FRENCH AND FANCY

Knock! Knock! Woof! Woof! Arf! Woof! Oh geez, who could that be?? No one ever comes to our door, hence the semi-new puppy's poor manners. Home early from a catering job, mid-workout and curious, I open the door to a soft spoken woman I'd never seen before. Behind her, two fat Piebald dachshunds.

“Are you missing one of your dogs?”

What? Immediately confused and a bit disoriented, I had to take a moment to look around and count the one dog, the semi-new puppy and a cat. And another moment to remember that no, Piper wasn't just missing -- she wasn't with us anymore.

“No, I don't think so…”

Doubting myself but then finding resolve.

“No, no I'm not, why?”

“We found this little dog and one of your neighbors said you had little dogs so we thought maybe it was yours…”

I looked around at the fat dachshunds and thought ‘She can't mean one of them…’ but then followed her gesture and finally saw a little thing, literally, a little thing with a fan of a tail and pointy ears peeking at me across the garden. As we talked, walking out into the yard to escape the cacophony of my existing dog and semi-new puppy, I watched the little thing clearly on a mission to mark... each and every inch of the world as far and as fast as his tiny little legs could carry him. Across the yard, back toward her car, the woman tells me a broken story about how they found him in the street, couldn't keep him at their house, their vet, the vet… our vet… said he would take him Monday and find him a home.

“But what about the owners? He has a collar.”

“But he's not fixed and the vet said no microchip either.”

Piecemeal and confusing and ultimately off-putting. She continually mentioned how he needed to be fixed. They were going to get him fixed, owners or not. But first, they were going for a hike... And the vet would take him Monday.... And they hadn't found the owners... And and and.

“We'll help find the owners... We're happy to help... Let us know what we can do…”

And and and.

“Are you…? How about…? We're going for a hike…. Could you…?”

I was fed up.

“I’ll take the dog. We'll just take the dog.”

By this point I was already holding him. Tight. Holding him even though I had realized minutes before that every time he lifted his leg to make my yard, he had marked himself and was covered in his own pee. And now so was I.

“I’ll just take the dog and we'll figure it out.”

“Oh thank you! He's good with other dogs and babies. Don't know about cats.”

Well we’ll soon find out, I thought. I turned to the house and then thought he and the semi-new puppy Oliver were either going to kill each other or worse, never shut up. Cacophony didn't begin to describe it. I immediately threw, well, quickly and daintily placed his tiny body in the shower, not knowing what to expect.

He turned into a perfect statue. I then plopped him and his newly fluffy, pee-free coat into the crate and waited for everyone, including me, to settle. Not sure what to think or do, I finally dared to let him out and let him come face to face with... everyone. No cacophony but... he tried to pee on everything in sight — including me — while I was feeding him.

With nothing known about him or his story except that he was tiny, feisty, and a marker decked out in a tag-less yet tiger print collar, my imagination started to run wild... Maybe he was such a marker his owners couldn't take it and unwilling to train him, they just dumped him… Maybe he had sniffed his way out of his yard, all full of adolescent hormones... maybe he’d wandered away from a posh vineyard estate, the prized king of the kingdom.

Back into the crate for another settle.

Later, I decided Gracie and Oliver could handle me sharing my attention with the little thing. First in my lap on the floor, I offered some protection. Then I attempted feeding again and allowed him to roam free. With every stroke he marked one less thing. Every increase in his comfort and calm and confidence at having a full belly, friends to play with and people to pet him... One more dry surface was less in danger of a soaking and the less likely he'd been dumped. It must have been the hormones that lead him astray. He must have an owner who wants him.

Calls to the shelter, posts on twitter and Facebook, checking in with the vet, a sign in front of the soft spoken woman's house, walks around the neighborhood hoping he'd be recognized. We lived in a small town... It shouldn't be that hard. One woman even got excited when I asked if she knew him and she lead me urgently to a house with a sign about a lost dog. Knock knock! A man answered… Um, is this your dog? Confusion all around. It was the soft spoken woman's house. Poorly written sign, clear language barrier. A bust. However we chatted and updated and she seemed to miss him and long for him but again didn't want to take responsibility. She called him Paco. Or Pablo or something the equivalent of racist to a chihuahua, even a chihuahua mix.

He was Robért... Roh-bear... French and fancy and posh. And, we decided, part Pomeranian. Something in the ears.

An unknown number... A voicemail... I listened as the mystery unfolded into more mystery…

“My daughter found him late at night wandering around Silverado near the Soda Canyon Store and brought him here (to Angwin). We put the little collar on him but he ran away. I work at the chiropractors and we can't keep him but my boss might be interested in him.”

I updated the shelter and asked if there had been any inquiries... Not one. They'd be happy to help but it was best if I could keep him due to limited space. We would, we wanted to find the owners. The shelter worker agreed Soda Canyon is known for strays, or dogs with owners but with no real homes… a dumping ground. Many months later a gentleman at the dog park insightfully stated "some people treat their dogs like chickens... Fed but free range, out in the cold and heat.” That explained Robert’s penchant for only eating food put on the floor but refusing to eat from his bowl. Then the animal rescue ladies at the Petco, upon hearing the story felt they knew the house he came from — nootorious in the area. He was better off with us.

So super stray then. That was that. He liked to eat his kibble off of the floor. But he knew and loved laps. He was a skilled blanket burrower, but was independent and aloof. He was a mystery to us humans, but to Oliver, Robért was his new best friend. Cleaning, kissing, snuggling... Oliver was growing like a weed but for a few days they were well-matched and fit like puzzle pieces.

There were plans to foster, we discussed at length how we would decide. Would we rather he go to someone we know? Someone we don't? But how do you know it's right? And can people be trusted? We loaned him to some friends for a night, a married couple. They wanted a dog but weren't allowed to have one in their rental. We knew it wasn't right but saw it as a trial run for all parties involved. The next morning I packed his things to take to them... Just in case. On my way out, I was insomuch as given a directive by a sad Tag and a mopey Oliver to go get Robért and bring him home and to promise that he was never going anywhere ever again. It was right. He was right. Our friends came to their senses. Robert came home... To stay.

I still somtimes feel a little guilty or worried he had a family somewhere, or a child or a woman or a man who loved him and lost him and now we were reaping the benefits of this little thing dropped in our laps... But have to remind myself that if they really loved him, he would have had a collar, a microchip, probably been fixed, hopefully have been searched for... Posted signs, called shelters, reported to vets. Instead I have to wonder rather than worry where he came from and remind myself that within our fold, he is better off.