A Girl and Her Dog: A Love Story (Almost)

I am a sucker for beauty: men, women, birds, landscapes, the rich golden glow of gingko leaves as they flutter down to carpet Main Street in the fall. If it’s beautiful, my eye will be instinctively drawn to it. This is how, 16 years ago, we came to own a neurotic, purebred Welsh Springer Spaniel named Beanie.

We had put down our heroic chocolate lab, Elvis, five months earlier, and were now looking for a medium-sized dog. We were still stuck on pure breeds, but were ready to downsize, literally. As I leafed through dog book after dog book, I kept landing on the Welshie, a beautiful white dog with red spots and the reputation of being a good family dog. Not only were Welshies beautiful, they were good with children and just the right size. 

Beanie came to us from Columbus, OH, in a beige dog crate filled with fear. I don’t think he ever got over that initial shock because for years after we got him, his main job, in addition to avoiding the boys, seemed to be hiding under couches, beds and tables. A happy, playful family dog he was not. He was a beautiful, humping, jealous dog who idolized me in an aloof, peculiar way that would probably have been deemed illegal in most places.

I loved him anyway. But for two young boys, a dog that won’t play is a major disappointment. For this reason, we adopted an abused beabull (part beagle/part pit bull) named Lulu who loved all of us—but especially my oldest son, who really needed a dog that would devote herself to him. She is still his love slave and meekly follows him to bed each night with a sheepish look that says, “What can I do? I love the big lug.” 

Last year, Beanie began a long, slow decline. At 15, he had survived the arrival of Lulu and a bout with cancer, not to mention years of maniacally humping practically every dog he met on Memorial Field. He was my dog, so I was the one to make THE decision. Everyone who has ever loved a dog knows what decision I’m talking about. We make it reluctantly, knowing full well the time has come to say goodbye to our loyal pooch. 

I put him down in June. Lulu, who loved him as a close second to my older son, stopped eating. Her limp, the result of being thrown from a moving car, worsened. She still barked incessantly, but the barking was now being done from a lounging position in her dog bed. Everything about her shouted, “I miss my buddy.” And as she became more cat-like and prone to sleeping 23 out of 24 hours, I realized I, too, was missing my boy Beanie. 

I swore up and down I didn’t want another dog. I listed all the ways I was quite content with “Low-Maintenance Lulu,” who now didn’t even want to go on walks. I ranted about the ruined carpeting, the lack of dog hair coating everything, the nights of lost sleep. But while swearing loudly and verbally, I was scouring pet sites online, looking for another dog. 

Enter Blaze, a beautiful male dog with a sad backstory and lots of issues. I'm a total sucker for a sad doggie tale. 

Blaze had languished for a year in a local kennel after being rescued in New York by a wonderful group called Rebound Hounds. This group rescues good dogs from kill shelters and finds homes for them, but poor Blaze kept getting overlooked. Why? He was handsome, healthy and nice. He also happened to be 6 1/2 years old and almost 70 pounds of lean muscle, coiled like a spring from a very long year in a kennel.

I made contact with the organization and found out Blaze was right next door in Mount Laurel and that a very devoted couple, Paul and Christine, drove down from North Jersey every Saturday to spend a few hours exercising and playing with Blaze. Thus began many meet and greets at Laurel Acres, and eventually, in my backyard.

Blaze was so strong I couldn’t walk him without dislocating my shoulder. Blaze was so big he made Lulu look like a stick bug. Blaze was so distracted he barely looked at me at all. Still, despite these obvious “tells,” I soldiered on, wanting to give him a well-deserved home. I knew that with a correction collar, Blaze would do just fine. I knew that in time, Lulu would bond with him and come to love him. What I didn’t know about Blaze would fill a Smart Car.

After talking with his trainer, it was decided we should have a one- to two-week trial with Blaze. The trainer also informed me that a 30-ish farm couple in upstate New York also wanted to adopt Blaze, sight unseen and no trial period. (But, no pressure, she assured me!?) I got on Facebook and put the word out that I was looking to borrow a large crate from someone local. Within a day, Howard Griffis answered my call and came through with a large crate. Still, the thought of big Blaze cavorting on a farm kept springing up, unbidden, in my mind. What if, after a week, Blaze still wouldn’t make eye contact? What if Lulu didn’t warm to him? What if he ate me, whole, for dinner?

Thursday morning, I woke up with a terrible pain in my right hip. Taylor and I had been dancing on Wednesday night at the World Café Live in Philly and my almost 60-year-old body was now shrieking in pain. It was at this moment the proverbial light bulb hovering over my head began blinking furiously. Small and almost 60—what kind of life could I give this enormous, boisterous mutt? Wouldn’t he be better off on a farm with people half my age? I was being selfish and I knew it. 

Last weekend, Blaze headed to a farm in upstate New York with his saviors, Paul and Christine. Mentally, I’m sure I did the right thing, but my heart is telling me otherwise. It will be a good long while before I look for another dog, I swear ... OK. 10 days, tops.