Our rescue dogs learned a lot of commands and tricks — sit, down, stay, roll over, etc. Their favorite command was “vacuum.” Woofie, our Dane-Lab mix, would eat anything — even rocks. (He couldn’t digest rocks — or cabbage, or corn cobs — but he’d still eat them. And then throw them up, of course. Preferably on the nice carpet. Or my shoes.) Continue reading Doggone In-laws (#177)
Bet your friends would like this (unless they're racists):
Which was how Andy talked me into a second dog. He picked another rescue, a female found wandering on the street of South Central Los Angeles when she was about four months old. We met her at an adoption fair on Sunday, signed papers, and waited another two days for a volunteer to deliver her after we cleared a background check.
My neighbor, an officer in the Los Angeles Police Department, was skeptical when I told him our new rescue’s history. “Why didn’t you get a purebred? One where you know where the dog has been and what kind of breed it is?”
“Like your German Shepherd?”
“Well, the rescue group did a temperament test on her, and they say she’s great with other dogs and cats. We even watched her playing with a buddy.”
Our new rescue dog loved everyone, but Woofie took special delight in youngsters. He didn’t care if they were canine or human. In fact, his greatest day at the dog park involved a pack of ten-year-old boys. The kids didn’t appear to have a dog, just a Frisbee they threw around.
Woofie stole it immediately. They chased him for a half-hour. He’d let a boy get about a foot away, then he’d feint right, dart left, and leave them in the dust.
Woofie wanted to play with everything, including the cats. The cats did not want to play with Woofie. In vain would Woofie bark and prance around in front of them. The cats would only hide, hit, and hiss.