The Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I) (14 page)

The fates (and my love of beagles) once again conspired against my carefully laid plans.

The following weekend, I was attending a vegan restaurant fund-raiser for Beagle Freedom Project in Los Angeles. Shannon thought it would be a good idea if Vanessa brought Comet/Percival to me then, as the whole Beagle Freedom Project family could wish the couple well. I understood. It would be hard on Vanessa to let him go, but even harder if we left him with her for a few more weeks. Thus, despite my prior planning and my doubts, I agreed to pick up Comet/Percival at the fund-raiser, and I scheduled Daphne’s surgery for the following week. A week would be enough time for them to get used to each other. Wouldn’t it? And she wouldn’t come into heat in just the next two weeks, would she? No worries there either, I told myself—Comet/Percival had been neutered.

This wasn’t the first time I’d been blinded by love. And when it comes to beagles, I’m sure it will not be the last.

My weekend plans were set. Saturday, I’d take Daphne to the Bark for Life American Cancer Society walk in Simi Valley where I would be the grand marshal. The plan had been for Seamus to accompany me, so I was thankful I’d be able to take Daphne with me. After that, we’d head to the BFP fund-raiser and pick up our boy.

But there was another event before then. I’d agreed to volunteer at the National Canine Cancer Foundation booth at the Southern California Pet Expo on Friday. Now that I knew I’d have a new puppy, I had an additional reason for going. Though he was nearly two years old, given his background, Percival was for all intents and purposes a puppy. Percival would need a bowl, a leash, a collar, toys, food, all the accoutrements of being a well-cared-for (some might say spoiled) dog. And ooh, this meant I needed to come up with a signature color for Percival! Red would have been the obvious choice since his name derived from an Angels baseball player. But red had been the signature color of my Richelieu, the beagle who had passed away a few months before I adopted Seamus. Blue, purple, green—all the usual “boy” colors had been given to my prior beagles. But I’d have an entire fairground of booths to help me decide.

As it turned out, picking Percival’s signature color was the least difficult thing I’d have to think about at the expo.

I rose much earlier than I like to (which, truth be told, is any time before ten a.m.) and arrived at the fairgrounds on time. Already a long line of families waited to get in. Seeing the numbers of folks there to celebrate animals and maybe even adopt a pet was almost as warming as the French roast coffee I was ridiculously trying to carry while also carrying a stack of my books and my purse and camera. The books got heavier as I made my way across the fairgrounds and into the expo building where the National Canine Cancer Foundation booth was located. Given that all of my concentration was required to not (a) spill coffee, (b) trip, or (c) collapse under the weight of what I foolishly thought I could carry, I didn’t pay much attention to the hundreds of booths along my path. I did see, however, that I’d have to take some breaks and go exploring.

This was an animal lover’s heaven. Outside they had sections set up for various rescue groups—German shepherds (love them!), bloodhounds (those faces!), boxers (so fun!), English bulldogs (such character!), so many more, and, be still my heart…beagles! Inside the buildings were a variety of booths with various pet food companies, dog and cat toys, pet photography, adorable T-shirts and pet-themed jewelry—basically anything that had anything at all to do with pets was there. I was doing my own little
AAARRRRROOOOOOO
inside my head, but I couldn’t stop to shop. I had a job to do and a box to set down.

I took a break after about an hour and a half of working at the booth. There was no way I’d have time to see everything, so a carefully plotted-out plan would have been a good idea, but I was not expecting the expo to be that large or that fascinating. I plunged in and began to roam the aisles. Vanessa told me she’d been feeding Percival a sweet potato and fish kibble, so my one specific goal was to find that brand of dog food. If I changed his diet, I’d need to do it slowly, gradually mixing the old with the new. I also wanted to explore other foods and see if The Honest Kitchen was still the best option. Daphne had been enjoying the many containers of PetStaurant gourmet raw foods, but we’d run through those and soon we’d finish up the last of the supply of The Honest Kitchen. As I did with Seamus, I wanted to give these dogs the best meals I could give them. But I still preferred not to have to cut up animal organs.

What better place to compare food products than an expo with nearly all of them on display?

