Our Childhood Dog

There have been many paws that have crossed my heart. 

My mother, the ultimate animal rescuer, isn’t capable of refusing a stray animal. Therefore, we grew up with an open door and at our maximum pet ownership, had six cats. 

Later, we started integrating dogs into the mix, adopting 2 dachshunds and eventually, a chihuahua mix that came from a hoarding situation. I remember the day so well: news broke about a dog hoarding bust and a woman was legally forced to give up 38 of her 40 dogs, or something like that. They had been living in a hatchback car in Oregon and surviving on popcorn. The dogs were beautiful, happy and healthy. She took wonderful care of them, and got the help she needed, and they did, too. If I was a dog, I’d want to be in Oregon- the best state to be in simply for its animal welfare laws and the fact that almost every place to live is pet friendly. 

My parents heard of the case and we drove out to the middle of nowhere, a large animal control facility, and waited our turn in the long line of people that wanted a chance at one of these dogs. They were all dachshunds and chihuahuas, many a mix of both.

While my father and I found the perfect companion, a happy-go-lucky, wiggly weiner dog that just wanted hugs and playtime, we were taking turns holding him when my mother announced she had found ‘the one’. We hesitantly set our happy boy down, knowing with the personality he had, he would likely be adopted before we got back- as my mother led us to a separate room with a row of dogs locked up in their own cages. “Oh no,” I whispered, when I realized my mom was pointing to one of the dogs locked up in solitary confinement. As we looked at him through the chain link clink he was in, the whites of his eyes let us believe he was as sweet as they come. The dog next to him had a cast on his foot, and he looked equally adorable.

My father and I pleaded with her about the happiest, healthiest, normal-ist dog we’d just encountered outside, joyfully mingling with all the people and animals, but she was certain: this one was hers. 

Winston was a wonderful addition to our house for about three days. Looking back, that was his cooling-off period, like the kind you get from the car dealership after you drive the car off the lot. There's a legal three-day period on a lot of purchases and decisions, and I think Winnie (as we grew to call him, something about hard S’s must’ve triggered him), knew about this. 

On the fourth day, something awoke in him. Or maybe a switch flipped. Or lights went out. I try not to think about it too much, but he knew he was safe. From then on, no one could get close to him, other than my mother. Everyone else had to wear shin guards, be up to date on tetanus shots and announce they were entering a room long before they did, so my mother could take all necessary precautions. If she wasn’t readily available to move him, well- one had to weigh the risks themselves. 

For the next twenty years, my mother often said her biggest regret in life was not also adopting his twin brother, who’d been locked up in the kennel next door. If that had transpired, I imagine my father and I would have been self-evicted to the back lawn, purely for our own safety.

Nevertheless, Winston was the cutest dog we’d ever seen. Even as he was tearing through the air, releasing a deep, guttural noise straight from the underworld- you’d pause for a moment, the one right before your life flashed before your eyes, and admire just how darling he was.

P.S. Yes, that picture is him.

Stay Pawsitive,

Cassandra