It’s Friday, and you know what that means at Too Hot Mamas: It’s time for Thursday’s Tea Time With Wendy. (Yeah, you got that if you know us at all.)
So, two Thursdays ago, I started to tell you about Buster, the BIG DOG with the even bigger, uh, male parts. Buster came home from the shelter with me as a medical foster dog, and a more grateful patient you have never seen. Buster was a delight.
When I walked my new friend, people coming toward us literally crossed the street. Buster looked mean. He didn’t intend to, and perhaps it had something to do with having swollen…you know…but Buster tended to scare people. Perversely, I admit that I found this amusing, because Buster was a giant pussycat–terrified of cars, stairs and anything slippery. He needed a lot of reassurance.
My husband—the one who just days before had begged me not to bring home another canine—really liked Buster. It was hard not to. Buster’s paws looked like snowshoes. His head was massive. The dog could eat Manhattan. And yet, he allowed my then-three-year-old to wrap his body in bubble wrap and pop him. He’d considerately lie down when a cat came near, so as not to intimidate kitty. He felt no such duty to consideration regarding other dogs, however, and they—the big, male ones in particular—did not care for him. Pure envy, if you ask me. Frequently during walks, I would hear growling from some other mutt. Buster never backed down, and if he didn’t want to behave on a leash…well, may I just say, “Terribly sorry for all the trouble we caused.” Given Buster’s size and inherently menacing appearance, non-compliance while strolling through the neighborhood was clearly going to be a problem. And that car issue…
Busty refused to get within five feet of a moving vehicle. He would plant himself and that was that. When I needed to transport him, I asked my husband to help.
Poor Tim. Able to bench-press more than he weighed, he got Buster into the car, but Buster panicked and jumped out. At Tim. Tim’s back went out, and he wound up in bed for a couple of days recuperating with the faithful (and, I am persuaded, repentant) Buster by his side. Buster slept a great deal at this point. He was still recuperating from his neutering, after all, poor baby.
After a week or so, the shelter phoned. Someone had stepped forward to adopt our dear Buster. We met. Unfortunately, Buster refused to get in her car. Refused to walk with her, too, nor did he particularly care to be anywhere near her. And she was scared of him, which made the adoption a little problematic in my opinion, but the shelter did not share my point of view. The night before I was supposed to turn him over to his new mama (how this was to be accomplished remained a mystery to us all), I couldn’t sleep, convinced this was the worst dog-human pairing in recent history.
Being a praying gal, I had a talk with God then, at three a.m., got up to have a chat with Buster and to check the e-mail I hadn’t had time for the previous day. There in my inbox was a note from someone I did not know with the subject line “Do you still have the dog?”
To be continued…on Monday. Honest.