This is goodbye

The rescue people took me from Mom today and put me in the back of the truck. They had a dog of their own named Charlie, brown and white like me; I was a little confused as to why they were taking me away from Mom, but they seemed nice enough. Mom took some pictures of me while I was getting in the truck, and I just tried to get used to my surroundings.

You can just never figure; I hope it's nice where I'm going.

Pennsylvania

Mom is already telling people I'm going to Pennsylvania, whatever that is. She says I'll have a lot of land to run on, and a retired springer bitch for a friend. (I'm having trouble wrapping my mind around that one!)

The people I'll be re-homed to used to be breeders of springers, and now have one remaining female who needs a companion. Since mom was so worried I'd be going somewhere bad, she was hanging onto me until she found out something better; I guess this is it. She's pretty confident I'll be happier, and my new family will be people who have a lot of experience with dogs like me.

That breed thing again...

Our neighbor has a Brittany spaniel puppy named Toby, and he's certain I'm a Brittany too. "There are liver-and-white Brittanys too," the man said. I don't know about "breeds," I'm just a dog. But Mom went home and looked for a Brittany website where she could see some pictures of Brittany spaniels.

She's still not convinced; sure, there are liver-and-white Brittanys, but there are also field-bred springers with short ears. "We're not going to figure it out tonight," she said, and took me home.

(Wow! Am I relieved she didn't think I was a Brittany spaniel; she might have named me Britney Spears!)

I hadda go!

This morning I started yelping and whining early--6 AM, Mom says. She just rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. But I kept it up for an hour, so she got up, pretended to go out--slammed the door, then tiptoed back. I just waited patiently; she had to take me with her!

So she took me out and I had to go so bad I pooped on the way down--on the fourth floor. She picked it up and rushed me out to finish my poop. "You're a good dog," she said.

I wasn't a lion, Mom! I hadda go!

It's my six-monthiversary!

Mom says I've been with her six months--whatever that means. I don't know how long I've been with them--I'm a dog so I live in the now--but it feels like a long time. Mom says I have it pretty good, too; well, I don't know about that either!

"You could do worse," she says.

Anyway, this evening we went to the run, and by now she knows me well enough that not much I do fazes her. We were at the dog run in Union Square park, and I grabbed a tennis ball. I fumbled it a few times and dropped it, but then I got a hold of it and wouldn't "out" it for anything! Mom got a hold of me and put a leash on me so she could lead me away.

One block, two blocks...we walked further and further away from the park, then past another dog run, where Mom didn't take me in--aw, Mom! Finally, we were going past Stuyvesant Town, with its lawns, and it was still light enough out that--look! A squirrel!

There went the ball, and I scrambled to grab it back--gimme that! gimme that--but Mom was relieved I "out"ed it. It's a dog's life; next time I won't let go.

I'm a wet pet!

Yesterday it rained, and Mom took me walking in the rain. It was pouring, and when we passed under awnings of storefronts, I leapt up to catch the drips! It was fun!

Mom told passers-by, "That's why they call him a springer." It's fun being a dog!

They dressed me up like Elvis!

Mom took me to see this friendly guy with a camera yesterday; he had a lot of toys and fun things in his apartment, and I grabbed two toys--a squeaky bone and a ball that croaked like a frog! And wouldn't let them go! They got me over to an area with bright lights and a roll of backdrop paper; the guy was clicking and these lights were going off.

They even put these goggles on me--damn, I hated them! I pawed at my face trying to get them off--and the guy's assistant asked hesitantly, "You think we can get this cape on him?" Somehow they got me to wear a fur jacket; Mom said, "He looks like Elvis," whoever that is.

I grabbed a little red ball toy before we left and wouldn't "out" it no matter what they did or offered me. Mom promised to get it away from me and bring it back later. "He's very agitated," she said.

Yesterday, I found a roadkill pancake!

Mom took me up to the farmer's market at Union Square yesterday; we got to the corner of 14th street and Broadway, and she didn't see what I saw (my nose saw it first!)--a flattened, dead, hairy rat! With a squiggly tail! I grabbed it and wouldn't let go of my prize for anything!

We walked through the park, with Mom waving bits of food in my face, and my growling at her if she tried to get the roadkill pancake away from me. (It's mine! Get your own!) People were asking, "What is that?" as we passed, and a woman even tried to help Mom get it away from me. "It might be poisoned! You have to get him to drop it!" Mom agreed, but told her she didn't want to get bit.

Mom finally bought some grilled chicken on a skewer from a street vendor, and was reaching down feeding me pieces of chicken trying to get me to drop the rat. I took the chicken but held onto the rat. Finally, I fumbled my prize (damn!) and dropped it. Mom praised me and gave me a cookie.

Mom is sad...

Well, Mom talked to the trainer again today, and he said he thinks I'm "too much dog" for Mom to handle. She's heartbroken about this, because she was trying to do right by me and give me a good home. But she has to crate me most of the day, and while she doesn't mind giving me four walks a day, she's dead-tired.

So she has to talk to the springer rescue people and ask them to list me. She'll send pictures of me, and will have the final say in who gets me, meaning it might take a long time before she finds me a home. She might change her mind, even. She knows she'll miss me.

Mom is torn...

Mom loves me; I've been with her now for about three months, but I try her patience and she doesn't know what to do with me.

On the one hand, she's even talking about "re-homing" me, whatever that means; she tells people what a handful I am, and they sympathize. She says the most distressing thing I do is that when we're walking on the sidewalk--or especially, when we're stopped on the street and she's talking to a friend, say--I will see someone running toward us and I'll jump up and snag their sleeve as they pass. She says that's "totally unacceptable." It happened three times on our walk up to Union Square this morning! Score!

She's been talking to trainers; a very nice man came to visit me last Sunday and we went for a walk and he took the leash. He was so great and seemed to relate to me so well, I wanted to leave with him!

But she's feeling that I might be better off in the suburbs after all; she doesn't know if I'll ever adapt to city life, and she hates to have to keep me in the crate all the time. She says she doesn't have a lot of money to spend on trainers, which is why she's begun thinking about surrendering me to an English Springer rescue. They say she'd still have to be the foster home until a forever home is found; she doesn't really want to give me up, so she's okay with that.

The rescue lady said if I'm under three years old, I'd probably "settle down" soon, but I'm such a handful for her right now, it's tough.