Rescue dogs

When people say, apropos of nothing, that they have a rescue dog, it’s usually for two reasons. One is they are bragging about how great they are for rescuing a dog (1b is rich people, explaining in not so many words why their dog is a mixed breed). The other is because the dog is a biter. So when I was told about eight times that the dogs that I will be subbing in for on Friday are rescue dogs, I realized that they meant category two.

I met those dogs today, along with their regular walker. Both chihuahua mixes, both really traumatized. I couldn’t get near Teddy, he growled and barked from his blanket cave on the sofa, and I understand that he snaps at everyone, and he is serious about the snapping. The other, Dakota, trembled in fear, but let me give her treats, and took them from my hand, but wouldn’t let me touch her. All I have to do is let them out onto the patio so they can pee, but somehow I have a strong feeling that, come Friday, those dogs will have bladders of iron.

Poor things. Poor things that will happily bite my heart out and drink my blood, but what they must have been through to be that scared of strangers.

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By the way MANY PEOPLE HAVE RESCUE DOGS WHO ARE NOT IN CATEGORY ONE! Rescuing dogs is a wonderful thing and I am glad that people do it! I just have noticed that when you are chatting to people with dogs on the street and they say in a sort of self-satisfied way, that their dog is a rescue, and you sort of get the impression that they expect a brass band and confetti.

Personally, every cat I’ve ever had in my life is a rescue, but I have never mentioned it before because that’s kind of how you get cats.

(cross-posted to livejournal)