The Mountaintop School for Dogs and Other Second Chances Read Free Page A

the type of dogs I planned to train.
    In a daydreamy way, I had pictured my dogs peering out windows, catching sight of me as I drew near—
the one human in all the world who understands me,
their eyes would be saying, while their owners were somewhere behind them, at the end of their ropes because their dog was mouthy, was obsessive-compulsive, was peeing on carpets, getting into the garbage, shredding upholstery, putting holes in the walls, destroying running shoes, wallets, vacuum cleaner attachments, pot roasts, heirloom Christmas ornaments, everything. And here I would come to save them, competent, confident, maybe carrying some type of satchel like Mary Poppins. Should I call my dogs clients? Or is the client the one who’d be paying my bill?
    What I liked best were the videos of military people coming home to their dogs from a war, always taking the dog by surprise, because you can’t sit down with an animal and describe an event that hasn’t happened yet, which was something I’d never thought about before. I didn’t know anyone military, but I wished I did, and that the person had a dog. I would have called to talk about homecomings.
    Sometimes when dogs greeted a returning soldier, they’d go over the edge. They would have to take a few moments to run crazily in circles around the human, or around a room or a yard. I’d have to take a break from watching, so my brain had a chance to absorb what I was seeing: that there is such a thing as joy being bigger than the container that holds it.
    Maybe I shouldn’t think of this as a career. Maybe I should say it’s a
calling.
    Back in the lobby, I had to deal with Mrs. Auberchon. She said nothing but motioned for me to leave my shoulder bag and pack by the desk. She pointed the way to a short hallway, where a closet door was ajar. It was a walk-in: shelves full of towels, linens, toilet paper, paper towels. There was plenty of room for me to settle down on the floor in a crouch, sitting back on my heels, my head low. In the dimness, my hearing became acute. So many moments ticked by, I lost count, and I began to feel nothing would happen. Then the waiting suddenly ended. Was that really a dog, that sniffling, that panting, that snorting?
    Search-and-rescue dogs
are generally drawn from breeds of a strong work ethic, a high level of trainability, and a high potential for satisfaction and pride at accomplishing a complex, often dangerous task in which the reward is a job well done. German shepherds and Golden retrievers are particular stars of this profession.
    I imagined Rin Tin Tin. I imagined the love-eyed silky goldens in the catalogs from L. L. Bean I’d looked at for new outfits. “Hello and well done!” That’s what I thought I’d be saying very soon, while stroking a short-hair, or losing my hands in long, soft fur.
    Then I met Shadow.
    There were yowly little yips, a paw, a drooly muzzle. It was strange, like meeting an alien. A close, damp, chilly nose was sniffing me, and the paw was pushed into my back. I felt the press of an animal’s weight, not too much, not slight.
    And then . . . urine. Maybe he was too young and inexperienced to know it’s not a good idea to pee on the person you just found? Maybe he was over-excited? Whatever the reason, it happened that the first thing I did with a Sanctuary dog was to let out a yelp of my own.
    â€œFuck off me!”
    The second thing was a threat and also a promise.
    â€œPee on me again and you will
die.
”
    He didn’t look like he was sorry before he ran away: Shadow, a breed of his own, a puzzle put together with pieces of many different ones that somehow fit together. He was beagle-ish, like a Snoopy mutation, but also basset. There were coonhound or tree hound legs too long for his body, and soft, small envelope flaps for ears. He had the droopy eyes of a bloodhound, a long, dark, skinny tail, and narrow feet like a goat’s.