Barbara went over and opened it. A man and woman, about thirty years old, entered the room. Barbara introduced us to Jan and Pete and said they were also looking to adopt a dog. She then asked if we’d all come to the kitchen doorway.
The four of us stood near the door to the kitchen like we were in a hospital delivery room, waiting to see our newborns. Barbara pulled a baby gate closed behind her, then left us to go down to her basement to bring up the dogs. Before we knew it, the sound of excited puppies filled the air. At the door to the basement appeared a jumble of brown pups, all scrambling toward a large bowl in the center of the room. I counted them the best I could, and there seemed to be nine puppies sliding around on the slicky kitchen floor. Barbara entered the room, lifted a large bag of Puppy Chow, and poured some into the big bowl. Immediately the nine youngsters hurried over and started eating as fast as they could, climbing over each other to get closer to the food.
“As you can see if you look close,” she said, “there are two types of puppies in this litter. Not to get too much into the weeds, but when their mother dog was in heat, apparently, two males impregnated her. So there are four with Retriever and Pit Bull genes and five with Retriever and Hound genes. At least, that’s what my vet believes. The Retriever/Pits are larger, much fuller puppies. The Retriever/Hounds are slimmer and have a snout that is very much like a Hound, not to mention they have floppy ears. If you let me know which one you’d like to see up close, I’ll hand it to you.” By then, the puppies had surrounded her feet, licking her legs and chewing on her shoes.
Pete asked for a male Retriever/Pit pup and pointed to the one he was interested in seeing. Al and I watched as Barbara picked it up, checked the gender, then handed it to him. Barbara turned to us next.
I had already decided I liked the Retriever/Hound pups and hoped for a female, maybe the smallest one. But, before I could speak, my husband took charge. It made me smile.
“Barbara,” Al said, “we’d like to see the runt of the litter if it’s a female and one of the Retriever/Hounds, please.”
“The runt is a female and one of the Hounds, so let me find her, and then I’ll hand her over to you.” She went through the squirming puppies, looking for the one she had in mind. Finally, she found her, picked the pup up, and carried her to the kitchen doorway.
Al reached over the baby gate and took the little thing into his arms. She immediately climbed up his chest and laid her head in the crook of his neck. I wish I’d had a camera with me because the look on his face was pure joy. Of course, I got a bit teary but swallowed it back and watched as he patted her gently. She was a pretty little thing, a reddish-brown with some snips of white on her nose and feet. On her chest was an abstract star shape in white, and on the tip of her tail was a tiny tuft of white fur. She had the markings of a Retriever and was round as a ball, with bushy eyebrows and dimples on both sides of her behind. The ears were more Hound than Retriever, but they were not as long as a Beagle’s or a Bloodhound’s, for that matter. I loved her instantly the way she was but held back from saying so. I wanted Al to make the decision, thinking that if he did, it would be an excellent way for him to get involved in raising her right. Thank goodness, it looked like we both had made the same decision. I realized this pup in his arms would be his and mine, and I liked that idea.
Al turned to me and asked softly, “Didn’t you want Morgan Wild Child? We shouldn’t get attached to this puppy… if we take the hound/retriever home.”
I was baffled by what he’d just said. I figured we’d have to go home, talk it over for hours, pick one out from afar, then return to get the puppy… if Barbara still had her.
“After I saw Barbara with Morgan Wild Child, there’s no way I’d take that dog away from her. She needs him here to make her laugh when I bet things get tough. But, no, let’s take the one you are holding. She’s cute, seems healthy enough, and isn’t as big as the other puppies. So what do you think we should do, honey?” I bit down a smile.
“I really like this one, Kathy. Should we tell Barbara we’re gonna take her home?”
Before I could say yes, Jan asked to see a second male dog, but Pete continued to hold the first one. Barbara handed Jan one of the male pups from the kitchen, and she and her husband checked him out.
“Barbara,” I said, pointing to the puppy in my husband’s arms, “Al and I want to adopt this dog… if that’s okay?”
“Oh, that’s wonderful! Give her to me for a minute, and I’ll treat her for worms.”
