If you are keeping track, or if you did not bother to scroll down, thus far we have covered my decision to rescue a dog, the external factors, key players, and the inner workings of the Julie brain that led to said decision. Now, we're going to reminisce about how I came to find Caleb.
I briefly considered a puppy, and after a little bit of googling and a lot of ooh-ing and aah-ing at cute puppy pictures, I realized I really wanted an adult dog, preferably from a shelter. The more I read about various breeders proclaiming the sturdiness of their particular line, citing the genetic tests that demonstrate their proximity to perfection itself, the more unnerved I became.
Now for all of my fellow corgi breeders/lovers who are about to leap up and down and start screaming and pounding their monitors, wait. I do not support puppy mills or pet store puppies. I understand why true breeders do what they do, why they take such great care to promote the breed through only breeding the best lines. Honestly, I get it. However, I am never going to show my dog. I am not in pursuit of the perfect specimen of corgi.
My first dog, Cody, was a German Shepherd that my dad picked up from someone whose dog had puppies. She was the best dog ever; I grew up with her, I had a dog before I had a sibling. She lived until she was 14, when she developed hip dysplasia and she had to be put down. Putting her down was one of the more traumatic experiences in my life, but to suggest that I would have somehow been happier with a German Shepherd from a fancy line with good hips is preposterous and infuriating. To point out that I may not have had to go through that experience with a "better" dog, is laughable. As much as I wish otherwise, death is part of the life cycle of owning a pet. If it was not her hips, it could have been her heart, cancer, one of a million other things.
Cody, Caleb, and every other dog with a questionable or unknown background did not choose to be born or choose to develop a genetic condition that would cause them pain and break our hearts when we have to make the responsible decision to end their suffering. Purchasing from a puppy mill or breeder encourages them, you argue; and I agree. But what about those puppies and dogs in the shelter? The ones who, for reasons that are never their own, lost their first chance at a home? Should they be be put down? Most of them are. Caleb nearly was.
Caleb was picked up with another corgi by animal control in Oklahoma. They spent the required amount of time waiting for their owners, who never came. The shelter tested them both for heartworm, only to discover Caleb tested positive. Unable to treat for heartworm due to budgetary constraints, and unable to put a sick dog up for adoption, Caleb was scheduled to be put down, until someone at the shelter called Pat, Caleb's guardian angel, former corgi breeder, current corgi rescuer.
She swept up both corgis and brought them home, began Caleb's treatment, and posted their pictures and profiles on petfinder.com. Later that day, as I was perusing petfinder.com I stumbled across his profile. When I clicked to zoom in on one of his pictures, the first thing that came to mind was: "He reminds me of a miniature German Shepherd, with no legs and a fox face". I clicked on another picture, a close up up his face, and this time I stopped short. The expression on his face reminded me of Cody: a cross between looking worried and wizened, thoughtful and pensive. I called Pat. A month later, after his treatment was complete and he was all healed from being fixed, he was on his way to San Jose (If you were wondering, the other corgi that Caleb was with was quickly adopted from Pat).
The treatment for heartworm takes a month, and has been likened to chemotherapy in humans. It is not pleasant. While poor Caleb was recovering, I was PLANNING. I had an entire month to think of every possible contingency, pick out the perfect collar and leash, get his kennel all set up, sign up for pet insurance, and obsess over which dog food I should buy. I'm nothing if not thorough. I even called the airport the day before to confirm where I would be picking Caleb up. Is he under 75 pounds? Yes! He'll be in terminal A, not in Cargo. Fantastic, I know where that is!
Boyfriend and I showed up the next day at the appropriate time, collar and leash in hand, ready to pick up Caleb at terminal A and.....no dog. I was practically running anyway just to get to the baggage claim area, but once I realized something was wrong and there was nothing coming into this baggage claim area, I zeroed in, ran towards and cornered the first American Airlines employee I could find and grilled him on the whereabouts of my corgi. As of the week before I called American Airlines to double check, the policy on picking up animals had changed: All animals, regardless of size, are now dropped off and waiting in cargo. Apparently the genius I talked to on the phone missed that memo. We ran back to the truck, drove like lunatics out of the parking garage, demanded directions from the parking attendant, and went screaming towards the cargo pickup area.
Caleb was right there waiting for me. I opened up the crate inside the cargo area, to get his collar on him and take him out to the one lone bush in the parking lot of the cargo area. He came out right away. You could tell that Caleb was scared, and was probably uncomfortable judging from the fact that he peed for about 3 minutes straight, but we had him, he was safe, in one piece, and finally home.
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