For Daphne and Percival, I wanted, as I’d been doing for myself (and trying to convince Chris to do), the diet with the greatest health benefits, and given that one in three dogs die from cancer, cancer-fighting ingredients were definitely still going to be a part of that. Daphne was still overweight and probably got that way by living off the doggie equivalent of junk food, the commercial, cheap kibble sold in grocery stores, and then whatever she could forage for herself when she was a stray on the streets of Los Angeles. And Percival had spent all but the last four months of his life confined to a cage, eating a diet that had more to do with reducing his bowel movements than providing him with a quality of life (clearly, that was
not
their concern). So what was the best diet for these two?

I approached one booth that emphasized “natural,” “organic,” and “holistic” in its signage. These all seemed like good things.

“So, tell me about your food,” I said.

“What kind of dog do you have?” she said.

“I have a beagle and I’m about to get another beagle. They’re both rescues.”

“Good for you!” She moved down the display of dog food samples and stopped in front of a blue package. “Beagles are active dogs, so you’ll want something more like this.” She handed me the sample.

“Okay. Well, one of them is a bit overweight, and the other is underweight. The underweight one was rescued from a laboratory where he was the victim of animal testing. So I really want to be cautious about what I feed them both—no chemicals or preservatives, and as nutritious as possible.”

“Bless your heart. The poor dog. And a beagle you said?”

“Beagles are the dog most commonly used in labs. He’s one of the lucky ones to even be released, but he spent eighteen months subjected to testing—no sunlight, no playing on the grass, no toys or treats or love. So we owe him a lot.”

She grabbed a handful of samples. “It’s all natural. The highest-quality ingredients you’ll find.” She reached for a box of treats and threw that in the bag too. “You give him our best.”

My day continued in much the same way. I took small breaks to visit other dog food booths, and when my time at the National Canine Cancer Foundation booth was over, I roamed over to the other buildings. Everybody had samples they gladly handed out, but other than the usual “fresh, wholesome” advertisement-laden hyperbole, it was hard to determine why one food might prove better than another. I also found that even though I had yet to formally adopt Percival, I was already intent on telling everyone what he’d endured and speaking out on the need to shop cruelty-free. “Just look for products not tested on animals!” I found myself repeating. I found I just as often heard “I had no idea” in response. And this was in an exhibit hall filled with animal lovers. While I felt mildly better about my own naïveté (which apparently loves company), I despaired that animal testing was such a well-kept secret.

I explored still more booths, and it became my turn to say “I had no idea.” I was now noticing the emphasis on “toxin-free.”
Toxin-free toys? Bowls? Dog beds?
So, there is such a thing as a
toxin-filled
toy, bowl, and bed? Yikes! Where had I been? When did all this happen?
When
did
owning
a
dog
get
so
complicated?

My childhood dog, Tippy, was a shaggy black cockapoo who was given to me by my parents as a Christmas gift when I was six years old. He lived until my last year of law school—seventeen years. Tippy rode horses and motorcycles with us, sat in my pony-drawn carriage in the 4-H parade with me, drank out of plastic bowls, ate commercial kibble from the grocery store, and shared nearly everything I ate as well. For seventeen years.

Much as I had liked living in my naive precancer bubble, eating whatever I’d liked, not exercising, and not looking into reasons I shouldn’t be doing either of those things, I much preferred the nostalgic era where dogs lived simple lives unaccosted by toxins. Having witnessed Seamus’s battles with cancer, and before him Roxy with her heart murmur, and before her Raz and Richelieu, whose deaths were most likely cancer related, I could no longer ignore the obvious: something has gone terribly wrong in this world, and the results are causing cancer in us and our pets. This seemed simple, obvious, and overwhelming.

I had never considered how dogs are even more susceptible than people to the toxic household products we typically use in our homes until I walked the expo aisles. Seamus slept on the floor, ate food off the floor when I dropped any morsels (which was more frequent than I’d like to discuss), and slept and rolled on the carpets, in the blankets, and on the grass and landscaping in our yard. And now Daphne and Percival would do the same. These were all areas regularly subjected to chemicals and toxins in the name of “cleanliness.” Percival had already spent enough time around toxins, and who knew what Daphne had been subjected to. This was definitely something I could do better. I could find better products. I made a note and a promise to myself and to Daphne and Percival.

I walked from booth to booth, picking up brochures, talking to the manufacturers, and buying what seemed legitimate, though I couldn’t say what my standard was other than a gut feeling. The only decision I was able to make with any certainty was that Percival’s signature color would be orange—the color of the animal anticruelty ribbon.

