I’ve said it before, and I’m saying it again: “I’m never looking at the Craigslist pet site again.” This time I mean it; I really, really mean it. I used to view it daily and found myself so anxious about the impending fates of the animals that I finally weaned myself off it. Then my husband would randomly send me ads for dogs he knew I’d like–Chihuahuas, Goldens, Collies–or dogs that he’d like–Chesapeakes, German Shepherds, Great Danes. I found myself late at night, when I should be going to bed, taking a peek, while trying to avoid opening those heart- rending pleas for the shelter animals on Death Row.
That’s what I was doing last week when I saw it: “Senior Pekingese, please help, time’s up next Tues.” I looked. I had to put down my own senior peke, Yoda, last May.
I figured I had four days to think about this, no, to worry, obsess, and fret. I told myself I had lots of dogs, not that you need another one, but what’s one more?
As I left to go to my farm in Hillsborough, I warned my husband that I might be driving to Lillington on Monday to get a senior Pekingese.
On Sunday night I dreamed about it. At first, the peke resembled a cute puggle and wasn’t a problem, but later it morphed into a young girl, and I have no idea what that means. I got up Monday and checked Craigslist to see if there was an update.
There was a post: “This little guy deserves to live out his remaining years in a loving home. If someone will please pull him for me and deliver him to Raleigh, I will pay you back.” I was encouraged: people were paying attention; he was going to be saved. I emailed the person, suggesting she call the shelter to see if they had a transport available and asking for an update. Of course, I never got a reply and upon thinking about it, it seemed to be a post I’d seen before, more of a cheerleader than a serious interest in the dog.
The shelter was open from 1-4 on Monday, and the ad had said that those not adopted would be euthanized first thing Tuesday morning.
I map-quested it. It was a good two hours away. I kept refreshing the site, hoping I’d see a change of his status. After all, that senior dachshund got a home.
My daughter encouraged me to call the shelter. It sounded hectic there. The dog was still available. I tried to ask if someone could call me if somebody adopted him before I got there but was cut off. “We can’t hold any animals, first come, first serve.” I could tell I should just get on the road, and my sweet daughter declared she was going with me. I cleaned out a crate and put a soft towel inside, and checked to see if I had Frontline. The plan was to get him, and if we could get back to the vet before closing, to leave him there for a bath and worming. We hit the road.
We got as far as Durham and checked the website. “Mom, he’s been adopted,” my daughter said. “Hey, we’re in Durham, want to go to Costco?” “Sure,” I said. I felt relief…happy for the little guy.
I came home and checked my email. From my husband, a link to a Chesapeake he’d inquired about, asking if I thought she would get along with the pekingnese. A second email, telling the breeder he’d have to talk to the “boss” about it. He doesn’t get it: I’m torn by the excess animals; he’s talking to the breeders who, in some respects, create those excesses. When Jane asked for suggestions to better the world a few months ago, I asked that all breeders stop for a year. Give some of the already created animals a chance!
There is a rescue for just about every breed out there, even the Westminister Dog Show champion, Banana Joe, the affenpinscher, has a rescue. Rescue dogs may be a little frayed around the edges, but they’ll love you just as much.
Me… I’ve learned my lesson. Stray dogs will come to me, that much has been proven. I don’t need to go looking for them on the internet.