Earlier in 2014 my wife suggested we get a dog. It was a good idea. We went to a shelter where a friend works. They brought out Ryder, a beagle-daschund mix. He took to me and me to him.
You start out by “fostering” the dog. After a background check they give you a cage and you take the dog for a few days to determine compatibility.
I took Ryder around our yard so he could sniff, pee and do whatever he needed. He checked out the inside of our place and we seemed acceptable to his standards. He hopped up on my lap while I stroked his back until he fell asleep.
He awoke a half hour later. I talked to him, getting ready to let him down for another walk when he bit me twice solidly on the back of my left hand, the scars of which still remain.
Ryder knew he had done something wrong as he headed for his cage, went in, and didn’t leave until we returned him to the shelter the next day. He didn’t pee, poop, drink or eat. The workers said he had a “history.” I figured he probably had psychological problems.
In April, a worker we know at another shelter said she had just the dog for us. Because she knew us she waived all the background stuff and brought him over. He is either a bichon-frise or maybe a Malti-poo. People have different opinions of his lineage.
His name is Luka. White as a snowball, he was found in Tijuana, starving and beaten up. People took him to a vet who brought him around and sent him to the shelter in the states. They thought he might be 2 years old. He weighs about 13 pounds.
Luka took to my wife immediately, thinking she was his mother. He was already neutered, well-trained, smart and basically housebroken. Once Luka discovered I would perform tug-of-war with rope toys and play keep-away with him, I was his next-best buddy. He would follow my wife around the house. If she was busy he would end up on my lap or dropping toys at me feet, looking up at me as if to say, “Let’s go.”
We were leaving soon for Michigan and learned we couldn’t take him unless the adoption was complete. If not adopted, we would have had to return him and he most certainly would be scooped up by someone else by the time we returned. He needed shots, a license, a microchip, a carrying case for the airplane and more toys.
I said it was too much to do in such a short time and we should return him. He now lives with us so you can figure out the domestic dynamics of our house.
Luka was a great traveler. Everyone in Michigan fell in love with him. When we returned home my health started to slip and I and spent more time in bed. He was my faithful companion, nuzzling up against my thigh. At night he slept in his cage, usually without being told. Luka really was the perfect dog. He helped me and was very good company for my wife.
In late December I was hospitalized for lung surgery. After a few days I told my wife how much I missed Luka. The next day she came into my room carrying her purse and an extra handbag. She shut the door and Luka hopped out of the handbag onto my bed and tried to lick my face (we don’t allow that).
The cleaning lady came in, looked at Luka, smiled and said, “I din’ see nuthin’.” Luka was a great companion for that hour. His mere presence soothed my agitated psyche and allowed me to relax. I am so grateful for the surprise visit.
I’m home now and on hospice.
I didn’t know my wife is a smuggler, but I’m glad she is.