While Barbara gave our pup a worm pill, Pete and Jan each had a dog in their arms. Pete told Barbara they wanted both male dogs but wondered if they could get a discount for buying two. Barbara walked over to us and handed our puppy to Al. Good grief, I thought but checked myself. If the couple had gone to a shelter, they would’ve had to pay full price for each dog; it was not my business, but still a tad irritating. Barbara said she’d take ten dollars off if that would help them, and they nodded. Jan pulled her wallet from her purse, removed a roll of bills, counted some, and handed them to her. Now Barbara had two more dogs to treat for worms. Al and I were patient, but the couple seemed in a hurry. It didn’t take long, and Pete and Jan left smiling, each carrying a puppy.
Once they were out of sight, Barbara turned to us. “I am sure that you guys are not going to take that new puppy of yours home and chain her up to a dog house. But when people take two animals, I can’t help but worry they’ll tie them up like guard dogs to scare away strangers. It’s happened too many times for me not to worry. At least those two puppies have a chance.”
I handed Barbara one hundred and fifty dollars I’d folded in half. Then I quickly told her how much we appreciated what she did to help so many puppies and dogs in need. She thanked me and stuck the money in her pocket. She didn’t check the amount, and I was glad.
She walked over to what looked like a dining room and disappeared for a moment. A tiny Beagle puppy was in her hands when she returned, maybe two weeks old. It seemed so fragile that Al and I were scared to hold it but smiled at the cutest teeny little dog we’d ever seen. After a few minutes, she took the puppy back into the dining room, then returned.
The puppy in Al’s arms was asleep. It quickly dawned on me that I’d forgotten to bring something important. “Barbara, is there a pet store in town? We need a collar and leash for her.”
“In the downtown shopping area,” she said, “there is an outdoor equipment store on the right with a flag out front. They sell what you need for the puppy.” Then, while she walked us to her door, she said something that has stayed with me until this day. Barbara said with a big smile, “That new puppy of yours is one lucky dog. When you chose her to take home, it was like she won the lottery!”
I still enjoy remembering what she said to us that day. Over time, I realized she was right. The first dog in our family was one lucky pup.
*
We stopped at the outdoor equipment store, but Al stayed in the car with the puppy. I rushed to choose a pink collar with a matching leash, paid, and left. They were dainty-looking gadgets that I would later realize our puppy would quickly outgrow. On the road back to Springfield, it seemed to take forever. Finally, I turned in my seat to keep an eye on her.
We’d been driving for about an hour when she started to vomit. She kept choking and throwing up, which kind of scared us. Finally, Al pulled the car over and stopped in the driveway of a gas station that looked abandoned long ago. That’s when she pooped. I quickly exited the car, opened the door to the back seat, and saw her pitiful face looking out of the cat carrier. There was vomit and poop on both her and the carrier. Al got the paper towels, the bottle of water, and an old towel he kept in the car for emergencies.
We took her out of the carrier and began to clean her up. Poor little thing looked so pathetic and maybe ashamed, if possible. Al and I continued to speak softly to her, hoping to calm her down while we cleaned the gunk off her fur. I used water and paper towels to wash her off while Al cleaned the carrier. I put the dirty rags and towels in two plastic grocery bags, tied them up, and stuffed them all in an overflowing trash can by the service door. Before getting back in the car, Al said to my amazement, “After all that, she’s our dog now, and there’s no turning back.”
Al has to be one of the more facetious people I’ve ever known, and here he was, cleaning poop and vomit off a dog we’d just adopted. Deep down, I feared he would be upset that she’d gotten sick and made a mess. I was wrong. As he said so well, she’s our dog now.
We both decided I would ride the rest of the way in the back seat and hold her on my lap. I guessed she was mostly scared but later would learn that a puppy, worm medicine, too much food, and a moving car don’t mix well and can make them sick. She looked much smaller when wet, and I curled my arms around her while Al drove home.
Just before we reached Springfield, Al said, “Don’t you think we should come up with a good name for her? That way, she’ll learn to respond when we call her, and we could start training her this evening.”
I thought it would be best if Al chose the name. But, then, whatever name he wanted would be fine with me. I’d always named our cats in the past, so now it was his turn.
“So, what do you think we should call her?” I asked and turned to look at the puppy’s face while she slept.
He thought about it, then said something that surprised me. “I think we both feel Murphy, North Carolina is the right place for us to live once I retire. Since we like Murphy the town, why not name our dog Murphy?” He looked in the rear-view mirror and smiled at me.
