It has been more than twenty-five years since we last adopted a dog who had done time in the pen. Calvin and Susie were from a shelter in North Carolina, and we got them sometime in the late 90s. Our other dogs came to us in more spontaneous ways, sort of falling in our laps when we needed them. While we found Beinn in that same magical way, he had a long journey to reach us, including doing several long months in lockup. He maintained his beautiful, soft temperament through all his tribulations, but I have found one way that living in a cage affected him. It rained all day, so dogs spent a lot of time in the garage to dry their muddy peets. I brought the big floofy dogs in for cuddles mid-day. When Big Beinn looked longingly out the back door, I said nah, it's wet out there. You don't want to go in the mud again. Turns out yes, he did. He held out as long as he could, but then he went into the room where the cat boxes are, and I heard this tinkling sound... I guess when you've been locked up, you just do what needs doing, rather than learning how to make your requests clear to the doorkeeper.
He is still such a good boy, minor accident aside. He sat perfectly still for a brushing, except for a little startle when I brushed the base of his tail. Saoirse hasn't mastered that skill yet. She wiggles a lot more during grooming, and flops on the side I'm trying to work.
I haven't gotten the nerve to take them out for a walk, but it's tempting to see how he does. I don't walk well, but I bet he does. I wonder how he would do on a car ride. Suppose he likes French fries? I could run him past a magic window and let him sample some. I might even have another human ride shotgun, so they could feed him a cheeseburger.
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