How We Got Biscuit
A story of negotiating with the ground while falling…
Marie and I had taken Weagle down to Galveston for the day, and we were headed back home. We noticed a group of three adolescent boys walking the other way down the road, looking like they were up to no good (do adolescent boys ever look another way?). They had this medium-sized blond dog with them, and you could tell the dog didn’t really understand about roads, since he was trotting along down the middle of the road as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Marie commented on the wrongness of having a dog on the road with no leash, and that the kids looked like they were up to no good, and that she wanted to go back and give them a piece of her mind. I reminded her that she couldn’t save the world, and that if these kids wanted to walk their dog down the road without a leash, we might not like it, but it wasn’t really our business.
We drove for a couple of minutes in silence, and Marie finally insisted that we go back and make sure the dog was okay. I relented, but told her, ‘Listen, no matter what happens, we are NOT going to end up with that dog, okay?’ She agreed (but I think she knew all along). After all, we already had 3 cats and a dog, and Weagle was turning out quite large (100 lbs), so adding another dog to the mix seemed like a very unwise thing to do. But, I turned around and headed back, 99% sure that we’d either not find the kids, or that the dog would be just fine, and I could smugly NOT say ‘I told you so’.
Well, I was wrong. As we drove, we saw the little blond dog resolutely limping/running down the side of the road. He’d been hit by a car. He turned into a neighborhood of beach houses, went to a specific one, got up on the porch and laid down. Nobody was home, so we left a note and took him to the nearest veterinarian. He was very calm and friendly, and Weagle seemed to understand what was going on. She was curious about the new dog in the truck, but stayed calm, too. I reiterated to Marie that we were not going to end up owning this dog, and she once again agreed.
While we were at the vet, the ‘owner’ called and let us know that the vet we had chosen turned out to be the dog’s normal vet, and that she (the owner) would take care of everything from here. Before we left, the vet let us know that Biscuit’s leg was pretty badly broken, and to fix it would require a permanent titanium plate, and that would be a pretty expensive procedure. She also hinted that the current owner might be unable/unwilling to foot the bill, so we told the vet to call us if turned out to be the case. We left the vet and headed home, and I once again let Marie know that it would sure be a bad idea to try to fit another dog into our household. She agreed again, and we drove home talking about that poor, leash-less dog and his undeserving owner.
Well, the next day the vet called and told us that Biscuit’s owner couldn’t afford the titanium plate procedure, and we offered to pay for it. The owner then called Marie and told her that she (the owner) was out of work and was currently nursing a broken ankle, so she didn’t think she’d have the physical, mental, or monetary wherewithal to care for an injured dog. Marie told her that we would still pay for the procedure, and that we would find a new home for Biscuit. At this point I started to realize that there was about a 50/50 chance we could end up with Biscuit. I mean, we were going to try to find a home for a dog who:
We knew nothing about, behavior-wise, other than what we observed while interacting with him after he got knocked silly by a vehicle;
Was not fixed;
Was not an indoor dog;
We didn’t know whether or not was housebroken;
We had no clue if he got along with kids/pets/houseplants/humans;
Might actually end up losing his leg;
At best, would need several months of expensive follow-up vet care and convalescence.
Who wouldn’t want a dog like that? I’ll tell you who…everybody. While Biscuit spent a week at the vet’s in Galveston, we put the squeeze on every potential dog owner we could think of, and we got nowhere. Not that I blame anyone, given the above list, but we know some awesome dog lovers, and we still came up with nothing.
So the fateful day arrived and Biscuit was ready to come home from the vets. We chatted with the vet about his personality, and she said he’d really been laid back and friendly to everyone. When we rescued him, I had wrapped him in a towel and Marie carried him on her lap all the way to the vets, and he didn’t whine or growl or snap at us or Weagle. In fact, he had seemed very at ease. We had theorized that maybe it was shock (or stun), but the vet said that if he had had any nasty characteristics, they almost definitely would have presented themselves in that situation. So, we were feeling a LITTLE bit hopeful that he wasn’t a devil-dog, but we still had no idea what to do with him. We hadn’t given up on finding him a home, but the odds were stacking higher against us with every passing moment.
Quite frankly, I think that at this point Marie had already ‘decided’ we were going to keep him, and was just waiting for me to come to my senses. I was still adamant that we would place him somewhere, and rededicated myself to the task.
So, we get Biscuit home the first day, and he hobbled around checking out the house, and Weagle and he liked the way each other smelled, and he didn’t really seem antagonistic to our cats. And then we went to bed. Weagle always sleeps with us, so Marie lifted Biscuit up onto the bed, too. I was already in bed, and Biscuit came up by my pillow, turned around once, laid down with his head nestled over my shoulder and chest, heaved a big, contented sigh, and went to sleep. I was powerless. I mean, what dog lover could resist such a demonstration? So Biskie became our new dog, and we stopped looking for a home for him, because we had found one…ours
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