“What a good idea! Can we add a middle name that I’d also like?” He grunted in the affirmative, so I said, “What about Murphy Brown, after the television show I used to watch? Candice Bergen was Murphy Brown on that comedy back in the late 80s. Younger people might not get it, but adding a middle name like Brown… makes her name special.”
Al laughed, then said, “Murphy Brown it is then. She is a brown dog, so it fits.”
At home, we placed the carrier on a rug in our living room, then slipped Murphy inside on a soft, worn towel. She curled herself into a ball and closed her eyes. Then, Al and I quietly left the house and went to the pet store. We found a large dog crate with a thick fleece pad, a bag of puppy food, dog toys, and some treats, then left. After getting a bite to eat, we went home to our sweet Murphy Brown.
*
Both of us had decided to teach her using the crate training method. We’d read about everything we could find on potty training a dog. There are many good options, but it seemed to us that crate training would work best. Dogs, we read, never go to the bathroom in the same place where they sleep. So keeping her in the crate until she understands that when she leaves it, she will be taken outside to do her business made a lot of sense.
Crate training Murphy Brown worked almost immediately. She did poop inside the house once that first full day she was with us, but it was our fault. We’d let her run around the first floor because Murphy was cute and fun to watch. The need came upon her, and she pooped on the rug. We can clean a rug, but a dog needs to be trained to do what you want them to do, or they’ll let go wherever and whenever they have the urge. The rationale for using the crate is that when you take them out of it, the first thing you do is TAKE THEM OUTSIDE- about one hour after they eat is best. Repetition is critical. If you take them out every single time after they eat, they’ll do what you want them to do. We never allowed her out of the crate when we left the house. The crate was her home, and she was in it when we were not there. There’d be no chance for her to tear things up, get into trouble, get hurt, or eat the cat’s food and get sick.
By the time she was eighteen months old, we felt she’d been conditioned to do her business only outside and stopped putting her in the crate all the time. I know people who use the crate much longer, especially if their dog has the habit of getting into things while they’re gone. Whatever is good for the dog and works to help them behave, be happy, and be safe is a great motivator, in my opinion. However, I worry about dogs left in crates for hours. To me, making the dog wait that long to go potty outside can harm them physically and mentally.
There are other components to this type of training: walking and treating. We walked the dickens out of Murphy Brown every day, rain or shine, snow or sleet, no excuses. Although walking a dog seems to trigger the animal’s urge to go potty, it is also exercise for all of us. We still walk her about a mile daily, and she’s much older now. In the dog behavior classes we took, the emphasis was on being firm as a trainer. Being firm and using treats can modify the dog’s inclinations to do self-destructive behaviors, like running across streets, not returning when called, eating something harmful to them, etc. I’ll talk more about training with treats later.
When my father trained our Cocker Spaniel puppies, he put newspapers over the hard flooring in our house. The idea was that the papers replaced grass when dogs needed to do their business. The problem with that method happened when someone accidentally left newspapers on the living room carpet. Our dog would see the papers and poop on them. When any of our dogs misbehaved,’ Dad would roll up newspapers and swat them lightly on their rump, saying: Bad Dog. I know this was a very common practice in that era, but I also know people today who still hit their dogs when they potty inside. The instructor who helped us train Murphy had a saying I think should be every dog owner’s motto: If you want to hit your dog because it misbehaved, hit yourself instead. You are at fault for not teaching the dog how to behave. Violence never teaches dogs anything but to be aggressive. If someone beats a dog, they may be training that dog to be aggressive as a defense.
We’d read and learned in class that a verbal command was as important as timing. Saying ‘ Go potty,’ or ‘Get ‘er done,’ or ‘Go poop’ every time you take the dog out is a command. One has to be consistent. Say the same command every time, don’t change it up to be cute; it will confuse the dog. One important thing to do once the dog has gone potty is to praise it by saying: Good Dog, Good Girl, Good Boy, or Good Job. Even now, years after we first brought her home, Murphy still responds positively to those commands and words of praise.
