Meet Wiley, the Golden Retard.
5 years ago, a year after we lost our first doggie boy to bone cancer at 8, we adopted him from the So. Cal. Rescue Retriever Society - a great organization. It was akin to adopting a child - we had to give personal and veterinary references, had our home inspected by appointment AND by surprise...it took about 2 months to complete the process.
Wiley was physically abused and locked outside all day by his former owners. He dug his way to freedom, escaped, was caught and put in a San Diego City shelter 5 times before his owners were fined into submission and were finally persuaded to give him up. His bottom front teeth were worn to the roots from gnawing on his chains and fencing. It took him a year not to cower at sudden movements, or at the sound of the beloved's deep voice. He immediately attached himself to my oldest for sleeping, and me for shadowing during the day. We almost renamed him Eeyore, at first, because he had such a sad, guilty look and sense of impending doom about him until he learned to trust us. Still does on days like...last Sunday. More on that in a bit.
This week, one of my wedding gifts from 15 years ago - the Betty Crocker Cookbook - was unceremoniously ripped from its shelf on the kitchen island and similarly devoured. While vastly annoying, this I can replace without feeling bereft as I do about my old black vinyl binder. Wonder what the heck was dripped on those, or what prompted this after 4 years of them being in the same place?!?