What do you do with a dog that is too big for the largest crate in production? What do you do with a dog so large he cannot fit through the XXL doggie door? What do you do with a dog who, standing flat-footed, is prone to being hit in the face when the top-freezer door on the fridge is swung open?
Put him in the trailer at MisFit Farm, of course.
Our newest foster, who fits the above description, is Alistair. Since K insists on shortening every name, except oddly enough, mine, he has become “Al.” “Al” seems to suit him. Big Al. My pal, Al. Al-a-ca-zam.
Al was turned over to rescue when the workers at the factory where he was living a chained existence pooled their money and bought him from the owner. Given this history, I felt that he should be named Bolshevik or Karl. I have conceded, however, that “Al” is a suitably proletariat name.
Notwithstanding the fact that every person who sees him lets out a low whistle and an under-the-breath, “holy cow,” Al does not seem to have any appreciation for how large he is. He thinks nothing of leaning against any person who will hold still long enough for him to get into position and coax into petting him. He has determined that his “sleeping place” is in the large, but really not large enough, nest bed on the floor between my side of the bed and the wall. He wants nothing more than to play with the goats, and expresses his desire by rearing up in the form of a Lipposanzer stallion, thereby scaring the wits out of the goats, the person holding his lead, and low-flying birds.
I almost forgot one of Alistair’s best features: he is very thirsty, and has a special way of drinking that has contributed exponentially to the drool content of the household.
The water dishes at MisFit Farms are buckets. For Al, they also double as training grounds for the international snorkeling team. It seems that drinking is best accomplished by plunging his nose deep into the bucket, so that the water line nearly reaches his eyes. This allows him to blow bubbles at the same time water is being slurped. It has the secondary effect of providing a waterfall feature that cascades across the floor and any other available surface when his head is lifted from the bucket.
In a weak and futile effort to contain the runoff, we have placed the bucket on a rag rug remnant in the “pan” from a large dog crate. He is willing to have his face wiped off with a paper towel wielded by the vigilant, but for the unwary, he is willing to accept a pant leg, shirtsleeve, or in my case, the shoulder of my t-shirt.
We are actively searching for a home for this amazing fellow. He is the kind of dog I can and likely will write about in the chapters of my days. He is the kind of dog that makes you proud to be with him. He is the kind of dog that leaves you with absolutely no doubt in your mind that you are loveable and adored. Al and about a dozen other wonderful babies can be virtually visited at: http://www.petfinder.com/shelters/MO61.html
Put him in the trailer at MisFit Farm, of course.
Our newest foster, who fits the above description, is Alistair. Since K insists on shortening every name, except oddly enough, mine, he has become “Al.” “Al” seems to suit him. Big Al. My pal, Al. Al-a-ca-zam.
Al was turned over to rescue when the workers at the factory where he was living a chained existence pooled their money and bought him from the owner. Given this history, I felt that he should be named Bolshevik or Karl. I have conceded, however, that “Al” is a suitably proletariat name.
Notwithstanding the fact that every person who sees him lets out a low whistle and an under-the-breath, “holy cow,” Al does not seem to have any appreciation for how large he is. He thinks nothing of leaning against any person who will hold still long enough for him to get into position and coax into petting him. He has determined that his “sleeping place” is in the large, but really not large enough, nest bed on the floor between my side of the bed and the wall. He wants nothing more than to play with the goats, and expresses his desire by rearing up in the form of a Lipposanzer stallion, thereby scaring the wits out of the goats, the person holding his lead, and low-flying birds.
I almost forgot one of Alistair’s best features: he is very thirsty, and has a special way of drinking that has contributed exponentially to the drool content of the household.
The water dishes at MisFit Farms are buckets. For Al, they also double as training grounds for the international snorkeling team. It seems that drinking is best accomplished by plunging his nose deep into the bucket, so that the water line nearly reaches his eyes. This allows him to blow bubbles at the same time water is being slurped. It has the secondary effect of providing a waterfall feature that cascades across the floor and any other available surface when his head is lifted from the bucket.
In a weak and futile effort to contain the runoff, we have placed the bucket on a rag rug remnant in the “pan” from a large dog crate. He is willing to have his face wiped off with a paper towel wielded by the vigilant, but for the unwary, he is willing to accept a pant leg, shirtsleeve, or in my case, the shoulder of my t-shirt.
We are actively searching for a home for this amazing fellow. He is the kind of dog I can and likely will write about in the chapters of my days. He is the kind of dog that makes you proud to be with him. He is the kind of dog that leaves you with absolutely no doubt in your mind that you are loveable and adored. Al and about a dozen other wonderful babies can be virtually visited at: http://www.petfinder.com/shelters/MO61.html
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