The sound of children playing trickles into our morning sleep through the screened window. Dayz, our newly acquired rescue dog, timidly puts her small paws on the sill, her nose trying to push through the bottom of the blinds. She whines, her tail wagging. A child’s voice squeals louder.
Dayz bolts to the stairs and down the steps. We hear her urgent scratching on our front door and I follow, throwing on clothes quickly, positive Dayz is warning us of an impending doggie accident. However, I soon realize Dayz’s urgency is about the children.
Tugging at the leash, she stops within a few inches of a young boy and girl.
The boy reaches to touch Dayz. While the children show their delight through petting hands, Dayz’s eagerness for contact soon turns to disinterest and she moves away. These are not her children; family members of her life before she came under the care of the Dumb Friend’s League, a Denver animal shelter.
I always thought the name Dumb Friends was a poor marketing choice for a pet adoption agency. Who wants a dumb pet? The name however, is aptly chosen.
Dumb Friends does not refer to the intellectual capacity of the thousands of dogs and cats that pass through its doors, but the inability for the animals to communicate through language with humans. What my husband and I have come to learn through living with Dayz, is the significance of being dumb. Any animal that has been lost, abandon or given up for adoption comes with feelings, and memories about its former life whether good or bad that are carried, like a secret locket picture, within each pet.
We knew immediately because of the note card of information provided by DFL that Dayz came from a loving home. The hand written note told us that the family home had gone into foreclosure and it was a painful choice to give up Dayz. The details about her craving long walks, kissing with sloppy licks, loving children and getting along with the family cat gave us information that helped with understanding her habits and behaviors. What it did not do was help us know exactly the depth of her pain in losing her family. Because she could not tell us herself about her former life, beyond the note card, we have only been able to piece it together through her actions.
We know she slept with her family because she believes beds belong to her.
We know her owners went through the McDonald drive-through because it is the only time her head reaches over the driver’s shoulder from the back seat. We know she misses the cat because she tries desperately to make friends with cats, having earned the trust of one that lives next door. When walking in the park, she will stop to watch a tall man getting into a truck along the street. She keeps her distance from babies waiting for permission to approach while always going up to little girls with long hair. With these clues, we try and form a perception of her former life.
Dayz has been with us now for five years. Her former family had her for four and half years. She is our cherished pet who we like to feel is one of the lucky rescue dogs that has been loved by two families. However, we know we can’t have a literal conversation on this subject. We can’t talk to her about the countless animals that have no background information and are taken in by shelters throughout Colorado. Nor can we discuss how these organizations, including many volunteers, work to bridge that communication gap as best they can with a gentle hand, kind words and a hopeful heart that a new home and life will be found for these animals. Like so many other owners of adopted cats and dogs, our hope for our dumb friends is that we can soften any sense of pain or loss from a former life with the love of a new one.
Renee Farrar is a retired English teacher and lives in Lakewood.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This is an online-only column and has not been edited.
