Vibrant Village ™

The dog named Precious

For Christmas, my Mom gave me a cute little hand towel that says “Proud Owner of a Rescued Dog.” But, even as delighted as I was with my gift, I thought “Is it really proud? Is that what I am?” I’m not sure proud is exactly the right word. But as I think back over the story of our rescued dog, maybe being proud does play a part.

As part of my returning home (for me) to North Carolina and uprooting my son (for him, tearing him away from a place he loved, friends he had, a life that was familiar and happy for him), I had promised him we would get a dog.

In my overwhelmingly busy life in Seattle, there had been barely time to keep life together, much less add a dog to the mix. As simple as it sounds, one of the many reasons for coming home to North Carolina and to the slower paced life of small-town Beaufort was to make room in our lives for a dog. It was sort of a symbol for me, though I never articulated it as such, of being able to provide something for my son besides a roof over his head, supper on the table, and a stressed-out, overwhelmed mother who only occasionally could muster the energy to do fun things with him.

Getting a dog was a big deal — for both of us.

I think one of the things that kept my son from totally falling apart when we left Seattle was this promise I made to him — we would finally be able to get a dog: something he had only been able to dream of for years.

After months of searching, I finally found the perfect rental house — just waiting for us, it seemed. Imagine, then, how it was for him — for both of us — when the landlord said 'no dogs.'

I’d had to push really hard to be allowed to have my son’s pet snake in the house; I knew fighting the battle for a dog would go nowhere.

My son was heartbroken and terribly angry at these landlords he had never met. I told him my strategy: we needed to be patient, I said; we would get in the house and prove ourselves good tenants. Then I would ask the landlords again.

Once the initial shock of our move wore off and my son settled in to his new life, he began like clockwork to ask me “Have you asked them again yet? Do you think they like us enough now to let us get a dog?”

After six months of paying the rent early, keeping the yard in good shape, and communicating regularly with my landlords to let them know how things were going, I broached the subject again. Still no dice. Once again, my son was devastated.

Getting a dog had become a symbol for both of us: for my son, it represented a hole in his new OK-but-not-so-great-new-life — a dog would fill this gap and make his OK-but-not-so-great-new- life a lot better. For me, it was a symbol of that final piece not yet in place: that final stepping stone into my new life: my new life, whose pace was just about perfect and contained plenty of time for dog walks and lavishing attention on a new companion.

But perhaps the most disturbing symbol of all was the feeling that I wasn’t able to live up to the promise I had made my son.

I had come home — to a place I loved, to a new life I loved and I still hadn’t come through for him on the one thing that I had promised our new life would allow.

I gave the landlords an ultimatum: we wouldn’t be able to renew the lease unless we could get a dog. To make it more palatable, I promised them we would get a mature dog, not a puppy, one that was house trained and medium-sized. We’d do everything to minimize the dog’s impact on their house. Knowing they had a good thing going with us in their house, my landlords gave in.

I was set to deliver on my promise to my son.

So, with the help of the Web and my sister, who is somewhat of a dog whisperer, for my son’s 12th birthday one year ago, we traveled to Raleigh to meet Precious Angel.

From her photographs and description, we knew she was a medium-sized hound dog that had been found starving and pregnant, scavenging at a dump outside of Raleigh. She had given birth to eight puppies who were all weaned now. Her “foster mom” described her as totally living up to her name: sweet, loving, good-natured and wanting only to please.

When we walked into her foster home to meet her, she was lying quietly amidst the chaos of four other dogs gamboling around in the living room. My son sat on the floor next to her, and she crawled into his lap and tucked her head under his arm.

Precious was a mess when we brought her home — she had a terrible skin condition and fleas galore. But that was the least of it. She was terrified of pretty much everything. She spent most of her time standing with her head bowed and her tail between her legs, looking absolutely defeated by life. The minute one of us sat down, she would crawl up on the couch and into our lap and just gaze up with those mournful eyes. It was heartbreaking to think what her life must have  been like.

One year later, it’s a different story. Just this morning I heard the familiar voice of one of my neighbors cooing to our dog, telling her what a sweet girl she is. I peeked out the window and saw Precious’ front paws propped up on the fence, her eyes closed in ecstasy as the neighbor stroked her head, totally at ease in her new life. If she were a cat, she would purr. But, as it is, she is a rescue dog who found home with us. Home with a family who loves her and has given her a new life. Home with a boy who longed for a dog, and waited, sometimes not too patiently, for her arrival.

So I guess I am proud — proud to have given this dog a loving home, but most of all proud to have followed through on my promise to my son.

Dail spent much of her growing up time in Carteret County, North Carolina. In 1984, Dail became a foreign fisheries observer with the National Marine Fisheries Service based in Seattle. In 2008, after many years in the Pacific Northwest, and several years living overseas, Dail returned home to North Carolina and the town of Beaufort. The coast of North Carolina is where she feels most at home.