I bought a book on easy, nutritious meals for dogs written by a man whose dog, diagnosed with cancer, set him out on a journey much like the one I’d been on to discover the best way to feed our beloved dogs. He at least had the good sense to have the book endorsed by a holistic veterinarian. I vowed to do yet more research, though my head spun. I needed to know about a human diet that didn’t include animals, a canine diet that did, products that weren’t tested on animals, products that wouldn’t cause cancer, and products that did not harm the environment in which all animals, including humans, lived.

Yikes.

In a less-contaminated world, this exercise might be simple, but as I was rapidly learning, getting accurate information and finding healthy products was very difficult. Nontoxic and healthy aren’t the norm. The norm had spiraled into a terrifying mélange of improperly or insufficiently labeled products that likely caused cancer, harmed people and animals, and destroyed the environment.

I was falling down a rabbit hole, and it seemed the rabbits were being harmed.

On Saturday morning, Daphne and I were up early with a big day ahead of us. On our drive out, no matter how many times I tried to talk to her about her impending nuptials, she merely stared at me with her cheerful face and thumped her tail. She wasn’t nearly as nervous as I was.

I spent the morning chatting with the walk participants, selling a few books, and checking to see that the volunteer walking Daphne wasn’t having a difficult time. (I could hear Daphne howling, so I knew she was up to her usual bossy tricks.) When the program started, I joined the crowd at the start line, waiting to be introduced. The master of ceremonies asked for a moment of silence for those who had passed away from cancer. Seamus of course came to mind, and just as quickly tears flooded my eyes. I looked down, closing my eyes tight. It had been a mistake to leave Daphne with the volunteer. I needed her with me. I opened my eyes and scanned the group, but I couldn’t spot the volunteer. Nor could I hear Daphne howling any longer.

I heard the emcee introducing me and knew it was too late. I’d be on my own.
I
was
fine
right
up
until
that
moment
of
silence, dang it
. I took the microphone.

I got two sentences out before my voice cracked and the tears tumbled out.

I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. He only passed away six weeks ago.”

Several members of the audience were now also crying. Well, maybe that was normal at a cancer walk, but I really wanted to pull it together.

“
BAAAARRROOOOO!
”

A familiar face made her way through the crowd, doodlebutt in full swing. The volunteer was trying to hold Daphne back, but Daphne was having none of it. She’d heard my voice and was determined to be by my side. I took the leash from the chagrined volunteer.

“It’s okay. She knows I need her.”

I turned back to the crowd. “This is my new dog, Daphne. She’s my foster failure.”

The audience applauded, and Daphne’s tail wagged even faster.

As the morning went on, I could see a habit forming. We walked. We greeted. I signed books and answered questions and petted Daphne in between, getting and giving the assurances we both needed. What would I ever do without dogs?

We finished up, and I was pleased to note there was a food truck with vegan options at the event. Even though I knew we’d next be at the fund-raiser for Beagle Freedom Project and all of the food would be vegan, I thought I might be too excited and anxious to eat there, much as I’d grown to love vegan restaurants and their creativity in making delicious food. I had lunch there in the park, sharing bits with Daphne, naturally.

I’d bonded so quickly with this adorable, agreeable dog. I wondered, briefly, if adding a second dog would be a mistake—if I was, as Chris had pointed out, incapable of simply sharing my life with a low-maintenance dog. I looked down at Daphne, her cow eyes looking up with devotion and adoration…for my veggie sandwich, of course. No, I could not resist this beagle or any other.

“Come on, baby girl. Time to pick up your boy.” I gave her the last bite of my sandwich and stood. Daphne followed me to the car, doodlebutting her way across the park.

She hopped into the car and settled in, tongue hanging from the side of her happy face.

And off we went.

• • •

The Beagle Freedom Project fund-raiser was at an L.A. hipster dive bar with a vegan food truck in the parking lot. When we arrived, fifteen minutes early, I learned from Shannon that the manager of the bar on duty that day had—inexplicably, at a fund-raiser for dogs—declared the patio a “no dog” zone. It looked like we’d be having a parking lot party. Not an auspicious start for our girl’s final rose ceremony.

This came as a surprise for several reasons. One of the things I had grown to love about vegan restaurants was that they are almost always dog-friendly, provided they have a patio. A few months previously, Chris, Seamus, and I met up for lunch with Kelle, Manos, and their beagle, Bogart, at a Los Angeles restaurant appropriately named Café Gratitude. We sat on the patio, and both beagles patiently waited for lunch underneath our table. Neither dog made a noise, except to lap up the bowl of water that had been provided to them. It took only minutes before we heard a woman at the table behind us grumbling to the server that there were dogs nearby.

