Taking in a Stray Dog

by George Zidbeck

The Tale of Rochester

What person or family hasn't accepted the responsibility of caring for a pet, whether a lizard; parakeet; cat; dog; or goldfish? But, taking care of ain't the same as caring about. Selectively, some animals induce a transitional relationship bordering on friendship. The pet gets a name that it recognizes and its persona over time finds itself molded by full acceptance. The ages of the caretaker(s) and the adopted animal(s) significantly controls the kind and degree of subsequent bonding that develops inter-species.

Two pet deaths in my lifetime affected me emotionally no less than if I had lost a dear human friend. The first: a white terrier we children named "Whitey." I had not yet entered my adolescence, and he lived with the family but three years before a car ran over him. Not until I reached adulthood and married did I care for a cat, and a couple of parakeets. Their losses, however, didn't prove traumatic.

One night, however, having long settled into a career and a marriage of over two decades, I encountered a brown and black mixed terrier sitting in front of the house when I left at night for a quick errand. I bent down, patted the animal on his head, said, "Good dog," and headed for my car. Thirty minutes later, he remained in the same spot as if waiting for me. I checked with a neighbor who said, "No, he's not mine. He's been around this area for the past week; I don't know who he belongs to."

Impulsively I picked the animal up and got a strong sniff of something rotten. Even so, I carried him inside and showed him to my wife, telling her, "Look what I found."

"Get that smelly animal out of here. Yesterday I opened the door and he just ran inside. It took me five minutes to get him back out front. So, please take him outside."

Respecting my wife's instructions, I took him outside, depositing the animal in our totally fenced rear yard. Further, I gave him a bowl of water, and scrounged up a make-do meal that he ravished. For some reason, I felt attached to that scroungy, odorous creature.

Energetic tail wagging welcomed me the next morning when I checked on him. My inspection under full sunlight provided an estimate of his age: close to a year. He didn't resist my carrying him into the house to give him a bath. Even as he cringed under soap and water, he didn't howl or snap. When toweled nearly dry I set him back into the rear yard and went for some groceries, including dog food.

Shortly after feeding him, I noticed his stool. No doubt about it, he had a bad case of worms. At that point, I questioned if I really wanted the responsibility of the canine. But, after all, I had already given him a name, Rochester. Jack Benny's sidekick had recently died and for some reason that moniker arose from my gray matter. Moreover, I knew that if I wanted to keep the dog and allow him in the house, I'd have to take him to the vet and have him dewormed.

When I deposited him on the veterinarian's front counter and filled out the form, I felt the uncertainty of my new pet, his questioning our relationship. I sensed his confusion: am I once more set adrift to fend for myself?

Early the next morning, I went for the dog, paid the fee, and lifted the animal from the counter. He didn't seem overjoyed to see me, likely remaining confused over his future. When I put him on the passenger side of the family car, I took my seat and started the engine.  By then, he stood on his hind legs, looking out the window.

"Okay, Rochester," I said, adding, "let's go home." He may not have understood the words, but he must have sensed on some primitive level that he and I were going to share our lives. For I had no sooner finished the sentence, his tail gyrated wildly and his body shook with excitement all the way back to the house. No need to lift him from the car and carry him into the house. Rochester raced for the front door as soon as I had parked and opened my driver's door. His joyous barks announced to the neighborhood his full and formal adoption.

The Tale of Rochester—Continue to Part 2