My dog is a mutt, an actual pound puppy. Maybe eight inches tall, and twice as long, with a tail that curls like a question mark. Shiny fur that is all black, except for his throat and the tips of his toes. Ears like a bat. Brown, bugged-out eyes. Nose always twitching, always sniffing for food.
I am really just looking, I tell myself, on that bitter post-blizzard Saturday, when I take a two-hour bus ride, from one end of the city to the other.
Cook County Animal Control is in the middle of industrial nowhere. Inside, it is concrete, and metal cages, that sit over drains in the floor. It is loud. He is louder.
They have named him Skipper, because he is part Schipperke, the other half Chihuahua. He is too loud, not what I’m looking for; but every time I walk by the cages where the little dogs are he singles me out. He is not afraid to ask for help. “Please! Get me the fuck out of here!”
We meet in the visiting pen; he licks my face. Dogs here have six days to make a good impression. Six days to plead their case. He has four days left. Just four days until his body will be thrown out like trash. I already know that I will name him Rockhudson, all one word, after my favorite 1950’s closeted movie star.
Great photo. Obviously, "Rock" isn't camera shy.
ReplyDeleteIn fact, I would suggest using this picture in the banner. Tells us way more about his personality than the current picture used).
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