Zabriskie

Did you know February is Black Dog and Cat Syndrome Awareness Month?
Not to be confused with November, which is the month you're supposed to adopt them.
So what better a time to share our Zabby's tale?

This began years before and when I started to type it up, realized it'd quickly grown into a 2-parter.
I'll have to post the prologue of her backstory later.
We pick it up in the middle, when the thought of introducing an actual canine into Chez StanMinn is seriously being entertained.

The original point was to have a living, breathing and barking presence in the home.
A *guard* dog.
My only caveat was that it wasn't to disturb the cats in any way.
Ridiculous (and impossible) I know.
There would be great adjustment for them; my aim was to make it as painless and seamless as possible.
And that just wasn't me projecting. Well, maybe a little.
Two caveats really, the other being it was CAM's dog and I would do very little towards its upkeep and maintenance.
Bathing, brushing, nails, exercising, training, vet, feeding, poop scooping, etc. were to all fall on him.
Not only did I have my own hands full with these millions of cats and their needs, I just really wasn't into dog.
Thus he began the great Internet search.
Breeders weren't even a consideration, nor pet stores.
I've been on animal welfare mailing lists a long time and am a supporting member of Best Friends going way back.
There are too many tragic stories on both fronts, a veritable Catch-22 regarding discarded companion animals desperately seeking homes and the horrors of factory-farmed puppy (and kitty) mills who glut the market squeezing out potential placements.
Nothing but a rescue dog for us.
We began the search for a puppy, the conceit being I'd fall immediately smitten with the squirming wee furball; there'd be no other outcome than unconditional love and acceptance.
Though I've never had the pleasure of bringing up a pup, I did know they required a great deal of work.
CAM brought home a number of books whose topics were predominantly raising and training a new dog.
There was also one describing different breeds and their characteristics, but I trusted he'd know what suited us best.
I only thumbed through as a courtesy, because again, really not my concern (see above.)
He did the hard, heartbreaking work of vetting all those poor things looking for a family and narrowed it down to a little pit mix who was conveniently being fostered not too far away in a local kennel.
That reeked to high heaven whose owner turned out to be a complete dick.
Indeed it was a little cutie and hyper active.
We were lectured on how to handle and discipline him and then witnessed firsthand how *not* to do it.
The paperwork had already been downloaded and completed, so it was a transaction that quickly turned to the details of when.
"Well, we'll have to come out for a house inspection to ensure you've the right environment and accommodations."
And when exactly would you be able to do this?
"Not for another few days, at least."
Do you want to find this little fella a home now or not? After all, whatever we have to give him far exceeds this stinky cage you're obviously keeping him in, although you won't allow us back there to confirm our suspicions.
Not to mention, *you* of this cesspool feel you're qualified to pass judgement on US?
I'm not sure which organization chose this moron to foster or why.
I'm not even sure the 'inspection' thing was on the up and up, but we agreed to everything and would call later to schedule the visit.
It was a strange ride home. I suppose when you've been with someone for as long as we have, a sort of telepathy develops and despite the minimal conversation being mostly positive about what had just transpired, our ESP was saying something altogether different.
While CAM was on the phone to the asshole, I'd pulled up one of the Pet Finder pages and started surreptitiously scrolling frenetically through pictures of more mature dogs.
This puppy thing wasn't going to work out for me.
I didn't have to let him down easy with that realization, for he was in the middle of telling the kennel owner to go fuck himself.
That's my word. I use it frequently with great flourish.
CAM drops the F bomb only on rare and judicious occasions, so I knew something bad was going down.
That poor puppy would just have to wait a little longer to be saved from his sad existence.
I was sorry for that, but not too sorry that we wouldn't be the ones to do it.
As is our way, with tents, cars, vacuums and just about everything else- we resumed the search but with different parameters this time.
An ADULT dog. For obvious reasons. (I have lots of shoes.)
Plus, I felt good about keeping one from the gas chamber if we could help it.
It's much harder for older animals (like human kids) to attract interest, so this was a righteous and grand gesture, I thought humbly.
We met a huge Mastiffy thing at the dog park with a family who'd found it roaming wild on their camping trip in Idaho.
Strike 1: Why didn't they try to find its owner there first? Have you even checked for a chip? (No.)
Strike 2: Their autistic son had bonded with the beast and was super upset to think we might take him away. Jesus.
Strike 3: It was ginormous.
Next!
By now, I'd also decided we needed a female. I liked the idea of tipping the balance of the household to feminine energy and honestly, those dog dicks sorta creep me out how they're all stuck up on their guts like that.
That we continue to have such issues with our shelters and animal services here in Lane County troubles me to no end.
I hated in 2010 that moving towards a no-kill model wasn't a priority.
In 2014 I'm infuriated that the shelter doesn't even exist anymore and they've contracted out to a private enterprise with spotty success.
But it was here CAM ended up.
There was a new picture just posted of a black lab-pit mix smiling broadly.
Because she'd been easily picked up on the busy highway (our old 'hood, in fact) early in the morning by 2 construction workers on their way to the site, there was a 7 day waiting period to see if her people would come claim her before she'd be put up for public adoption.
CAM went in and led her past the cat cages.
Nothing. Bingo. She passed the first and only test.
(Given a good sized scar on her muzzle, we think she learned at an early age to give cats a wide berth.)
They then hung out a bit and did some running around and lots of petting. 
The rule there was that every member of the household must meet before the process continues, so the next day (however trusting him implicitly) I accompanied CAM to Animal Control's caged area outdoors grasping a stuffed toy feeling very much like Angelina Jolie in my fashionable, oversized sunglasses welling up as I waited for my maybe new baby to come greet me.

