Dog days: Help wanted

We got the dog at 11 months old. He was so weak: dehydrated, malnourished, defeated.

Despite having been a papered purebred with a price tag higher than that of my first car, he had been neglected and abused, tied up for probably two August weeks with a short length of speaker wire and no access to water under a leafless tree in the middle of a fenced yard in a very, very upscale neighborhood.

An acquaintance (our Realtor at the time) snatched him from the yard of her former clients and brought him to dogless me. I took one look at him, lifted him into my minivan first and called my husband for permission second.

Even though he was a puppy, he was too weak to climb down from the van at the vet's office. My two daughters were shocked at this procession. Madeleine was 3 and Sarah not quite 2. Neither one of them, obviously, had any concept of what he could bring to our family. Their paradigm for dogs included Grandpa's enormous German Shepherd pair who knock toddlers down and never look back. And weeks before the Golden rescue we'd kept for honeymooning friends an energetic Rhodesian Ridgeback mix who'd knocked over Sarah's oak high chair and broken her baby nose, ending the dog-sitting stint and our dog-owning thoughts in one fell swoop.


(This is how Jake has been since Day 2 of joining our family. A snugglebug to the furthest extreme. Our little friend Hannah and her sister were scared of dogs. But he's not just any dog.)

Regardless of my mixed-up feelings for dogs at the point of loading him into my van, the emaciated one in front of me clearly needed rescue. Our vet suggested we leave him there for hydration, further evaluation and a flea bath, so even though the girls by this time were crying at the thought of leaving "our" dog behind, we did leave for frozen yogurt.

By the time we picked up a cleaner albeit weak puppy, having called Daddy for permission/forgiveness, the dog was ours. I was prepared to move should his former owners seek his return. Picture me running out of country like a bad custody dispute movie on the Lifetime movie network.

At home in our two-story house, we tucked him in the first night in a makeshift bed at the bottom of the stairs. But lo and behold sometime in the night he had decided he could manage the stairs, retrieving stacks of folded laundry from the family room coffee table no less. He delivered all the (now slobbery) baby clothes and socks to the stair landing and spent the rest of the night at the foot of our bed. (On the floor. I'd decided to love a dog, not lost my mind.)

We re-named him Jake because (1) when my husband and I were first married we used to foster a dog named Jake whom we had considered snatching and (2) his registered name is biblical and official-sounding. I generally think people names ought to be for people and dogs should have names like "Bullet" or "King." My silly opinion has proven to have its points as one of the girls' best friends in our country neighborhood is named Jacob and he tends to come running when I call the dog.

(That's our sweet neighbor Jacob. (Even more eager to please than the Golden Retriever who bears his name.) Try not to think about the way he looks at Madeleine, wouldja?)



For a decade Jake has been such an integral part of our family that I barely noticed his aging. Sure, I had a few moments of breakthrough panic when I realized he probably wouldn't still be with us when Madeleine and Sarah leave for college. And, yes, when a friend's dog locked into him with savage teeth for no apparent reason I cried over Jake's newly scarred face and continued trusting demeanor.

A little over a year ago, when President Obama was new to his office and seeking the presidential family canine, Sarah took it upon herself to sit down at our favorite cafe and write a letter:

It says:

Dear President Obama,

Congratulations on being President! I think you should get a Golden Retriever like our dog. His name is Jake. I also have a friend named Jake. I have three sisters too. I have lots of friends.

I live in Oregon. A small town. I have three horse and three cats. One dog, one fish, snail, frog.

And we used to have a bunny but he died a couple weeks ago.

Your friend,

Sarah

age 8

Please write back.

.



I know I should but I'm not sure I can forgive the President for failing to write back. At least have an aide send a postcard for crying out loud.

.

Despite his failing to inspire the White House, I know we lucked out, rescuing Jake.

.

I had a firm talk with him about the laundry that second day and he has ignored that instruction ever since. (The dog loves to pack around socks and underwear, and clean or dirty, deliver them to their rightful owners. Ew.) However, he has never (knock wood) broken my other cardinal dog rules: dug up a plant, chased our cats, growled or even looked sideways at a child. He has perfect manners in the jumping-up department and my husband has taught him never to lick, beg or sniff inappropriately. Jake makes sure to find a way to make even the most dog-resistant love him. He likes to listen to new readers. He waits his turn to go through doorways. He politely asks for treats at the bank and coffee drive-through. Sometimes more politely than my children. Who could ask for a better four-legged companion?

Don't get me wrong. He's still a dog, with all the disgusting dogginess that goes with it. Think trash gourmand. Chicken manure aficionado. And the fur. We could build a new dog each month with all the dog hair we sweep up.

Anyway. Jake is nearly 11 years old now. He's a little gray around the temples. I'm worried. We'll never find another dog like Jake. I'm not sure whether we should consider a puppy (yikes) to help keep Jake young and to ease the blow that's likely coming in the next three or four years.

Any thoughts on this? Is it a good idea to bring another dog into our family when we're expecting baby number 5? Or will we (I) just be disappointed by the reality of doggyness in comparison to the Golden one?