Miss Mabel

Last night a little visitor arrived.  A puppy mill had been busted in Kansas and our rescue got a few of the dogs. I was sent a little one year old female, who had already had 2 litters of pups.  She lived outside in a crate for her entire little life and as far as I can tell, had never been pet.

I put down the crate and opened the gate. nothing.  just big shaking eyes at the back of the crate.  I sat down, pretended not to watch and a few minutes later, out came a scared little pup.  She took one look at  me and ran for her life.  For the next three hours, she frantically moved around the house, trying to get as far away from me as possible.  Woodrow was beside himself with worry.  I opened the back door and let her roam.  She immediately relaxed and went to hide behind the shed. Poor thing - never been inside in her life.

My perplexion came when I wanted to head into the office.  aka. my bed.  it's what I call it. How do I get the dog in the house and up the stairs?  And in the crate?  I can't pick her up - I hadn't even been able to get close enough to touch her.  A greyhound scared of humans - that is something I had not seen before.  So I did what any good southern woman would do - I corralled it, bless its heart. I'm good at corrallin'.

One time there was this black string by the front door when I went down to lock up late one night.  In the dark, I thought it was woodrow's leash and went to pick it up.  nope. leash moved.  snake.  i don't do snakes.  not even baby snakes.  hate 'em.  anyway - i stoically called my dad at 2am crying like a little girl, telling him to drive 30 minutes to come and kill this thing.  I won't be having my hound dog in harm's way with this thing, you know.  Nope - he laughed.  not coming.  So I set up a bunch of barricades leading it to the front door. shoes. bins. blankets. whatever. mama will protect her young.  it took my advice and slowly slithered out of my life.

So with this wild and feral dog in my midst, I did the same.  baby gates! I chased it up the stairs and blocked the exit.  It was practically running in circles at this point.  Some how I sheep herded it into the crate.  I reached my hand it to pet its head and it coiled as if I was going to hit her.  perhaps the last human did.

Day 2 with the newly dubbed Miss Mabel was similar to the first - including me laying myself halfway into the crate for a half hour just so I could finally touch her paw.  She spent the whole day outside, cowering behind the shed.  When I would get her in and close the back door - sheer panic would set in.  don't fence me in crazy, tired lady.  It is now half past midnight and she has been corralled upstairs and is running circles around the coffee table in the landing.  I wonder what horrible life this little thing used to have.

Now the hard part comes.  What do I do with it?  I had agreed to only temporarily foster her - just for a night or two until they can find a real foster home for it.  They can't.  Tomorrow I am suppose to drop her off at the vet where she will be boarded, in a cage, in a loud room with barking dogs, until well - I don't know.  For a feral dog that cannot handle being inside, this is not going to help the rehab process.

Can't I just let it hang out in my backyard for a while? I could - except it isn't my backyard.  It's my dad's. It isn't my carpet she will pee on, it is his.  I do live the life of a 14 year old teenager when it comes to my habitating situation and I need to respect his space.  Reason for me needing to use the word 'no' number 1.

Also, in about 36 hours, I am  having my surgery on my parts.  I can't really be corralling so much. And I will probably be staying down at my sister's for a few days because she lives closer to the hospital, in case I need to go back.  (Week after surgery, you are so much fun).  And sister doesn't have a backyard.  And her place is like the Ritz.  They call her 'five-star' for a reason.  And my mom's flying in and I can't ask her to watch me and the mable and the woodrow.  eish.  argument number 2 for a no is quite strong.

See how hard this is?  Service is never convenient, it never comes at a good time.  But when do you have to choose to serve yourself instead of others for a while.  How do you say that blasted word? How do you not lay awake with guilt knowing that this little creature is not getting any closer to resembling an an actual loving pet and finding a good home because you needed to sit mighty still for a few days.  I always hear, 'you can't save them all.'  Shouldn't I try and save at least one, though?  Oh wait - is that one suppose to be me?                       aah! too deep!