We are not professional dog trainers. Goodness, we’ve only had one dog. But this straightforward method of training her to potty outside worked like a charm. Here is an example of why it worked so well for us. I had to have surgery some time ago, and the hospital was over two hours away from our house in the mountains. My surgeon wanted me to be at the hospital at six in the morning. That meant we’d have to get up at two, feed and potty Murphy, then drive over the Georgia mountains to make it in time for the pre-op. Murphy was and is still afraid of strangers, so having a stranger or neighbor come in to let her out wouldn’t work. We’d tried that approach one other time, and she growled at the kind volunteer. Besides, we lived so remotely that we had no close neighbors we could ask to do that job. So Murphy was stuck inside for the longest we’d ever left her. Finally, we decided that we’d clean it up if she slipped up. There was no other choice. When my husband returned home after they took me back to my hospital room, Murphy was sleeping on our bed and had not gone to the bathroom inside. She’d held it for over ten hours. She’d been an awesome good dog, and we’d been awesome trainers.
That first evening Murphy was in the house, our beloved cat Katy made her grand appearance as the queen of her domain. Murphy had probably never seen a cat and was curious, but Katy blew her off and went upstairs to sleep on our bed. That was their general relationship for the rest of Katy’s life. When they met face to face, Murphy tried to make friends, but Katy wasn’t having any of it. Once in a while, they’d play together, and overall there was a truce in our house. But by then, Katy was a much older cat, still full of herself, active, and social. But she didn’t want to spend much energy on a relationship, especially with a puppy getting a lot of attention. That was fine with us as long as she was still happy. Since Murphy slept in the crate at night and was inside it at times during the day, Katy had the run of the house for a long time after Murphy joined the family.
To us, Murphy seemed eager to learn new things. But she did not initially shine when we signed her up for the first of many dog training classes. For one thing, Murphy Brown loved all dogs and still does, usually. The more aggressive breeds intimidated her. The tiny puppies perplexed her since she didn’t exactly know what to do with them. But Murphy loved the typical Boxer, Pug, Retriever, Lab, Spaniel, Beagle, big dogs, and all hounds. So while we were trying to teach her new skills and commands, she preferred to get to know the other dogs in the class. It was an attention span issue, but I'd say she was a typical kindergartener. The bottom line is that taking her to training classes was the smartest thing we did for Murphy and us. We learned more than she did, and even though it took time to impart those skills onto her core behaviors, we did it, but only because we took the classes as her partners in crime, so to speak.
We lived in a lovely neighborhood with early 20th-century houses built on roads with sweeping curves that were tree-lined with gaslights every twelve feet. Since both Al and I walked her several times each day, we got to know where the friendly dogs lived. One such sweetie was named Leila, a typically happy long-haired Golden Retriever, who lived around the corner from our house. The usual route we chose to walk Murphy happened to go right past Leila’s house. So when they’d meet, Murphy was so excited that they rumbled on Leila’s front yard, both happy pups.
Leila’s owners had installed an invisible fence around their entire city-sized property so she couldn’t run out into the street, which often had local traffic. That did not prevent Murphy from running to their front yard and playing with Leila. While they played, the owners would come out and chat with me, but I thought they preferred dog playmates with papers, if you know what I mean. It didn’t deter our love for Leila or Murphy’s absolute devotion to her, but we tried not to overstay our welcome. One morning, I had an important appointment when the doorbell rang. It was the UPS driver, and while we were standing there with the door open, Murphy raced outside, then quickly ran out of sight. I hurried after her, but she was gone. No sight of her anywhere. The USP man said he’d keep an eye out for her, but I was in panic mode. I ran down the street one way, then took another street, and frantically looked for any sign of her, but she was good and gone. This craziness went on for about thirty minutes, and I’d missed my appointment, but I didn’t care. I was terrified she’d run into the street and get hit by a car. I was exhausted but decided to take the usual route we used every morning. And wouldn’t you know it, Murphy was sitting on Leila’s front porch, barking. She wanted Leila to come out and play with her. Good grief, I thought, but I was so happy I’d found her that I did not chastise her for running off. She wouldn’t have understood anyway. Instead, I hooked her up to the leash and took her home. I was angry, yet by the time she went inside, the fact that she was safe was the only thing that mattered. But from then on, our most important goal was to learn how to prevent this from happening again.
Murphy loves the outdoors, as most dogs do. Days after we brought her home, and while Al was at work, I’d take her to our front yard with a bowl of water and toys, and she’d play with them or stretch out in the grass and luxuriate. I hooked her collar to a long leash, then tied the other end to a tree to ensure she couldn’t reach the street. Then I’d sit in a lawn chair and watch her, amused by the happiness on her face. The first day she was with us, Al measured how long she was using a tape measure. From head to rump, she was only 14” long. Puppies do not know about cars or understand the limitations we put in place to keep them from harm. If a ball rolled out into the street, she’d race after it. My primary concern always was to keep her safe.
