Page 2 of Scout Takes the Lead
“The dog enclosures are to the left,” she said. “If you want to take one out and play, let me know.”
The first dogs I saw were either pit bulls or mixes. They were tough dogs, and if they weren’t well-trained they could be violent. I needed a breed that I could take places, and pit bulls could make people jumpy if they snarled and threatened to attack. I didn’t want a dog that could cause me trouble.
A family was considering what looked like a Yorkshire Terrier that yipped wildly but licked the little girl’s face. The dogs around them were small and noisy, variants on chihuahuas. I’d seen women carrying little dogs in purses, and that wasn’t for me. I also needed a dog who’d be quiet when I had to work.
At the end of the row of pens stood an enclosure with two puppies that looked like a mix of golden retriever and something else, probably collie, if their pointed noses were any indication. One of them was a real fireball, jumping and twirling around, while the other was quieter and came up to the wire to sniff my hand.
From what I’d seen online, either breed would be a good choice for a service dog. But which one of the two? I went back to the earbud girl and asked to see them. She brought a plastic lead and led me back to the enclosure.
“Let’s try this one first,” she said, picking up the bouncy puppy by the scruff of his neck and slipping the lead around his neck. He wiggled and wriggled, trying to get free, and just looking at him made me anxious.
“Maybe the quieter one instead,” I said.
“If you want.” She put the bouncy boy down and picked up his brother, who looked right at me with soulful brown eyes that pierced something inside me.
Right then, I knew he was going to be mine, but we walked outside and she handed the puppy to me. He licked my chin, and I kissed the top of his head. I put him down on the grass and he immediately began to sniff, tugging me forward.
“Just pull lightly on the lead to remind him who’s in control,” the girl said, and I did.
The dog immediately stopped pulling. He sniffed the ground, lifted his leg and peed. I knelt down to pet him and said, “Good dog!” He leapt up into my arms, and the deal was settled.
“I’ll take him,” I said. After I filled out the adoption application and paid the fee, the girl gave me a checklist of things I’d need, along with coupons from a pet store in Hollywood, Florida, where I lived.
“I have to let you know that this is a conditional adoption,” she said. “We require all dogs adopted here to be neutered. Because he’s not old enough for the procedure, you’ll have to have it done when he’s ready, and then we’ll finalize your paperwork.”
“I have to do that?” I had already bonded with the puppy and I didn’t like anyone telling me what I had to do with him. “What, or you come to my house and repo him?”
“It’s our policy,” she said. I frowned, but she continued. “He’s already had a full physical exam and all the necessary vaccinations. Here’s his rabies tag and the paperwork for his microchip.”
I had had enough of being under government control, and I didn’t like the idea that my dog had a chip in him. “Can you trace where he is through that?”
She shook her head. “It’s only an identification. In case he gets lost.”
Or you try to take him away from me, I thought, but I didn’t say anything.
“Have you got a name for him?” she asked. I’d already thought of it while we were walking, him on point as if he was looking out for me.
“Scout,” I said. He looked up at me, as if he already recognized his name.
2: Trouble: Grace
I knew right away the guy was trouble. He was handsome, of course, but in a haunted way, like an El Greco Jesus, with dark hair and bags under his eyes. And his dog was adorable, a golden retriever-collie mix with a pointy snout that sniffed everything in the pet store like it was his first time away from his mama.
He was older than that, of course. Not the guy, but the dog. As a dog trainer, I tend to make a canine connection first, then move on to the human.
I got my first dog when I was seven, a stray my father found by the side of the road and brought home. I still remember Dad walking in the door, carrying the scrawny mutt who needed a bath and a couple of good meals. He handed him to me.
“You said you wanted a dog, Grace. Here you go.”
My father wasn’t big on gifts, so this was very special. I called the dog Buddy, and the first thing my mother made me do was give him a bath in the big farmhouse sink in our garage. It was so tall and deep that I had to pull up a box to stand on.
I put Buddy in the basin and sprayed him with water, and he immediately shook all over me. That was my first experience with training a dog. I lowered the volume of the water, and massaged shampoo from my bathroom into his fur, talking to him in a low voice the whole time.
“You’re a good boy, Buddy,” I said. “You’re going to be so handsome when I get you clean.”
Of course he wasn’t handsome at all, with three different colors of fur, one ear that bent over, and a grizzled snout, but he was everything I wanted. He was already housebroken, which meant he was someone’s abandoned pet.
I empathized with him because most of the time my parents ignored the fact that my sister and I were there, especially when they fought. Meeting my best friend Becca helped. She had an Australian terrier who needed a lot of exercise. She and I used to take Piper out to the park and run with him after school, and through trial and error I began to teach him things Becca’s family had ignored, like how to lie down, fetch a ball and catch a frisbee.
