Anyway, I adopted him from the animal shelter yesterday because I have been obsessing about this dog since I had animal services pick him up from my house two weeks ago. Obsessing because I thought he would be claimed by his owner. I mean, when I almost hit him as he wandered in the middle of the street, I was sure we'd be able to find his home. He had a collar and license, is neutered, and has an ear tatoo and a tracking chip ... all linked to the same person with a disconnected phone number and, I guess, a new address. So, since animal services tries to track down the owner, I figured it was best if he went with them. Then, when no one came forward and I discovered that I sent him to the pound (which isn't a no-kill shelter, duh) I realized that I could be responsible for the death of this big, goofy, long-eared, droopy-eyed doofus of a basset hound. And I couldn't live with myself. And now I have this dog.
Scratch that. Now I have three dogs. Two permanent, one who has to stop looking at me with those sad eyes or he may be.
This is all standard guilt-ridden-act-of-emotion-that-ends-up-ruining-your-life fare. But I'm okay with that, at least for now. That's because I've got some good karma on my side. Get this: yesterday, before I picked him up, I had to go by my vet to get proof of my dogs having up-to-date licenses and shots. I'm with my husband because I'm taking him into work and we're going a different route than normal because of the stop. We're stopped at a light and this car turns in front of us with -- and I'm really not making this up -- one of those magnetic signs on the door that says "[location removed]bassetrescue.org." How freakin' weird is that?
So, I've emailed that organization telling them my story and hoping they can help. I'm totally happy to be Remington Roscoe Otis' foster mom, but he eats a ton and isn't exactly crazy about being left alone, so I'm pretty sure he's not a good long-term addition to my household, where my dogs have bladders of steel and barely look up when I walk in the door after 12 hours. (Okay, that's not true, but they are old and used to hanging at the homestead and usually greet us -- with much glee -- then pee, poop, eat, and reassume their lounging positions.)
In the meantime, I'm hoping he learns to sleep somewhere other than in our bed (I gave up last night at 3 when I just couldn't fight it anymore), doesn't eat anything he shouldn't and learns to deal with his separation anxiety issues. Karma help me.
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