*
When Murphy Brown was three months old, we signed her up for a puppy class in Springfield. They held it at 7:00 pm at the Fairgrounds three times a week. The trainer was a super-talented woman named Marilyn, perhaps in her forties and energetic. She acted as a teacher, Drill Sargent, puppy lover, and puppy motivator, and with a firm hand, taught us how to train Murphy. Al and I had high expectations. We didn’t know how little we knew about the subject, even though we’d read many dog training books. Marilyn had her preferred way of teaching and her own approach to each topic. She’d been a dog trainer most of her life and showed her personal dogs at events. We took five sets of lessons from her and, overall, loved every class. I can’t say the same for our dog. In the end, though, Murphy Brown was better for them.
Seeing the various dog breeds represented at the beginning of every class was fun. There always seemed to be the reticent Boxer, the cautious but intense Pitbull, the over-anxious Shepard, the nervous and fearful dog like Murphy, and the gregarious mixes of Poodle and Lab. The most anxious in the classes were the puppy’s owners. I can speak for all of them; we wanted our puppy to be the best-behaved dog in class. Most often, that was not the case with respect to Murphy Brown. But with time and training, she improved by leaps and bounds.
As I mentioned before, Murphy was interested in one thing in the classes, the other dogs. She’d pull Al or me down the row of dogs lined up at the beginning of class to be closer to a dog she was interested in meeting. Most dog owners were open to meet and greets, but some walked away, not wanting interaction or worried about how their dog would react.
Before the first class, Marilyn sent us a list of items we needed to bring, including a collar and leash, proof of the dog’s shots, and an assortment of high-value treats. Those high-value treats included Bill Jack, baloney, cheese, deli meat, pepperoni, or hot dogs, all cut into small pieces. Her rationale for these high-value treats was that all dogs responded quickly to them when training any command. I put Murphy’s favorite hot dogs cut into tiny cubes in a dog treat bag, then the three of us set out for our new adventure in dog training.
My husband and I agree that SIT was one of the most critical commands we learned first. Using the leash, we’d get Murphy to stand beside one of us (usually Al). Then we’d say MURPHY SIT. With the treat in our hand, we’d hold it over her head, close enough for her to smell it, but not reach up and eat it. Slowly we’d draw the treat back over her head and toward her rear end, forcing her to SIT on her bottom. Before she could move, we’d give her the treat and say: GOOD DOG! We repeated these steps frequently, both in class and at home. Eventually, after performing her SIT command enough times, we could get her to sit just by saying the command: MURPHY SIT, without a treat, and she’d do it.
This story is about loving an animal enough to see that it is trained to respond to commands. By learning to obey them, you make your dog safer. This guide is about my love of animals, not a training manual. But to love an animal, one must train them to do what is in its best interest so they have long, happy lives.
The two key behaviors we wanted to correct were to make her STOP at certain key moments, like at intersections when walking with us, and to WAIT until we released her for various reasons. Marilyn taught us one thing I will never forget. When giving a command, don’t just say the command word. First, say her name firmly, then say the command. Now, when we walk her, and a car approaches, we say, MURPHY WAIT, and she immediately stops, then goes into the SIT position. We trained her to WAIT until we released her from that command or when it was safe for her to continue. Of course, early on, each time we trained her on a command, we gave her a treat, but only after she performed it correctly. If we gave her the treat when she didn’t obey, it defeated the training entirely.
Again, I suggest that those with puppies or even older dogs take dog obedience classes. You won’t regret it; your dog will be happier and safer and learn that the boss is YOU.
You are the leader. The dog must know you are the boss and that you set the rules. Being sweet, or trying to get a dog to do something by speaking softly, will get you squat.
By the end of each class, poor Murphy had eaten so many hot dog bites that she looked green around the gills, as they say. In the car on the way home, I worried every time that she’d throw up from all that fatty meat. But, slowly and surely, we changed her behavior to one of an obedient dog. Not a perfect dog, but one who (usually) obeys commands meant to keep her safe.
