3 rules for Bailey

    Only 3 hard-and-fast rules. 

    Housebroken.

    Good with cats.

    No puppies.

    Those are practical guidelines for a dog search, right?

    

    So after Stacey and I  talked it over and set those guidelines-sober and reasonable-we dropped by the local adoption shelter. 

      We had been without a dog in the house for a few years. It had taken a loooong time to feel ready. Because we had seen both Molly and Scout over the Rainbow Bridge within the past couple of years. They were with us for around 15 years. 15 years is enough time for a dog to slide into a rightful place as the center of the family. 

    Saying goodbye to such dogs after so much history leaves a huge empty gnawing hole that must be dealt with before opening your door to welcome another.

    But it was time. And Andrew had primed the pump, to be honest. He brought his newest dog, a small active personality-filled spaniel, to the house a couple of times. We just felt ready. So we did some research. Small, active, clever and affectionate were the order of the day.

    But those three musts we were sticking to-housebroken, good with cats, not a puppy.

    Shelters are chaotic places, full of barking dogs and whining puppies and mewing cats. No animal-or adopting family-is at the best in such an anxious setting. Sound and smell and emotion all in a whirlwind.

    When we walked by the small dog room, HE went CRAZY. Barking, whining, wiggling all over in his crate. Obviously, shouting "look at me" for all he was worth. His name was Brady, after the quarterback. 

                                                

    So we asked the staff about him, took our place in the courtyard outside to meet with him. He was full of boundless energy, jumping in our laps and licking our faces and chasing down a tossed ball over and over. Within a minute or two, he won us over and we knew he was going home with us.

    Scanning his folder? Well, he was almost a year old-so still a puppy. 

    He was untested with cats. Might like em. Might hate em. No information.

    He had been adopted and returned twice by other families. Among the problems the families reported were that he chewed everything up, and he refused housetraining.

    Hmmmm. 

    Seems to be zero-for-three. Right? Right. 

    Well, I still don't know if we just rationalized violating our principles away, or if we read closely enough in his documents to think that the other two families just had not worked very hard. But we took him home. Changed his name to the more palatable Bailey-because even Stacey, who does not follow football in the least, could not tolerate a dog named after Tom Brady.

    This was the Saturday before Thanksgiving. With a week of vacation from school, we had planned the timing so that I would have a whole week with Bailey to accustom him to the house. So we went into full-on training mode. We spent that first week leashed together with a 6-foot lead, one end on his harness and one end on a carabiner around my belt loop. Every 90 minutes-thank you, Alexa timer-I took him outside in case he had to use the bathroom. If he did, I loaded him full of treats. He only threw up treats once due to overfeeding. Ooops.

    During our meal times and at night, he was crated. No free roaming was possible, so he learned within about three days where to do his business and where to sleep. By the time I was ready to return to work after Thanksgiving, Bailey was accustomed to the house.

    Accustomed-he conquered it.

    Soon he learned, by the constant bribing with freeze-dried liver treats, to ring a bell hanging from the door handle when he needs to go out. He is a Yorkie, an intelligent and motivated breed, and he learns like a sponge. 

    As long as he is motivated..

    And he has turned out to be Mr. Personality Plus. Boundless energy. Will chase a ball about 30 minutes. A strong chewer, he destroys ropes and Kong toys and squeaky bones and all-but not furniture or shoes or anything of ours.

    Leaps from couch to recliner and back like a gazelle. Accompanies me to grocery pickup on Saturday morning, leaning eagerly toward the window to keep a suspicious eye on every dog we see on the sidewalk.

    And the cats? He gets along with them fine-but he has elected himself as their sheriff. If they growl at each other, Bailey rushes in to break up the alarm, and sends them to their neutral corners. 

       

    So, yes, it is intelligent to have a plan.

    But it is wise, and sometimes more rewarding, to deviate from the plan and follow your heart.