Shortly after 9/11 for some reason we determined to get a dog and my wife and I spend weekends going to various shelters. Some of them in LA are huge—and oh so sad places. All kinds of dogs, big and small, fat and thin, clean and dirty, nice and some not so nice. Each dear, “dumb” creature having their own story, each with a look of confusion or flirtation or accusation. Some older dogs with the sad sad look saying “where did my people go? Where are my people?”

The shelter in the San Fernando Valley had hundreds and hundreds. When we saw “him,” he was reaching his feet, which are huge, under the wire and laying back smiling at us. He had been there the week before also. They let us take him outside into a fenced “audition” area where they let people try out potential matches. He was so happy, so alert, he brought me the ball, and promptly rolled over and I found myself down on the ground in a major hug. He was dirty, stinky, and we adapted him then and there. Since he was a large dog, we were surprised to discover that we also got a small fee from the city—a rather remarkable gesture aimed at encouraging large dog adoption. Since it was a Saturday we would not be able to come back and get him until Tuesday—he would be shipped to the vet for a small operation on Monday…and a bath.
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When I was 8 my family got our first real family dog. A young border collie we would name Spritzy.

Spritzy would be a part of our family for nearly 11 years and was a very important part of our family. She was a smart, loving dog that treated me and my brothers and sister as her own. In fact if we were gone overnight for some reason, she’d spend her time lying in wait between our rooms waiting for the missing one to finally come home. We were her pups as it were.

Unfortunately as it happens, me and my sister graduated from high school and went to college. This meant that Spritzy would be separated from us for long periods of time. Whenever me and Steph came home my brothers would marvel at her change in disposition and when we left she would become depressed again.
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My best friend “Pal” was a black lab mix. With a white chest with black spots, a little white on his snout, and
the tip of his tale. He first belonged to a good friend of mine, with whom I worked. She was the manager, and I the on site maintenance man for a townhouse rental community in Stockton Ca. Pal used to sometimes unlatch the back gate of the yard and come over, scrath on my door and just hang out.

Then after I had moved away, my friend got into a position where she could not keep Pal because of her new job. She called me to see if I would be able to take him. When I showed up to get him, he was so happy, he hopped right into my truck. Pal and I left California in 1995, to move back to the Chicago area, (Where I am from). What a sight, a loaded down 72 Ford Courier, Pal and I.

All we needed was grandma in the rockin chair, and it would have looked the the Beverly Hillbilly’s all over again. It was the first time he ever saw snow, and he like the fact that I could make endless balls for him to chase. He was a little confused at first though when he tried to pick them up. Several years ago, his health started to deteriorate, the vets could not figure it out, and he progressed to the point to where I finally had to have him put to sleep. It was just a couple of weeks before Christmas. He was my best friend, and I do still miss him. I miss the thumping of that big heavy tail pounding on the floor when I would come home. No matter how hard the world had kicked me in the butt that day, I had a friend waiting for me to let me know it would be OK.

Samuel from Il

An abused female, KiKi or Kia was rescued from an animal shelter in Alaska. Rocco, Jannine’s husband, was drawn to her because she sat stoically in a state of emaciation amid kennel chaos. She was least lovely of the crowd, but Rocco looked beyond a
sparse coat and bones which testified to abuse.

Kia was sociable. She daily walked a treat-filled visitation route through the neighborhood. Warren and Barb et al. lovingly contributed to an overweight problem. Eventually, Kia made her way to Nana’s house where she would struggle to pull her arthritic body up on Nana’s prized leather couch. There on cool leather, she would sigh and nap for the afternoon.

Kia was a brave soul. While out on an exercise run, a younger, larger dog attacked her; Kia’s mouth opened and she slammed the bigger dog down. Unperturbed, she continued her run. Old or young, outdoor noises summoned her attention.

Kia was tolerant about differences. She congenially howled with the family and Nana for poor choral imitations of the “cry of the wild. The “pack” misses her, and thanks God for her short life on earth.

Sydney from Alaska

I have mourned the loss of many a canine friend and have been devastated by their deaths, but the story that I would like to share is of an animal that inspired me with her life. In May of 2006, we adopted a horse into our barn that we named Nelly. She was all of 800 pounds (she should have been more like 1200), could hardly stand and had severe laminitis in both front feet. Nelly could not be turned out with all of the other horses, she was too frail and weak, so I turned her out into the arena, which we later dubbed Nelly’s room and the aisle between the other paddocks. Even then, Nelly had such a sweet spirit and whinny and appreciated anything you did for her. I was advised by both of my vets to put her down , but after we all spent some time with her, we realized that she had a strong will to live and decided to give her that chance. After some research I found out that Nelly had been a champion racehorse and had actually been bred with the son of Spectacular Bid, the 1980 horse os the year.

Her registered name was Fool’s Rush, and she had led a fairy tale life. How she ended up hobbling around my back yard is anyone’s guess. Nelly started to thrive in her new surroundings, she gained weight, became more sure footed and made fast friends with the other horses, the whole atmosphere changed due to her presence. She was probably in considerable pain, even then, but never complained. There were days when I would be softly crying for her and go down at night to give her some extra treats and she would greet me with her sweet whinny, it was not one of impatience or need but rather, I am so glad to see you. More times , than not, she would nuzzle me with that soft nose, wipe my tears away and then convey that she would really like some more hay. Those were the moments when all seemed right with the world.

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Mark, I am 74 yrs young and I have tried not to tell my story, for it still hurts to think of the lost we had 4 years ago of our Lucy, just a dog they say.

I am blessed with wonderful & healthy, [9] kids, [16] grandkids and a great wife.

Had various dogs with the kids as they were growing up. I made the vet trips for their shots etc. Enjoyed, but really never spent much time with the animals. Being a farm boys you learned not to get attached, as you know why.

Fourteen years ago, my wife set out to get a toy poodle. I was not pleased with the idea.. She is a strong conservative, but she used a liberal saying, the dog would be shared with my grand daughters that lived close by. I couldn’t say no to the children of my life.

Before I knew it we had a one & half pound toy black poodle, with an over-bite that no one wanted, following me around. I would come home tired at night & Lucy would be in my lap with a toy wanting to play. Laugh we did. She soon learned 6 or 7 tricks.
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