*
When we walked the lovely areas north of downtown Springfield every morning, Murphy and I would meet all sorts of dogs. A Chesapeake Bay Retriever named Bella lived at one Tudor mansion built in the l920s. They are high-energy dogs, and Bella was no exception. Like Leila’s owners, Bella’s family had installed an invisible dog fence around their large property. We never saw Bella leave her yard, but with me behind her, Murphy would run up the bank to the front of the property and play ball with Bella. I had hooked her up to one of those 25’ retractable leashes that could be quickly shortened and locked, so Murphy’s range was limited. The retriever was not only strong and athletic but also smart. Bella knew that to get Murphy to play with her; she’d have to pick up the ball in her mouth and toss it, which was more like dropping it with a bit of a toss. Every single time she did that, Murphy chased it. The yard was massive, with plenty of space for them to play. It was fun to watch the two very different Retrievers play ball together without a human involved. What came to me while I stood there watching them was how important it was for dogs to be able to run without worrying they could easily be in danger of contact with vehicles. Where we lived, our yard was tiny at best, and even at larger properties like Bella’s, I could see where it might be possible that she could run into the street. This problem accelerated my urgent need to live somewhere safe for Al and me… and our sweet Murphy Brown.
*
I was working on my novel upstairs in the office, and Murphy was in the living room sleeping in her crate. I heard something downstairs that sounded like a baby whining. I hurried to the crate and realized the whining had come from Murphy, who was acting frantic, rattling the crate door. She desperately wanted me to let her out. I looked around, then glanced out our living room’s picture window. Ambling down our street was a huge black Newfoundland we’d seen from afar a couple of weeks earlier. Behind her were a man and a woman. I let Murphy out of her crate, hooked her up to a leash, and she pulled me outside.
The man and woman, both in their mid-thirties, trim and attractive, were walking the Newfoundland past our house. Murphy nearly dragged me to their side, then stood on her back legs and licked the big dog’s hairy face. We introduced ourselves after we quit smiling and laughing at the two new best friends. Sean and Kristen were married; she was an elementary teacher, and he was a nurse/EMT at Springfield’s new hospital. Their Newfoundland was a female named Ellie. They lived a few blocks away from us on a lovely street in our Ridgewood neighborhood.
Murphy and I joined them, and we all mosied along, with Ellie and Murphy leading the way. I learned that Ellie had been a breeder dog in one of Ohio's horrible puppy mill farms I’d read about. She apparently broke away from her captors and roamed for six or seven weeks in the woods and fields, eating what she could find. Newfoundlands are gentle giants, typically large dogs used in the fishing industry, where cold weather dominates. Their puppies are worth a relative fortune. So when Sean and Kristen read that she was in a shelter and needed a home, they drove to the facility to adopt her without knowing her full story. When they first saw her at the shelter, her fur was matted with sticks and leaves; she was emaciated, had numerous cuts on her skin, and limped when she walked. They took her to a groomer specializing in abused dogs, who bathed her several times, then cut off a lot of her fur to remove the matted clumps. Next, Sean and Kristen took her to their veterinarian, who said Ellie had probably carried at least six litters in quick succession. Her insides were torn to pieces, and she’d lost about thirty pounds, living off the land. The poor dog had several surgeries to repair her ovaries and other internal damage. They said it took months to love her back to good health and lots and lots of money, but well spent. Now she’d healed, had returned to a typical weight, and her coat shinned. Key to her recovery, they explained, was keeping her mobile, so they walked her a lot. It was evident to anyone who saw them all together… that they loved her deeply.
Murphy was still a small dog then, but they were instant buddies. After learning what Sean and Kristen had done to save her, I knew I’d met two more Guardians of the Road. Whenever Al was home and they stopped by, we walked Ridgewood together. It must’ve been a sight to see a giant Newfoundland and a funny-looking floppy-eared brown puppy lead the way in front of four friends with something in common. We had all rescued a dog. One of the oddest things was that Murphy knew when Ellie was coming well before I saw her. Minutes would pass until they’d all come into view, yet Murphy rattled her crate door long before they arrived, barking to go out and see her big friend.
When Al and I left Springfield for good, those we felt we would miss the most were Sean, Kristen, and Ellie. I hope they are still walking the streets of Ridgewood together.
Check back in about two weeks for the next blog The Guardians of the Road!
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