“Yes, ma’am, we’re a dog-friendly restaurant,” the server said.

“It’s disgusting.”

“I’m sorry, are they barking? Have they done something?”

“They’re dirty animals. They have no business in a restaurant. I want to speak to your manager.”

A nearly identical conversation took place with the manager. He offered to move the family inside. They declined.

“I should be able to enjoy some fresh air without having to be near unsanitary animals,” she said.

I was floored. But I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scream in outrage—there was nothing dirty about these pampered, groomed, indoor-living, vaccinated dogs. Seamus got his nails done more often than I did. And here this woman was sitting on a patio next to a very busy Los Angeles boulevard with cars, exhaust, and smog in every breath, accusing our dogs of destroying her “fresh” air.

The manager smiled and repeated, “We are a dog-friendly restaurant.”

I loved that. I loved him.
Victory
for
the
dog
lovers!

I motioned for the manager to come to our table.

“We will gladly move farther away from her. I appreciate your defense of dogs, but it will be easier for everyone involved if we move tables as far away as possible.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s okay. We’re happy to do it. And thank you.”

The meals on the Café Gratitude menu are called things like “I Am Fabulous” (raw summer zucchini noodle lasagna with heirloom tomatoes, basil-hempseed pesto, olive tapenade, wild arugula, baby spinach, sun-dried tomato marinara, cashew ricotta, and almond parmesan) and “I Am Pure” (marinated kale salad with sesame-ginger and garlic-tahini dressing, avocado, sea palm, nori, cucumbers, carrots, cilantro, basil, and green onions topped with teriyaki almonds). I was self-congratulatory in ordering the “I Am Gracious” (hempseed pesto bowl with local brown rice or quinoa, shredded kale, heirloom cherry tomatoes, and almond parmesan drizzled with olive oil and topped with sprouts), though I probably lost points when I asked the server if that woman had ordered “I Am Narcissistic.” The server merely gave me a smile that somehow managed to agree with and chastise me simultaneously.

Later, though, I reflected that, in a way, the disgruntled diner’s attitude had a certain consistency to it. She hated animals; therefore, she dined neither on them nor with them. While I disagreed with her about animals, I had to hand it to her for not being a hypocrite—unlike when I, like most folks, claimed to be an animal lover while consuming them several times a day.

At any rate, there we were, at a beagle fund-raiser with a bar manager who agreed with my Café Gratitude Narcissist.

Shannon wasn’t happy about the sudden “no dogs” decision, understandably. While she worked her cell phone to get ahold of the bar owner, Vanessa and I sat in the parking lot with Percival, Daphne, and a few other Beagle Freedom Project supporters. It was a hot L.A. day, so we convened under the shade of the one tree in the parking lot corner. Daphne and Percival were far more interested in the bushes and the people than each other, but we didn’t push it.

Vanessa picked up Percival for a few moments, then she kissed the top of his head and set him back down on the ground. He looked back at her, checking in, and then moved immediately for the bushes along the side of the parking lot.

“That’s his thing,” she said. “He loves to rub into the bushes.”

“Is he nervous?”

“Probably. He just feels comfortable there.” She tugged gently on his leash to bring him back toward us. Percival threw himself into reverse. All four legs straightened and he flung all twenty pounds of him backward. Vanessa and I both laughed.

“And that’s his other thing. If he doesn’t want to go with you, he does that. So you have to be very careful with his harness. I’ll give you this one. Every other one I tried he was able to slip out of.”

“Good to know.”

True to their beagle selves, Daphne and Percival both remained interested in the myriad smells on the tree and bushes—and, no doubt, those emanating from the bar and grill—and ignored each other. We let them sniff about. Soon we were joined by Laurie, another BFP beagle adopter, and Caroline, who, I came to learn, had been present at many of the rescues, including Percival’s. To my great happiness, the next to arrive was Rizzo and his family.

I loved and hugged all over Rizzo, though he, like the other two, was more interested in sniffing the bushes. The bushes must have smelled of the grill food the way those beagles were obsessing over them. But then, these were former lab beagles. Every smell was a smorgasbord of freedom. I did get Rizzo to sit in my lap for a bit while I admired his sweet handsomeness. Daphne came over immediately, sniffing at this beast that had crawled into the lap of her mama. She wagged her tail and barked at Rizzo, who wagged his tail and sniffed her back.
Oh
sure, now they like each other
. I looked over at Percival, now cuddled up with Caroline. These dogs were just so impossibly cute; I couldn’t go wrong either way.

