We had Diniyoyo after Maggie died and I thought long and hard about getting another one. After careful research, I decided to get a Welsh Corgi. After more careful research, I found a wonderful breeder in Ohio and arranged to have Gomez--born on Halloween with a brother named Fester--shipped to me in the spring. One of my more carefully planned acquisitions, I must say. And I was quite proud of my thoughtful and considerate approach, not at all like my normal impulsive self. So life was chugging along in quite an orderly fashion. Money changed hands, a doggie plane ticket was purchased, sleeping arrangements were decided upon, an additional dog bowl was bought. I was fairly gloating with my new found ability to create a series of steps leading up to a predictable event. Why I had myself believing I could have been a science or math major!
And then the unthinkable happened.... We picked a Saturday as the date that Gomez would arrive at the airport in New Jersey to be picked up by us on a family outing (carefully arranged, I might add). That Wednesday as I was driving home from work, I saw two little white dogs running along a busy street right next to the highway entrance ramp. A woman had stopped and was trying to get them, but they were running away and kept heading into traffic. I pulled over to offer assistance (thinking they were her dogs and had gotten out of her car somehow),and the dogs immediately ran away from me. Okay, I'm only making matters worse, I thought. I decided to leave because I couldn't bare to see them flattened by the onslaught of traffic. I got back in my car and started driving off, but seeing their scared little faces and their frantic panting, I thought I'd give it one more shot. I pulled up in front of them so that they couldn't get to the interstate. Fortunately, my new found sense of orderliness had not extended so far as to actually cleaning out my car, and I was able to find some crusty old french fries on the floor. I lured the little shaggy, poodley looking thing over and she circled me to see what I had. If I came near her, she ran off, but then returned for French fries.
The chihuahua was having nothing to do with me. He didn't want to leave the poodley thing, but he wasn't letting me within 6 feet of him. The woman who had stopped was calling Animal Control on her cellphone, but I knew by the time they got there, these two would be dead. They kept running into the street and we were in an area with no homes or apartments. I thought if I could find a blanket or something to throw over them, I could grab them. I couldn't see any other way to catch them. When I opened my van door to scavenge for a towel, the chihuahua jumped in. Ha! I grabbed a sweater and threw over the female and put her in the front seat. Feeling quite pleased with myself, I told the woman I'd drop them off at the animal shelter on my way home.
Not once did it enter my mind that I would be keeping these dogs. I drove along towards the animal shelter, the two dogs sitting together in the front seat, looking shell shocked but relieved. I was happy they had avoided a grisly death on the road and was certain that the tag the female was wearing would lead the animal shelter people to their owners. I was a good person. My two companions were good doggies. Life was good.
The first omen that perhaps everything wasn't going to be quite as good as I thought came when I pulled up at the animal shelter. A hound dog was being taken out and loaded into a van and it was baying like crazy. I parked and got out to go in and my two charges began to howl in unison, a blood curdling "you can't leave us here" chorus. Something twitched in my heart, or maybe it was just a little murmur. But I squashed it because I had a plan that had already been well thought out and it did not include stray dogs. Confidently, I strode up to the counter and announced, "I have two stray dogs I picked up running down the side of the road in Hartford and I'd like to drop them off. One has a tag so you can probably...." The lady at the counter cut me off and said, "We don't take dogs people find, only ones they don't want anymore. You have to take them to animal control in Hartford."
"But, I'm on my way home. I have to pick up my kids. I can't go back to Hartford." I may have been slightly sputtering at this point. Or a whine may have entered my voice.
She shrugged and said, "I can give you their number."
This was a glitch I had not expected. I felt my supreme sense of confidence slowly slipping away. The injustice of it all began to sink in. I should have been welcomed as a hero but instead I had been turned away like a commoner. (I began to sense what my son must feel like when he comes to show me his artwork and I focus on the mess he made on the table.) My two companions were overjoyed to see me and greated me with yowls of joy and intense tailwagging when I got back to the car. I hadn't even petted them yet for fear of being bitten. Now I petted them and, with forced cheefulness, said, "Well, no big deal. You've got a tag on your collar. I'll just call your owner and have them come pick you guys up or I can keep you in the basement and bring you to Hartford with me to work tomorrow so they can get you." And so I sallied forth, secure in the knowledge that in my well laid plans all would work out.
To make a long story short, I have four dogs. The tags were useless! The owner had disconnected the phone listed in the vet's file and not given a new one. To make matters worse, the vet did tell me that the poodley looking thing turned out to be a 9 year old poodle mixed named Maggie! How could I turn away a dog named Maggie!
The chihuahua (and let me say now that a chihuahua is the last breed of dog on God's green earth that I would ever, ever, ever buy)turned out to be able to do that thing with his eyes that the cat in Shrek does. Plus he had a cute little butt that looked like he was on steroids. I called Animal Control and he told me no one had called looking for them and that by law I had to turn them over to him. Knowing full well they'd probably put them to sleep, I asked what would happen if I didn't. He (kind soul) said, "Then we never had this conversation."
I made a few more attempts to find their owners. I went back to where I found them and asked a few people if they knew who they belonged to, but I didn't put up posters or anything. If the owners weren't looking, I really didn't want to give them back. Did I mention the female was in heat and neither of them were fixed? Did I mention we went ahead and picked up Gomez--whom we rechristened Henry--and he isn't fixed yet either? Did I mention it has been like a three ring circus in our house since that one innocent day when I stopped to do a good deed? Did I mention Maggie had a broken tooth that cost $400 to take out? Did I mention Milo (the chihuahua)cost $200 to be fixed? Did I mention Milo bit the neighbor? Did I mention he also bit me, my son, my daughter and Jim? Did I mention he peed on Jim's new quilt? Did I mention he pooped on the back of the couch? Did I mention he got out and the neighbor found him and called animal control while I'm out in my nightgown wandering the streets looking for him? Did I mention we have four dogs?
Henry is a sweetie and quite tolerant of the chaos he was met with when he tumbled off the plane and into our lives.
He has a little pink outline of a bat on his nose and is quite a good kisser. No slobbering or drooling, just very focused licks. Maggie and Milo are not kissers at all. They must have come from a non-kissing household. When all the new dogs arrived Diniyoyo was a little put out at first, but now she loves Henry to death. They have a rope toy and they both take an end and Diniyoyo drags Henry all over the floor. They do a lovely job of dusting. 
They have some all out play fights that sound like a barroom brawl that got out of hand, usually at 5:00 in the morning. Henry attacks Dini's head and Milo goes for her backleg. Maggie comes running in and barks this really piercing sharp bark to try and get them to break it up. She doesn't like rough play. Dini opens a serious can of whoop ass on all of them if they get her going.But somehow, she still always manages to look so good. Even when I muss up her hair and try to make it look like a fright wig.
So the two strays who were free (ha! ha!) are costing a fortune and running the house. Maggie has a burn mark on her side that the vet says hair will never grow on again, but it doesn't bother her. She follows Jim around like he hung the moon just for her. I keep reminding her that it was me who saved her life and he wouldn't have even taken his foot of the gas had he been the one to see them. She doesn't care. She howls at the window when he leaves and rushes out to greet him when he returns. Milo has some bizarre disorder that makes him get territorial over strange things--like a feather pillow on my bed. No one is allowed to touch it when he is near it. He also likes to hoard his chew sticks until all the other dogs are finished with theirs and then lunge at any poor soul who gets within a yard of him. But if you are petting him and stop, he does the cat eye thing and then taps you ever so gently with his paw. It's almost enough to make me forget the hole he chewed in my sheet.
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