To the Metal Tags on My Dog’s Collar

Indy

We rescued Indy when she was 8, drove 4 hours each way to pick her up from a family who had given up on her. We’re greeted at the door by a woman and her two young kids. As we are leaving, the boy says, “Mom, are we going to get another dog?”

“No! We are never having another dog!”

Part of me wants to scoop up the kids and take them with me, also. I’ve room in the van.

At least we saved the dog. For the ride home, she is busy: at the window, back and forth between the seats, barking at us every few minutes. She’s all terrier. A terrier that’s been misunderstood her whole life.

I wonder how I will know what she wants. Our other dog we got as a puppy, trained him how to let us know he wanted to go outside. Or he trained us.  I knew if he bumped his nose lightly against my leg and then sat down, no blinking, he needed to go out.

The first afternoon with her, she came running into my office, barking loudly at me and she was perfectly clear: "I have to go outside NOW." She stamped her feet and make a fuss: now, now, now.

Until the summer of her bad knees. She could hardly walk and the stairs were out of the question. How would she let us know? A bark could mean someone’s at the door, the wind is blowing, the other dog is playing. She decided to shake, rattle the tags on her collar, over and over until I came down. "Let me out."

Her knees got better, but still, in the morning, she stands at the bottom of the stairs and shakes her tags. 5 AM. Snow falling. "This is urgent. Hear me. Hear me."

They will never have another dog.