Month: January 2019

Actually, this is more of my story. I don’t know Asher’s story. I don’t know who he was before I met him, where he lived, what his name was, or even how his leg came to be so messed up.

When my rat terrier died in October, I knew I’d get another dog. Getting Spartacus had changed my life, and I wasn’t about to go through the rest of my life dogless. And I knew I wanted another terrier. Spartacus was all terrier, and he reminded me a lot of a terrier mix my family got from the shelter when I was a kid. Feisty, independent, playful, and fearless. I wanted a mixed breed this time around, something scruffy and funny-looking, the kind of dog where you have to guess at what breeds may have gone into him.  And the best place to find a scrappy little mutt like that is at the shelter. By December, I had bookmarked the website of every shelter from Everett to Olympia, and was checking them all as part of my morning ritual. I met a few dogs, but none of them really clicked.

It was January 6th when I saw a new entry on the RASKC (Regional Animal Services of King County) website. There was no photo yet (now I know why), only the name Eugene, an eight-digit ID number, and those magic words “terrier mix.”  I called, and all they could tell me is that he was ten pounds, about a year and a half old, black and white, and had “long legs.” They didn’t say how many long legs he had, and I kinda think they omitted that information on purpose just to get me in there. It worked. It wasn’t until I got to the shelter that they told me he was a tripod, and that his leg had been amputated only two days ago. My heart sank. A tripod would be enough work as it is, but a fresh surgery? I didn’t know how to care for that. Trying to keep the conversation going, I asked if he was much of a barker. “He can bark a bit,” they said, “He’s protective of his people.” A tripod, still needing wound care, and a barker?  I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to get this dog. But I’d come all this way so I figured I may as well meet him. Maybe I could pet the poor thing and cheer him up a bit.

The first thing I noticed was his face. He was perfect. He had that cute scruffy terrier face I just can’t resist. Then I saw his surgical site – beet red, still swollen, with a big ugly row of black Frankenstein stitches where a leg should have been. But all the pity I’d worked up faded when I saw him spinning in circles and dancing around on three legs as the shelter worker led him over to me. That missing leg didn’t seem to bother him at all. We tried to interest him in some treats. He didn’t care. We tried to interest him in a squeaky toy. He didn’t care. What the hell did this dog want? The shelter worker left to give us some alone time. With the other dogs I’d met, this is the part where I had to work to get their attention. Not this dog. He climbed right into my lap, licked my face, and let me run my fingers through his wiry fur. And then, whenever one of the shelter staff would walk by the door and he could see their head through the little window, he would bark at them. If he was barking to protect his people, then clearly I was his people.

I paid his adoption fee, bought his license, accepted all the free goodies they were giving me, and brought him home. The next day I made an appointment with my vet to get him a proper plastic cone and some better pain meds. I work with dog people, so my boss was completely understanding when I told him why I was going to be late for work. His only expectation was that I show him pictures.