Leaving Alistair at his forever family’s home last Friday night, I was ushered to the home of people on the opposite side of the rescue equation.
The family who surrendered Emmett was really, genuinely nice. They clearly cared about him, even though he had been dumped on them by a neighbor who had, amazingly enough, fewer resources than they did and less ability to address his needs, even quite frankly, if they were not special in any sense of the word.
Things like flea and tick treatment. Suitable nourishment. Routine vaccinations. And then there was the whole “blood-in-the-urine” scene.
How could they not care about him? He is a honey of a dog, and those sweet, sweet eyes reminded me of Emmett Kelly, the clown who swept up the spotlight, and hailed from the small community of Sedan, Kansas. The family cared about Emmett the dog, they just couldn’t care for him.
Like that archetypical clown, Emmett Kelly, we have a fellow who wants more than anything to please, to be petted, to be talked to, to be adored, to be loved.
It is a week later. We have been heavily vetted and are halfway through our antibiotics for a major urinary tract infection. Two days after coming home from the Vet’s office, the droop in Emmett’s tail was gone. By yesterday, he has developed a tail wag that can leave a welt on the back of your thighs and caused Skeeter to yelp when she was hit in the face as she stepped into a full-body wag yesterday evening. Emmett is given free run of the farm as he has no interest in chasing goats, eating cats, or going too very far away from us for more than the length of time it takes him to make a wide circle of a run.
We are methodically working on adding some substance to his frame, now that he has been rid of whipworms. We are neutered and careening headlong toward full preparedness for adoption by some forever family.
Really, we are. We mean it.