New beginnings- the ride home to Chez StanMinn

She sniffed me up a little, ignored the toy and continued on, going straight for the water bowl and a lot more sniffing around.
OK
Sold! I suppose. See the part about it being CAM's dog and he's the one who knows best and blah blah.
"Canola" needed to stay incarcerated at least a few more days for her RX to kick in. Kennel cough had presented even though all incoming animals get shots to prevent it.
So this was really happening.
Good. That gave us some time to prepare for her even more than we'd already.
Bed, bowls, food, what else??? Our pet store would know.
Except, no.
We were a special case. The control officer decided we'd be fine to administer the drugs and could take her home this very night.
All righty then.
Contain freak out.
CAM purposefully avoided eye contact sensing full well the chaos manifesting in my psyche.
Methodically, after papers were submitted, a check written, a pretty pink collar chosen, this 7ish something animal, hence christened 'Zabriskie'*, was ours.
To take home.
Now.
Forever.
[*Zabriskie was my brilliant brainstorm. I try to name all my animals with Grateful Dead associations while CAM references Pink Floyd. This is a movie soundtrack to which BOTH bands contributed. Plus it made for a cute nickname- Zabby.]
Happy Dog gleefully skipped alongside us and trustingly jumped into the backseat.
Strange alien thing.
In my car.
All smiley and content.
While he was in the store grabbing everything we thought was needed and then some, she and I eyed one another.

I cut open a water bottle for a makeshift bowl that she eagerly lapped up.

And there it was. Our 'special' moment.
Carting a large, black dog home wasn't something I'd expected to be doing right now, yet here we were, for better for worse, because come hell or high water, I was determined to make this thing work.
And mostly it has.
There was no magical spark of mutual love and adoration.
She and I've just settled into living together, but she and CAM are tight.
Of course he does spoil her and buy her love and pet her just so.
Rather stubborn, though, with selective hearing and a few bothersome traits.
But, hey, she's got personality! And is rather predictable with certain behaviors.
It's been amusing and interesting to watch her acclimate and assert herself.
Point of fact, she doesn't give a damn about the cats.
Or hens.
Or other dogs or children.
Just with any living thing, quirks, likes, dislikes, etc. become evident.

CAM got to repair this on his birthday

And god, were we ever on a learning curve of how destructive this one could actually be.
The baby gates were a joke at keeping her away from the 'kitty roca', as was the first attempt at fashioning a hole in the hollow-core door we ended up buying for the job.
Hello Pit bull jaws!
There is a folder titled 'Bad Dog' where I keep all the photos of items she's destroyed over the years.
I can't fault her- she's just doing her dog thing, no matter how sneakily.
But this one <--- is a favorite because of the body language (it's a Kinderegg toy.)
It's been up to us to adapt, which explains the heavy duty chain locks on the kitchen cabinet doors.
After all these years, still trying to get away with things.
Speculating on her history remains topical.
She seems to have a soft spot for bread, being covered by blankets, a certain bell sound and dressing up. Had she lived alone with a little, old lady? Why wasn't she claimed?
Had the woman died and her son evicted the dog?
We tried to find her joie de vivre: Dog Parks (anti social), The Lake (doesn't swim) (What? She's part Retriever!), Hiking (tires quickly), Car Rides (bores easily),  and so on.
Just about to give up, we took her to the coast for what we later figured was her first visit.
And it was glorious!
The joy of discovery as she moonwalked along the surf was beyond satisfying to witness.
It remains a thrill to take her since it's obviously one of the few activities she truly enjoys.
She knows now to pace and not gulp down mouthfuls of salt water.

Lovin' the coast

A good romp in the first snow and catching snowballs with her whole head brings pleasure.
In fact, she's much more of a dog now that she's moved out to The Sticks.
During the hot summer after collecting Vitamin D on the porch, she'll head down to the creek for a cool off, which is awfully adorable to watch.
Much sniffing and exploring happens in this yard, as well as some other unseemly acts involving chicken poop.
Though there is no 'fetch' or 'tag', she's lost the carb weight that made her middle a barrel. She may be greying more (who isn't in this house?) but she's in much better shape for a proper diet and exercise.
I'd like to believe this life of hers now isn't so bad.
Certainly it beats the alternative, but are we worthy of her origins?
Mine's been enhanced for having known her.
Whatever mind trip over dogs I had in the past is blown up by the reality of living with this one.
As often as it is aggravating, it's rewarding. As you'd expect. As those of you with dogs already know. But it's all new to me.
Anecdotes, pictures; there are so many. Too many for now.
I end with this one and a secret- she only barks when it's time for dinner.
Don't tell the bad guys.

C'mon, man!