Kristin Kidd
A Funny Mystery
How many three legged terriers are there in San Antonio? Correction. How many
three legged terriers missing the left lower leg, with black floppy ears surrounded by a
mop of grey toupee, raccoon like eye rings, and dappled skin underneath a thin layer of
wiry white body hair? This is a very distinctive dog, but I’m not sure I know the answer.
I’ve wanted a dog for years now, but a recent struggle with depression and the
ever looming fortieth birthday were making this a pressing matter. In my mental
contortions, I should have been married by now. My life lacked the fruitful brood so
many of my peers had several times over. I never noticed them before. I was off, out on
adventures, with noble purpose and colorful tales. Then trouble, office politics, petty
gossip and backbiting, threats and intimidation, reared their ugly heads at work. I was
blindsided by it. My fairy tale career now had a bitter, Wellbutrin tinged aftertaste. It was
time to grow up.
The therapeutic literature I read was flush with trite advice. Start a hobby. Make
new friends. Exercise. Eat right. Take bubble baths. Yada yada ya. I scrolled down lists,
telling myself not to scorn the suggestions. It all wearied me. I had tried so many of these
remedies, and what had it done? Was my life one unending remedy for a mobius strip of
ailment? Was it this unending ring?
Then I read, “Find a furry friend that loves you. Adopt a pet from a nearby
shelter.” The fleeting idea of someone waiting for me after work and greeting me with
wild excitement eclipsed all the sensible critiques I held about self-involved singles
patching up their miserable empty lives with an animal or two. Surely it was selfish.
Expecting an irrational animal to be the family you previously neglected. Doting on a dog
with all the love and care you denied yourself, as if this hardly mastered skill was yours
in abundance. And don’t get me started about dog strollers, organic dog food, dog
boutiques and spa days. Dog yoga. Sigh. Was I crazy?
Well yes, and I had survived it. I had survived mornings I couldn’t get out of bed.
Where every damn joint and muscle ached, my stomach churned and my skin put forth a
florid display of scales, hives, rashes and eczema. I had migranes. I had back pain. And I
would have laughed over all this psychosomatic scenery if the road hadn’t been so
confusing. I felt as if my compass was broke. My integral, shining, precise interior
compass now spun like both the North and South poles were one-centimeter left or right
from each other. I was in a mental fog that got deeper and deeper, until one day I woke
up and realized I could no longer responsibly function in my line of work. I went for
help. It wasn’t brave; it was a matter of survival.
Now, after two months of professionals tweaking with my serotonin and
dopamine levels, I was looking at online pet personals. I began to think that all of San
Antonio’s stray population had only one set of parents: a pit bull and a Chihuahua.
Maybe with some randy Retriever uncle thrown in. There were shades of short smooth
hair ranging from vanilla, to fawn, to cocoa, to raven. And then there was a lone face in
the crowd at the Animal Defense League. His name was Mitch.
He is the terrier I’ve previously described. I left out the big, expectant brown eyes
and tilted cock of the head in his mug shot. I left out the winsome description that ended
with “Will you be my friend and experience the best of everything with me?” It was
unbearable and cute, and no, I don’t think I could handle a special needs dog. End of
discussion.
I was still mulling breeds, and options, and puppy adoptions timelines on the
morning I went to the Farmer’s Market. The Pearl Brewery Farmer’s Market is wrongly
named because although you will find a great deal of produce, the dogs there outnumber
the farmers. The Farmer’s Market is where all the gi-gi, glamorous pets strut and sit and
speak. They have glossy coats. Good grooming. Pure-bred pedigrees and indulgent
parents. I silently shook my head and gently smirked. I was just starting to load my bike
and hop on when I saw him. I swear I saw Mitch.
He walked on a lead held between two slight elderly ladies. He walked not with
the hop and limp I’d played over and over in my mind, but a smooth even stride that
made other dog owners stop and back up for a better look. And he smiled. He smiled with
a look that was beyond happy, it was wise and full of humor. I struggled with my long
splayed out fan of fennel and carefully positioned lettuces. I didn’t know what to think.
Had Mitch already been adopted? The website said he was “good with other dogs.” Did
sponsors take out dogs for Sunday social walks?
I went home, cooled off from triple digit relative temperatures and spun salads.
The dog I saw was sheer magnimity and fearlessness. This was a dog I wanted near me.
A dog worth breaking all the rules for. Before I knew it, I was in the car with directions
to the animal shelter, hoping he was back after his morning stroll. I arrived twenty
minutes before the shelter closed, was solemnly told no more adoptions could take place
that day, and scrutinized with wild eyes when I said I would like to see Mitch. I was
waved off in the direction of kennel number four.
A green shirted volunteer held a lead and opened a gate. There, with a timid and
gentle pace, hopped Mitch. He did not have the posture of Farm Market Mitch, which
could easily carry a stack of books on the shoulder. No, shelter Mitch’s coat was outdoor
dusty, and his eyes rarely left the ground. We went off to a yard where Mitch marked
nearly every vertical landmark, lifting his rear end nub high with determination. He loped
and ran after a tennis ball and the volunteer told me the whole sad tale of how Mitch
came in after a car wreck. All of his organs had been badly injured and surgically
reorganized, and his leg was amputated. “Ordinarily, a dog like that would be put down”
the volunteer said softly “but they must have seen something in him.” He had lived at the
shelter for six months, half his life by now. And the volunteer kept repeating solemnly,
“He is a good boy.” It was stated as a matter of fact, rather than endorsement.
I’d return to the shelter after two days of looking at “tri-pawed dog care,” dog
steps, dog car booster seats, dog comfort harnesses, dog walkers, doggie day care, dog PT
and balance builders, dog toys, dog puzzles, dog training classes, vets and yes, dog
strollers. And I wonder, who was the dog at the Farmer’s Market? Who was that shining
dog of strength and possibility? Is it possible, just barely possible, that I could do
somebody, or something, a little bit of good? Provide some love to a little friend in need?
I really started to wonder. I thought it through with great amazement. It still
remains a mystery. But I wonder if dogs have guardian angels.