This story begins in early April 2009.
Partnering with my then 9 year old grandson, Nick, we adopted a small terrier from the county pound . We named her Fifi, and for us, she turned out to be the dog from hell. Although she was 3 or 4 years old, we were unsuccessful in getting her to be a pet.
- She would not be house trained,
- On the end of a leash, she emulated a frenzied, snarling tiger/cobra; and,
- She broke away to chase cars at every opportunity, surviving two or three near misses and causing both family and car drivers to have heart palpitations and increase their numbers of grey hairs.
By the end of three months, we decided Fifi needed a different living situation than we could give he. The longer she was with us so close to a busy street, the quicker the chances she would be hit by a car would turn from possibility to probability.
The original idea for having a dog was for Nick to train her and for me to have company in the house and a companion to take on walks and outings. After much discussion and soul searching, it was decided a return to the pound was not the best option for Fifi to have a life, since she could be euthanized if she wasn’t adopted. We decided to apply to get her into Miranda’s Rescue so she could be “re-housed.” We applied during a very slow time for dog adoptions and spent a good three months on the waiting list.During the tense long waiting period, I lived in trepidation of disaster happening and what that would do to my grandson. Finally, Fifi went to Miranda’s. My relief was great. We escaped with no horrible accidents to us or the animal, and I swore I would never go through such a thing again. I resigned myself to remembering the wonderful standard poodle mother and I had during the ’90s and early 2000s, and to not having a little doggie for company.Then, toward the end of 2009, I found myself again reading ads for pets to adopt. . .