We’d just started fostering for a Boston Terrier rescue group when my husband and I bought a new home. We thought it would be perfect for foster dogs since the yard was bigger, so as soon as we settled in we let the rescue group know we were ready for dogs.
They said they would give us a dog named Sage, but at the last minute we were asked to pick up Bill instead. Apparently he had been adopted by a family in Colorado (he was from a puppy mill in Missouri), but they decided they didn’t want him because he was afraid of everything, didn’t want to leave his crate, and wanted nothing to do with his new family members. Though we felt completely unprepared to care for a dog like Bill since we had previously only cared for happy, healthy fosters, we were the closest foster family so we agreed to take him.
We ended up taking both Sage and Bill because the foster family that was to take Sage was grieving for a dog they had just lost and was not ready for another foster. Sage was easy: a beautiful, well-adjusted one-year-old dog. Bill was exactly the “train wreck” that he was described to be.
Once home, we had to go out for an hour and thought that the yard would be the best place to keep the dogs. The weather was perfect and we wouldn’t have to worry about potty accidents if they were outside. Sage was free to roam, and we put Bill’s crate in the yard with the door open so he could venture out if he got courageous. Our roommate was home to check on them, so we weren’t concerned at all.
About 45 minutes after we left, we got a call from our roommate telling us that the dogs got out. I thought he was joking because I didn’t even know if Bill could walk. There was no way he would run away. And, we have a 5’ high fence, so how could they get out?
It turns out that the second gate to our yard wasn’t closed properly, so off they went. Sage, being a socialite, was recovered by a neighbor immediately. She had my cat’s tag on her collar so the neighbor found us easily. Luckily she was only four houses away!
Bill was another story. He wanted nothing to do with people, had no tag on his harness, and he didn’t even know his name. Along with our friends and family, we searched for days. We looked everywhere we thought a scared dog might hide: under cars, in the tall grasses behind our house, in drainage pipes, and under bushes. After days of searching, we all feared the worst.
For three weeks I lied to myself, telling myself that someone must have found him and kept him. Deep down, I knew that wasn’t the case, and wrestled with the reality that I would probably never see him again. Then, on the morning of our two-year wedding anniversary, the phone rang. I didn’t answer it because I was sleeping, but I should have. The voicemail was from the President of our rescue group, calling to tell me they found Bill.
That’s all the voicemail said, “They found Bill. Call me.” I immediately jumped to conclusions that the last word the President left out was “dead.” “They found Bill dead.” My fingers hesitantly dialed her number, and I dreaded what I was about to hear. Imagine my relief when she told me he was alive and that the shelter around the corner from my house had him!
Apparently some joggers had seen Bill trying to eat a carcass in the woods about a quarter mile from my home. The joggers called animal control, who took Bill to the Boulder Humane Society. The shelter was able to track Bill back to our rescue group using his microchip.
Nobody knew what to do with Bill. He was in terrible psychological condition to begin with, and now he was emaciated, non-responsive, and had a gash so deep on his front leg that the muscle was exposed. Could he actually be rehabilitated and lead a happy life? For a moment, it looked as though the decision would be made by to euthanize him. As I was only the foster and not his owner, I didn’t really have a say, but I was mortified. Of course, I felt responsible for his predicament, and I knew he wasn’t a bad dog. There must have been hope for him!
I thought it was already too late to save him and I just sat on my stoop and cried. Miraculously, after about ten minutes of feeling sorry for myself and for Bill, I received a call telling me that the shelter vet decided that Bill should live. I was elated! My mother and I jumped in the car immediately and went to pick him up.
At the shelter, I was so afraid to see him – I just didn’t know what to expect. He looked like a dog dinosaur – every bone in his body was protruding. I was afraid if I touched him I would hurt him, but we handled him as gently as we could and took him home.
Bill Before
I spent the next month nursing Bill back to health. We went to the Alpine Animal Hospital almost every other day to have his bandages changed. They were so kind to him (and to me), and they donated seven free laser treatments to help him heal faster. The physical wounds healed much faster than the emotional ones. For three or four months he still didn’t want to move, but taking him to the dog park helped immensely. The dogs there did a great job of teaching Bill how to “be a dog.” We also hired a trainer who taught me how to help build Bill’s confidence.
It didn’t take me long to decide to adopt him, and a year later, Bill is the best dog ever. Though it’s cliché, I’ll say it. He’s given me so much more than I could ever give him. He’s a great hiking partner, cuddler, and best buddy. I love watching him swim and scramble over rocks. He’s touched my life so much that he inspired me to found Happy Tails Books (http://happytailsbooks.com/), a publishing company that showcases adopted dogs in breed-specific books to raise money for rescue.
Bill After!
Is Bill still quirky? Sure, but we all have our weird aspects. As I write, Bill is sitting at my feet, facing the opposite direction. This is his way of asking me for attention, so I better go. Bill deserves a little spoiling, don’t you think?
– Kyla Duffy, Boulder, CO
http://happytailsbooks.com
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