Built like a Mack Truck

There is a photo-collage display mounted on Savannah’s wall chronicling the approximately thirty successful dog adoptions she and Lisa had mediated during their years of selfless fostering. I admire this collection of inspirational success stories each time I visit. I am so proud of their hard-work, patience, and devotion to re-homing neglected, abandoned, and sometimes, abused animals. The display also pays homage to others who have contributed to the noble cause of placing these dogs in peacefully compatible environments. My daughter Sydney and her husband Douglas are included in many of the photographs…involved in the back stories of many of the dogs that passed through Savannah and Lisa’s doggie doors. I spotted our friends Rhoda and Morgan, smiling as they peek out of pictures. What a wonderful representation of compassion and service.

Another thought occasionally crosses my mind as I gaze at this altruistic testament of advocating for those who lack the ability to advocate for themselves:  What about me?

Where am I in this mosaic of making the world a better place?

Apparently I’m good enough to walk across the kitchen with a tiny tusk-toothed terror on my heels, mistaking my
calf for a leg of lamb. The advice of “not making eye contact” did not reassure me as Tony (who would eventually be diagnosed and treated for an impressive variety of mental illnesses) touched me with his upward-pointing fang. I was told, with great excitement, that this was a compliment but it felt more more like the application of a meat thermometer to determine my state of doneness. 

I was good enough to sit impassively as a white shepherd was learning to find alternative methods of self-soothing as opposed to taking a chomp out of me. “Let her bite you, Mom,” Savannah coaxed, “and then I’ll spray her with water.” The dog (now a sponsored Instagram influencer) loomed toward me (Think Jurassic Park) as I, again, avoided eye contact and attempted to not resemble a tempting cut of meat. No surprise, she bit me (“Nibbled,” Savannah corrected, rolling her eyes at my dramatics) and my daughter promptly blasted me in the face with the water bottle.

I have ingested enough dog hair at Savannah’s house that my body could double as a reversible fur coat. I have had my arms pulled out of my sockets walking lunging lions that would turn on me in a heartbeat (“Just don’t make eye contact, Mom.”). I’ve “slept” with, snuggled, and soothed countless fosters. Where was my picture?

And now, it was too late.

With an established household of three dogs, Savannah and Lisa had finally retired from fostering.

But with the devastating Texas floods, they could not ignore the call to rush down to offer their services as Kerr

County emptied out their animal rescue kennels to make room for the pets displaced by the disaster. Savannah and Lisa loaded their car with blankets, kennels, towels, and toys to donate. Arriving on-scene, they asked what they could do to help and, before they could blink, were bundling Mack, a shy, mixed-breed senior pittie into their vehicle. Surrendered at age two, our boy had spent over eight years, caged, in a shelter. 

My impression upon first meeting him was that Mack was polite and perpetually worried. We stared deeply into one another’s eyes as I assured him that he was welcomed and loved. I cradled his heavy head in my hands. His rear legs shook as he stood, steadfast before me, soaking in the affection that he had missed for the bulk of his life. As I pulled my hands away, preparing to get up, he leaned forward to block me, inadvertently biting my breast (“Nibbled,” Savannah corrected, exasperated by my exaggeration). “I am not a cooked chicken,” I chided as he kissed me in apology. 

And then, suddenly, I realized, Mack was my ticket to becoming a featured photo on Savannah’s bulletin board display!

I had a few obstacles in my way.

First, I didn’t want to appear narcissistically-intent on my goal. They should WANT my picture up there. I shouldn’t have to beg. Putting on my best outfit, fixing my hair, and applying make-up might appear too obvious. Demanding a photo-shoot wasn’t exacting subtle but time was short.

Second, Mack didn’t exactly photograph well. Let’s just say his inner-beauty didn’t shine through. His shrouded eyes concealed his puppy-like enthusiasm and gentle nature. “I need less Junk-Yard Dog and more Nursing Home comfort animal,” I explained. His helicopter tail expressed his willingness to comply but his thick tornado body and wide chest exuded more tank than tickle.

“Maybe in a more natural light,” Savannah suggested after an hour’s session refused to result in a single good photo of Mack (and, to be fair, me). We traipsed out to the backyard, Mack happily at my feet. He fairly blossomed at the attention but, unfortunately, he appeared more of a stumped trunk than a trellis rose. But he was trying so hard. 

I leaned down to pat him, not quick enough to miss his targeted tongue on my face but at least my breasts
remained unscathed. He was a quick learner. “You are such a good boy,” I crooned, straightening, smiling down at my new friend. He grinned back.

And snap! Just like that…we made the board.