Bob, the Rescue Dog

Bob just died. He was about 11 years old. I heard that three dogs had been left for three weeks in an apartment in W. Virginia, and had been taken to the shelter. Two of them, small dogs, were adopted, but Bob, a homely hound around 40 pounds, was headed to the euthanasia room. I said I would take him. When it came time to load the truck to CT, there was no room for Bob. He might have ended up dead, except that the driver took a chance and put him on top of the crate right behind him so he could keep an eye on him.

For 13 hours, Bob didn’t move. He lay on top of that crate and looked out the front window, looked north all the way to CT. A foster had him for a few days, and I went down to get him, and he again looked north for the three hour trip. He ended up going to my friend’s farm, where he walked backwards into the house for the first few months. He was much loved, much cared for, and he lived another 7 years as her best buddy.

Rescue dogs aren’t always gorgeous, smart, spectacular – but they do seem to have some special qualities that those who haven’t suffered the same way just don’t have. I brought up about 3000 dogs and puppies in 10 years, and I spent every penny I made, and I wouldn’t give back one of them. I love rescue dogs.

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