by Nancy Gallimore
The moment I met her I knew she was special. Or maybe it’s that I could feel how special she was.
It’s not that she gave me an enthusiastic greeting. In fact, she really didn’t even raise her head. She was depressed, exhausted and, well, I can only tell you that I felt she was heartbroken. It’s not something I can explain easily, but feelings of defeat were rolling off this sweet dog.
I felt how tired she was. I felt her aches and pains. I felt her sense of uncertainty that was also betrayed by the wrinkle of her brow and her furtive glances.
Something in those soft brown eyes spoke to a place deep in my heart. And I felt a little flicker of something — I think it was longing. This good soul dreamed of simple things like comfort and safety. She didn’t dare envision anything more.
She was rescued on a steamy summer day by some very caring employees at the local botanical garden. She made her way to them and then collapsed in the dirt, robbed of the energy to take even one more step. They saw to her immediate needs by giving her water, and then a bowl of food. They applied drops to her shoulders to rid her of the hundreds of ticks that were draining her body. They gave her the first relief she had likely known in months.
They messaged me through our non-profit Dalmatian rescue for the long-term care they knew she needed. I looked at the photos coming across my phone of a dog that appeared completely drained and defeated. She was by no stretch of the imagination a purebred Dalmatian, but this dog pulled at my heart. I loved her before I ever gave her that first reassuring pat.
Her name became Tansy, a nod to her rescuers who also tended to the beautiful flowers at the gardens where she was found. The veterinarian’s exam quickly revealed that the legions of ticks she endured had left her with an unwelcome gift in the form of ehrlichia, a tick-borne disease. Her aches, pains, and lethargy had a catalyst, one that now identified, we could resolve.
Tansy settled into a kennel at the veterinary hospitial to begin her journey to good health. And there, I could see she felt safe. She had everything she thought she needed. A space of her own, soft blankets, people who spoke kind words to her, fresh water, and good food twice a day, every single day. And with that, a few of the cracks in her tired heart began to fill.
A week later, I returned with a leash. As soon as I slipped it around her neck, she habitually turned toward the door that led out to the kennel yard. But this time, I urged her toward a different door, the door that led out of the hospital.
Sweet Tansy immediately stopped. Her eyes clouded with concern, her head and tail drooped low. Again, I could feel her speaking to me. She was afraid to leave. The unknown, the “what next,” had never been her friend. She had no reason to trust anything on the other side of that hospital door.
I coaxed her, I encouraged her, I made her so many promises about good things to come. Reluctantly she followed me to the parking lot and allowed me to help her into my car. Her resignation escaped in a long, deep sigh as she laid her head down, staring blankly into the back of my Jeep.
I concentrated hard as I drove, trying to send her feelings and mental pictures, just as she had done for me. I thought about my house with all the soft dog beds and dog-friendly furniture. I envisioned our big backyard and how beautiful the view is at sunrise when dewdrops on every strand of grass sparkle like precious gems. I thought about the resident dogs out romping and playing, then coming inside to stretch out in the air-conditioned comfort. I thought about how dogs in our home didn’t have a care in the world.
Could she hear me? Did she feel the peaceful images I was trying to send to her? I could see her in the rearview mirror, head still down, unmoving, but maybe I did sense some little glances my way. Perhaps a little desire to trust was blooming in her own mind.
We arrived home and she peered out of the open car door tentatively. As I helped her to the ground she sniffed a bit, taking in more information than any of us can imagine with each small inhalation. We walked toward the house, and I could feel her uncertainty mounting. There was not much I could do for her beyond offering my own calm demeanor as her guide.
Once inside, she was met by a few of our calmer dogs. Oh, poor girl. She wanted nothing to do with their inquisitive sniffs or their wagging invitations. She sat quickly in a “please go away” gesture. Her back curved, her ears pressed flat with worry to the sides of her head, her lips ruffling slightly in protest if any of the dogs tried to come toward her face.
“Too much! Too much!” the feelings cried. And so, I listened. I let her scurry into a large crate covered on three sides by a blanket so she could take refuge. I gave her some fresh water and a little snack. Then I just let her be. She needed to process. She needed to just be a spectator.
