Last October, Mike, Jianna, and I adopted a dog from the Humane Society, a six-and-a-half year old female mutt, “Big Ang.” We modified her name to Angie and sometimes add to it. She’s from Georgia, and I call her Angie Belle half of the time.
If Angie were a car, she would be a used car, sold “as is.” If she were still in the lot, prospective buyers would shake their heads, wondering What was the designer thinking?!? She is built like an overstuffed sausage on stick legs. And I think that she needs a re-alignment. I swear that when I take her for a walk and she is ahead of me, her chassis is crooked. (By the way, have you ever taken your dog for a long walk and watched him or her lift a leg to pee, marking territory, and wondered, How can that dog have any urine left inside? What – does the dog have an internal camel’s hump for storing pee just for walks?!?)
We think that Angie may have been abused by a former owner. When she’s on the couch with me and I move my leg ever-so-slightly, she almost always bolts. At first, when Mike raised his hand to pet her, she shied away, as though afraid he’d hit her. And Mike is the Dog Whisperer — dogs love him!
While I can’t and never will understand abusing an animal, I can empathize with this theoretical previous owner’s frustration. It’s as though the dog has no listening skills or long-term memory. For a short time, at first, I even wondered if she might have a hearing problem but if so, it’s selective, because she’s a foodie and doesn’t miss a single sound coming from the kitchen – ever! And if she gets to lick a plate, it’s so clean that when she’s done, we could put it right back in the cabinet (don’t worry — we don’t!). She’s slow to learn lessons, though, such as not to pee in the house. Sigh…
That said, Angie has huge, soulful brown eyes that look at us imploringly with one message only: “Love me.” Over the past six months, she has slowly come to the conclusion that she is home, and we are hers, and we’re glad that she understands.
She’s a sweetie. If you give Angie an inch, she’ll take as much space as she needs to be as close to you as dogly possible and touch you with her paw as if to say, “It’s my time now. Love me.” (Paw again.) “Hey? Love me.” (Paw again.) “Looooooooove me! I llllllllllllllllllllllloooooooooooooooooovvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeeee you!” Just as often, she’s content lying beside you, part of her touching a part of you.”
I’ve been taking her for walks lately, now that the weather is finally warming up, and a neighbor I’d never met, an older man, yelled across the street, “Is that one of those attack Rottweilers I’ve been hearing about?”
“Um, no,” I replied, “just a scared mutt!”
I texted Mike about the comment, and he texted back, “Attack dog? What’s she going to do, CUDDLE someone to death?!?”
She’s our clunker, but she’s no lemon, and we’re keeping her!