Dog Rescue | The Adoption Process

I met my dog Sandy through an elite introduction service: the Yankee Golden Retriever Rescue League. The process from my end was rigorous (I can’t speak for the dog). It was also table-turning, since I am a psychiatrist and ask the questions in most situations. The first dog rescue packet I received was daunting: application form, Terms of Adoption contract, Outdoor Fencing Policy, and Think-It-Over question list (“Have you considered a cat, hamster, fish, or stuffed animal?”). Applicants must also host a Home Visitor — a sort of doggy social worker who assesses for proper conditions. The Home Visitor surveyed my rooms with a cordial but cool gaze, made some notes, sat in my kitchen, made some more. Her questions were the kind any dog would want answered: Could I bear hair in my food? Where would the dog sleep? What would the dog do while I was working? Doggy day care was my ace in the hand, a solution to the discontents of urban dogdom. A colleague had shown me the ad: A Dog’s Dream Come True! Exclusive Doggy Play Group. Transportation Provided. Bonded and Insured. His own Great Dane spent two delirious days a week there in an enclosed yard filled with toys, fake fire hydrants, pools, throw cushions, and a cohort of dogs overseen by a human attendant. That day-care ace took the game. Two months after the process began, I met my boy at the Rescue League kennel. He had spent most of his six years tied to someone’s porch, and he was emaciated, all eye sockets and ribs. When he offered me his limp paw for the first time and avoided my eyes, it was hard to know whose hand needed more to be held. During the ride home, he squeezed against the door handle while I sang hymns to comfort us both. The trip took over an hour; by the time we hit Boston, I was reduced to humming scales. He did not join in. To qualify for doggy day care, we had one more river to cross. We met the dog behaviorist in the pouring rain. His job was to assess socialization skills. Ours was to make a good impression. He took Sandy’s leash and ran him around the yard a few times. He noted the frequent lifting of leg, the slight stiffness of back when introduced to a second dog. “A little aggressive,” he said damply (I didn’t believe it for a moment), “and he has those distressed eyes” (unfortunately, I couldn’t argue with that). Nonetheless, with reservations, he admitted Sandy into the ranks of the play group. Three mornings a week now an air-conditioned van rolls up. The driver informs me that on the way to daycare my dog assumes an alert, navigating position in the front seat. At the yard there is Frisbee, batting practice, bathing (my boy favors the aquatic sports), and — for the less industrious — shut-eye on the throw cushions. The ad was accurate; it is a canine dream come true. These days Sandy is well fed and cared for; the distressed eyes are gone. I often find him belly up and grinning beside me. In the morning he wakes me up with his paw working my chin up and down. He’s constantly shaking my hand, though, of course, we have met many times now. All this shaking seems to be his way of saying I have passed the final and most important test of all. Excerpt from “For Want of a Dog,” Yankee Magazine September 1992.

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