“You’ve got yourself a real character here. We all just love this dog,” Caroline said.

“We love him too. He’ll be well cared for and loved, I promise,” I said.

Vanessa wiped at her eye with her index finger and then put her sunglasses on. Caroline handed Percival back over to her and she held him close.

Shannon returned to the parking lot. “Just bring the dogs in. The only people in the patio are here for our event. Who’s going to complain?”

We moved our parking lot party to the gated patio. Five beagles on a patio with a vegan food fest going on, and humans enjoying cocktails and good company—this was the way to spend an afternoon. The patio had six picnic tables and benches and a small kitchen serving area that was commandeered by the food truck operator. The weather was L.A. beautiful and the bar was serving mai tais and Bloody Marys, which went nicely with the vegan sliders and mac ’n’ cheese dishes. (Yes, I had two lunches. That vegan mac ’n’ cheese was calling to me!) It was not a bad little reception for our
Bachelorette
couple. The bride, however, spent much of the time under one of the tables—not as a result of too many drinks, like a bride or two I’ve known, but from her desire for a share of the sliders or sweet potato fries. More than one person obliged her with the slip of a hand under the table. I may have been one of those people.

Percival spent his time lapping up the adoration of his many BFP fans. Caroline held him when Vanessa could let go, and Rizzo’s folks visited with Percival for a bit while I held and loved on Rizzo one last time. There were toasts and tears, and inevitably, it was time for the lovebeagles to exit.

Vanessa buried her face in Percival’s neck and whispered to him. I felt terrible taking him away and simultaneously awful for leaving Rizzo behind (though Rizzo’s family looked well in love with him). Also, though, I was anxious to get Percival and Daphne home to our new life together. I wanted to get to know this dog. I wanted to start kissin’ on Percival too.

“You gonna be okay?” I said.

“Yes. Yes. I will. I know this is the best thing for him.” Vanessa kissed the top of Percival’s head and handed him to me. Caroline put her arm around Vanessa, and no one bothered to choke back the tears.

“Thank you for taking such good care of him. You’ll see him again, I promise.”

“I know. I know. I’m okay.”

I set Percival down on the ground next to Daphne. “We’re off.”

There were hugs all around, and Vanessa and Caroline followed me to my car. Vanessa reminded me that Percival gets carsick and then handed me a bag with a chew toy, a bag of the food he’d been eating, and a card. Now it was my turn to blink back tears as I drove out of the parking lot, with Percival curled up on a blanket on the seat next to me and Daphne in her crate in the backseat. Both dogs slept the entire sixty-mile drive home. Daphne snored contentedly and Percival breathed deeply.

Their exhausted sleep gave me time to think about the reality of two dogs in the house. I grew up with many animals and as an adult always had two or three beagles. But Seamus had preferred being an only dog. So for the last nine years, in my new life, in this townhome, there had only been one dog. One dog with one giant personality. And now there’d be two. I imagined them running through the house, chasing each other and playing tug-of-war with toys, as they’d done in Vanessa’s office. I’d have twice the food bill, twice the vet bills, and Chris would have twice the dogs to walk and twice the poop to pick up (see how I’d negotiated that division of duties?), but we’d both have twice as much beagle-cuddling and cuteness as well.

Once home, I let Daphne out from the crate in the backseat of the car, and she ran through the doggie door and into the house instantly. Percival only raised his head. I thought he’d slept soundly, but the look on his little face said he had not enjoyed the ride. And of course, poor baby had no idea where he was or what would happen to him now. I knelt down next to him.

“It’s okay, little guy. You’re home now. This is your home and you’re safe.”

His dark eyes stared at me, but he didn’t move.

“Come on, baby, it’s okay. You can get out of the car now.”

No movement.

Oh, this poor baby
. I picked him up off the seat and held him close to me. I held him until I felt him relax and lean his head into my shoulder. Then I set him down on the ground in the garage. “Here you go, baby. It’s okay. Shake it off. You’re home now.”

He stood, frozen in place. I walked ahead, calling to him. “Come on, Percival. Comet…let’s go in the house. Come on, baby.”