The other dogs in the house, and there
are quite a few, came to the front of the crate to meet the newcomer. They were met with furtive glances and quiet, grumbling protests not born of aggression, but rather of fear. “Not yet,” the feelings said. “Please let me be invisible.”
Their initial curiosity over the newcomer satisfied, the other dogs of our household, both our own dogs and our foster dogs, moved on. There were toys to be chewed, birds to be chased, and sunbeams that begged for nap partners.
One hour passed. Two hours. I helped her make a visit outside to relieve herself, and then straight back to the crate. Her idea, not mine. “Not yet.”
Three hours, then four hours passed. I left the crate door open. “Up to you,” I thought.
That evening, with all the other dogs snoozing around the living room, I heard a little rustle. From the corner of my eye, I saw her tiptoe out of the crate for a brief, cautious look around. “That’s fine,” I thought. “At your own pace, in your own time.”
She slept the whole night in the open crate. Her trips to the yard were still at my side leashed and protected from prying noses.
But as night gave way to morning I saw it — that undeniable little glimmer called hope.
She stepped quietly out of the crate and into our midst. By now, my dogs, who are very accustomed to foster dogs coming and going, were not so curious about this reclusive stranger. They went about their business, allowing Tansy to weave herself into our routine with little fanfare.
But to Tansy, every part of our routine was amazing. There was food on a regular basis. At first, she ate nervously, as if someone would surely come to steal her share. Then she ate with focused gusto, no longer glancing over her shoulders with each bite.
Time outside was cherished. The yard was safe from people shooing her away. She could lounge in the shade of the porch, or she could lie in the soft grass for a nap in the sun. And when she was ready, the door to the inside was always open to her, welcoming her back into our home.
There were treats, belly rubs, soft brushes, and cushy beds. Routine was pure bliss to the dog who had known nothing but
uncertainty. And just as her little space at the vet hospital had become her safe place, so this new place became her haven as well. She started to trust and enjoy all the little things the other dogs knew as constants.
She also started feeling physically better as the medicine chased disease from her body. Her coat softened and filled in. Her ribs were no longer so easy to count. Her eyes no longer darted away, but held a gaze, steady and soft.
And then, one day, I pulled out the leash again. With a deep breath I asked her to trust me. In the car, I could feel her old nemesis, uncertainty, welling up and I did my best to reassure her knowing that only experience could bring true peace.
As we pulled into the drive of the
tree-shaded home, a woman walked out, a warm smile spreading across her face at her first glimpse of Tansy.
And the feelings! Oh, the feelings.
For once, Tansy moved out ahead of me and went straight to the woman. Sitting politely, directly in front of her, Tansy raised her head to look straight into the woman’s face.
Together, we all sat out in the backyard, Tansy meeting the quiet, kind man of the home as well. She moved between the two, enjoying their attention. She met their dogs with careful curiosity instead of concern. Inside the tidy house, she relaxed calmly at the feet of her new friends.
Not wanting to turn her world suddenly upside down again, Tansy returned home with me that day with plans in place for her ultimate transfer to the couple I had now chosen as her new family. After a few days, I packed up her medicine, wrote out her care instructions, packed a bag of food and a favorite toy, placed a new tag on her collar, and loaded Tansy into the car for a very important ride.
This time, instead of turning her back and lying with her head down between her front legs, Tansy sat looking forward. What did I feel from her this time? Expectation?
As we once again pulled into the shady drive leading to what was to be her new home, Tansy’s feelings manifested in the form of a thumping tail. Was recognition possible after just one visit? I guess when you visit the right place, it most certainly is.
This time, there was no hesitation as she hopped from the car. She headed straight for the door that was immediately opened by the gentle woman with the wonderful smile. I knelt to whisper the words I promise to every foster dog that leaves our care for a new home, “I have picked this home just for you and it’s a good one. You will be safe and loved, but remember, I’m always here for you if you need me. I love you. Be happy now.”
Then, as I turned to leave, she gave me her own little gift. Her eyes, now bright and shining, held mine and I felt a flood of pure trust and hope. Beautiful, newly born hope.
Good for you, Tansy. Enjoy your happily-ever-after. I think I’ll always be able to feel you in my heart, no matter where your journey with your new family takes you. And right now, finally, the feelings are blissfully good.
