As you know, I don’t rescue humans anymore because I’m in therapy for codependence. Also, rescuing humans doesn’t even work. It’s an exhausting waste of time that just makes them hate you. Just look at Batman, he lived alone in a cave.
I’ve redirected that energy into rescuing animals, beings who actually need and appreciate help. I promote and follow many animal charities on social media. Social media may be the apocalyptic end of society as we know it, but it does help get dogs adopted, so it makes said apocalypse slightly less terrifying. For most people, social media is a fun diversion where they get to read inspirational quotes that are frequently attributed to the wrong person and see photos of disturbingly large butts that are a slipped disk waiting to happen. Since I follow so many animal rescue organizations, social media is not particularly fun for me. Rather, it’s an emotional land mine. In between borderline racist memes and annoying photos of cappuccinos with heart-shaped foam, scrolling through always yields faces of stray, abused dogs in need of a home and often urgent surgeries. Sigh. If only people’s actual hearts were as big as the ones in their Instagram cappuccinos.
One day I was on Instagram, perusing the feed of an ex-boyfriend, minding my own business, and I saw a post of an angelic pit bull behind rusty metal bars at a shelter notorious for killing dogs very quickly. He was a year-old blue pit, which are the ones that look like tiny gray baby hippos on steroids. He was set to be euthanized in two days, and his eyes seemed to tell me that he somehow knew that. My solar plexus warmed with rage. Over my dead body would I let this dog be a dead body.
I called a rescue I worked with and arranged to have someone go down and get him from the shelter. When I came home, the dog was already at my house, waiting at my front door with two people from the charity. When I saw this tiny burro, my eyes welled up. It was love at first sight. This was already better than any online date I had ever had: Not only was this guy on time but he was early, well mannered, and even cuter than his photo.
I know he technically had the genetics of a pit bull, but he looked to me to be part seal, part baby elephant, part Vin Diesel. He had a broken tail and a perma-smile lined with an unnecessary amount of teeth, and his head and neck were strapped with muscles that no dog should ever need to use.
Usually the first thing I do when I rescue a dog is rename him. Given that I rescue mostly pit bulls, they always come with some testosterone-addled, intimidating name an irresponsible, insecure person gave it that isn’t particularly helpful in trying to change the stereotypes about them. Names like Butch, Gun, or Tank. I mean, to me these sound like very harmless male strippers, but I can see how this could make people more scared if they’re already trepidatious about pit bulls. A dog’s name makes other people feel a certain way about it, the same way human names do. Like when I hear the name Vlad, I think “scary Russian bouncer,” and when I see the name Chad, I swipe left. This blue pit came with the name Fang, which made no sense given how timid and sweet he was. That name did not match his personality. Naming this dog Fang would be like naming me “wife.” After spending some time with him, I decided to call him Billy.
The first thing I generally do when I meet new dogs with a dubious background of abuse is try and identify their triggers. What scares them? This helps me figure out what may have happened to them in the past and how to proceed with their training, healing, and placement into a forever home. It can be painful to watch them react negatively, but they can’t progress unless I know what wounds I’m dealing with. I’ll raise my hand to see if they cower, which tells me they’ve been hit. I’ll slam doors, try to put them in a crate, throw a fake cat in front of them, anything that could help me glean what they’ve been through and what issues we’ll have to address. I also highly recommend doing these tests with humans on the first or second date. It saves a lot of time down the line.
After testing Billy a bit, from what I could tell he hated being left alone, was very scared of people yet had severe abandonment issues, and loved food. We already had more in common than any man I’d ever dated.
I also related to how socially awkward Billy was. He wasn’t really sure what to do with his balloon arrangement of a body. I later found out that this could be the result of being taken from his mother too early. Puppies should be with their mother for at least eight weeks, but often breeders take them as early as two or three weeks. When removed too early, dogs can get too clingy with their owners, have socialization issues, and even bite, because bite inhibition is learned from their siblings and mother. Puppies need to be with their moms as long as possible, unlike humans, who seem to get weirder the more time they spend with their mothers.
When I sat in a chair, Billy sat under it, always seeking the place in the room where he’d be the least vulnerable. Once he finally did warm up to me, the poor boy wasn’t even sure how to show his affection. He had absolutely no practice licking humans, and every time he tried to lick me, he did it with the wrong side of his tongue. The jellyfishy underside would slime me first; then he’d chase it with the rough upper part. Getting a kiss from him was sloppier than some of the drunken make-out sessions I had with random strangers during spring break at the Cancún Se?or Frog’s.
Once I felt I had built some trust with Billy, I carefully introduced him to my other dogs. When Billy met my gaggle of clowns, he wasn’t overly charmed by them the way I am, but he was genial. I could tell he was slightly suspicious of their innocent and unconditional kindness. Chances are, he was used to dogs that were trained to attack him, so he stared at them warily, as if he anticipated, but didn’t at all want, a fight.
“And he’s cynical?” I thought. I beamed with pride. I mean, this dog just went from my soul mate to my offspring. Billy was cute, sweet, and to top it off, very on brand for me.
Billy had also been neutered only a week before I met him, and it takes about month for the testosterone to subside after the surgery, so I knew he was going to have the energy of a rambunctious teenage boy, something I was used to from dating forty-something guys in L.A. Now, what’s the only thing trickier than the energy and attitude of a teenage boy? A teenage boy composed entirely of muscles and bulletproof tendons, topped off with forty tiny knives embedded in his face.