The First Year Home

I had a seven year gap between dogs. Part of that came from the leftover pain following Spencer’s prolonged death, while part of it was being accustomed to a life that was so much easier. No trips to the vet had to be made. No accidents or vomit ever needed cleaning up. I could go to school early and state late if I needed to, without feeling any guilt. I didn’t have to worry about who was going to watch the dog whenever I left town. It was an easier life, but an emptier one. 

Last summer was a long one after Freddie came home. It’s hard for me to explain exactly how frightened and withdrawn he was when he first moved in; only the people who saw him in his first days could fully appreciate that. His trust came slow but he got used to me, and he got used to his surroundings, and after several weeks he settled in comfortably. He’s now as happy as he’s ever been. He has plenty of favorite napping spots, and often will go to bed on his own before I do. He’ll attack his toys first thing in the morning, burning off excitement about knowing he's about to go for a walk. He knows our neighborhood well, including many of his dog neighbors and their human companions. He has all of our walk routes memorized, knowing where his favorite sniffing spots are, where he’s supposed to turn, and where house is his, regardless of which direction we approach it from. He’ll happily dance when he knows it’s time for breakfast or supper, and recognizes the sound of me opening the door of the cabinet where his treats are kept. When we settle in for the evening, he’ll always watch to see where I’m going to sit, then races over and jumps up to lie down beside me. If I don’t give him enough pets and scratches, he isn’t shy about swatting at my hand to remind me what my job is. 

I’m not sure anyone else will ever see the happy and bouncy little guy I know him to be. Whatever bad things happened to him earlier in life have left him extremely cautious and shy, and I don’t know if that’s something he’ll ever get over. He does open up, though. It has to be on his timetable, and it takes a long time to happen, but after awhile they get a glimpse at the loving little dog he is. 

After our first year together, I have a better understanding of why dogs such as him are called rescues. It isn’t necessarily because they’re taken from a pound or a shelter and get to move into better home, but also because they get another chance at a better, happier life. When I see him run to his safe places when visitors come or curl up to hide himself if he thinks he’s done something wrong, it almost makes me wish I knew exactly what had happened to him before he entered foster care, so I could understand those behaviors better. Since that won’t happen though, I’ve decided it doesn’t matter. Instead I’ll do the only thing I can, and redouble my efforts to make his home and his life as happy and comfortable and loving as possible.