Mutual Rescue

by Shaker BrianWS

I've always wanted a greyhound for as long as I can remember. When I was finishing college at Portland State University in Oregon, I volunteered time with a greyhound rescue group there, but I wasn't ready for a dog at that point in my life. After several years of winding my way around the country, and finally settling back in the Chicago area, I knew I was ready for a dog.

I met Dudley for the first time when I went to visit Liss for a lazy afternoon last spring, and I can confirm that, at that point, it was ALL over for me being without a dog. I work at home in a job that leaves my summer really busy (and frequently takes me to work events outside of the home) and my winter/spring the complete opposite where I'm home all the time—so the transition period of fall was the perfect time to bring home a canine companion. Near the end of my busy season of work, I went to the annual picnic for American Greyhound with Liss, the rescue from which she and Iain had adopted Dudz, so I could meet the dogs available for adoption.

I had my heart set on getting a black female greyhound. Doing research on the website before the picnic (i.e. endlessly mooning over dog pictures), I fell in love with a black female greyhound. I checked her page daily to see if she had been adopted yet, and, much to my dismay (for me) and happiness (for her), she was soon adopted. But I was just SURE that I wanted to bring a black female greyhound home with me. I even had this brilliant plan to name my new female dog Paget (after Paget Brewster from Criminal Minds). I kept checking the website.


About three weeks before the picnic, I saw this picture posted for a fawn male named "Adam."

I fell in love immediately. He looked like such a lovable and happy dog, but there was something about the expression on his face and in his eyes that just overwhelmed me and made me feel like he needed a forever home so badly.

At the picnic I met several dogs, all of whom were great and friendly, including "Adam" who seemed exceedingly disinterested in me. Then, right as we were about to leave, his foster family was getting ready to take their gaggle of dogs out for a walk, and they asked if I wanted to walk him and get to know him. As I wandered with him around the grounds, they told me all about him. Their stories about his quirks and personality made my heart warm. After a short walk, I knew—this was my dog.

(I had, however, been so set on my vision of a black female named Paget after Paget Brewster for so long, that during one of my regular phone calls with Liss, rambling about dogs and boys—like always!—I said something to the effect of, "Liss, I HAVE to bring a female home or I can't name her Paget! I wouldn't even know what to name a boy!" To which she replied: "What about Brewster?" End. Of. Story.)

Between the picnic and the time I actually adopted, I was in touch with the rescue organization, and whether my perception was right or wrong, I got the feeling that they were trying to steer me toward another dog in which I had shown interest—a five-year old black female named "Heather." Though that was all I ever wanted earlier, I had fallen for "Adam," and knew that I wanted to bring him home instead.

In conversations with Liss about feeling pressured toward another dog, she gave me some of the best advice about adopting my dog (because she's basically a dog whisperer...seriously). She told me: "Make sure you get the dog YOU want. When something goes wrong—and it will—you don't want to wonder if you got the right dog. You want to be sure that's YOUR dog, without a doubt, because it is just going to make all the difference when zie pees on the carpet."

I took that to heart, and I applied to adopt "Adam," and that advice couldn't have turned out any better.

I made sure that I got MY dog, and, yes, I knew he was going to make mistakes, fuck things up, pee in places I didn't want him to, and he has—starting with Liss' living room rug about a half hour after I adopted him! (Portly was visiting and immediately cleaned it up, since Liss was then immobile, over my profuse apologies and embarrassment.) But it spoke strongly to the words that were stuck in my head. And because he's so my dog, I've never had a moment of doubt that rescuing him was the right decision.

Brewster came home with me just a bit more than a month ago, and he also peed in my apartment the first day he got here (though he's yet to do it again). And it's taken him plenty of time to get used to being an "only dog," as this is his first time without other dogs around in his entire life. He's been working through some pretty severe separation anxiety at being left alone in his crate when I leave the apartment, but we've been working hard on it and he's improved every day.

But the bigger point is that when he does things that he shouldn't do, when he's struggling at learning to live a brand new life in a world that's so much bigger than a crate at the dog track, I'm willing to be his partner on this journey, knowing the challenges will pay off down the road if I refuse to give up on him. Just like me, he fucks up sometimes. It's not malicious—and in his faults and occasional "bad behavior" I continue to learn lessons, about him and about myself.

Brewster isn't perfect. No dog is. But he's perfect for me.

On his first day home, after plenty of confusion and whining, he was kind enough to pose for this picture—it's cute, and he's handsome, but he wasn't the dog I knew he would become. It was easy to see on his face and in his body language that he wasn't entirely comfortable or at ease.

Several weeks later, he's a completely different dog. He greets me with more happiness every morning than I've ever experienced from a dog in my life. Some people may think that applying human emotions to animals is folly, but Brewster just seems thankful. He's warm, friendly, and will do anything if anyone is willing to pet his head or his ears. His war wounds from the track include a crooked tail and scars on the sides of his body and his legs—but that's just what they are, wounds from a past time in his life. One he never has to return to.

He's at ease and comfortable with his new home now. He's come to love the chaise portion of our sectional sofa where he likes to sleep, and roach, and roach while he sleeps.

Now when he looks up at me from the floor for a photo, his ears are perked, the emptiness in his incredibly expressive eyes is gone. He's at home and he knows it. And he's made both me and this home better because of it.

Just yesterday at the dog park, as all of the other dogs were running around playing, Brewster left the game of chase to come stand by me and get his ears pet. Another dog owner who had been asking about him earlier turned to me and said, "Your dog just loves you SO much."

And I him. Blub.

Brewster.