How could I resist this face?

Waldo is a testament to the dangers of roaming Petfinder unsupervised.   My 14-year-old collie Lily had died in April and my 6-month old sheltie Jasper needed a friend, so first thing every day I would find myself there, sniffing around for the perfect pet.  From week to week Petfinder remembered my parameters—Animal: Dog; Breed: Collie; Sex: Any; Age: Any.  I soon came to know the bewildered faces my search turned up, over and over, and I was usually relieved when I saw the “adoption pending” note near their pictures.  I actually applied for several candidates only to discover that I would not make the cut as an owner because I worked during day or my backyard fence was in poor shape.

And then one day I spotted an adorable male puppy listed by a Massachusetts rescue organization.  In his picture he was held firmly by two male hands; he was squinty and cute and described as part Aussie, part Border Collie.  “Border Collie” should have been my first warning but I disregarded it.  I only saw his remarkable coloring: not really merle, not really brindle, maybe harlequin?  I imagined having two puppies to play with—this would be fun!  So I filled out the online application and waited.

Two weeks and several phone calls later I sat in my car at 7:30 on a Wednesday morning in the parking lot of a municipal animal shelter, awaiting Waldo’s arrival.   He was not, it turned out, actually at the Massachusetts rescue (some 50 or so miles away) but at a shelter in Beebe, Arkansas (some 2000 miles away).  And now he was on the “puppy bus” making its way to Rhode Island, a prospect that had given me pause when I’d first learned of his whereabouts.  Little did I know that there are folks who make their living ferrying homeless southern animals (where overpopulation is at a critical point) to their new lives up north.  As I watched the bus pull into the lot I was expecting a smelly, traumatized puppy, but I was in for a surprise.

There were at least ten other dogs arriving at their “forever homes” that day.  Over and over again, dogs were fetched from the RV and placed in the arms of their new families while other family members and friends took pictures of that first hug, that first walk, the sweet strangeness of the meeting.  Some of the dogs were puppies and some were older dogs who had undoubtedly found their worlds fractured by this dislocation.  The human reaction to all this was beyond poignant.  I remember thinking that most of these people had probably taken time out of work to be here, had brought a new toy or a bag of treats, had gone to some length to bring these abandoned dogs into their households.

The pup that was handed to me was clean, happy (somewhat frantically, but that’s okay) and well-cared-for.  Nails trimmed, no fleas–he was even wearing a collar with a little dog tag bearing my name and address.  The bus (actually RV) driver handed me a neat manila envelope with his medical records and papers, and Waldo was mine.  In the car he wrapped his paws around my neck.  He had the beginnings of spindly legs and the longest tail I’d ever seen on a dog, and it wagged furiously as he sniffed, sniffed, sniffed.

Within five minutes of his arrival home Waldo had done his business on the couch, which, I suppose, is like hollering, “MINE–ALL MINE!”  Jasper had long since gotten used to a slow-paced life with an elderly collie, and he was visibly affronted by Waldo’s challenges to his territory.  Anyone who has known a Shetland Sheepdog will recognize the particular expression of  indignance that precedes a sheltie outburst.  Jasper was by that time a graduate of puppy kindergarten and I’m sure this speckled, untutored yahoo was the last thing he wanted to see.

He and Waldo would develop a tempestuous relationship, a rollercoaster of wild play and noisy competition.  But they came to a truce by bedtime that first night, which was good, because I was exhausted.