Rambling on about My Wonky Little Furry Family….

I am dog people. Always have been. Not “I like dogs” people. Not “aw, what a cute puppy” people. I mean dog people—the kind who can spot a mutt across a parking lot and immediately begin wondering about his backstory, his snack preferences, and whether he has ever been told, properly and often, that he is a very good boy.

I have had many dogs and, at times, only one. Big dogs, little dogs, and beautifully in-between dogs. Dogs with tidy pedigrees and dogs with biographies that seem to begin, mysteriously, somewhere near a ditch, a rainstorm, or a gas station biscuit. This morning, trying to decide what makes a dog special, I found myself thinking about the three mutts currently running my life with all the authority of a board of directors.

Someone asked me this week, “Are your dogs service dogs?” I work at Tru by Hilton, so I see people traveling with their dogs all the time—some official, some not, most of them just mutts. But “just” is a word that does not belong anywhere near a dog. Every dog is carrying something… a person’s routine, grief, laughter, loneliness, safety, history, or maybe just a squeaky toy that has seen better days.

First there is Tebow, my 17-year-old rat terrier and the last of the line my husband and I raised. Let me say that again… he is the last of the line. The Michael line of dogs in my life. That sentence carries weight. It has pawprints embedded in it.

Tebow has always been a quiet soul, a little standoffish, as if he suspects affection is fine but should be handled with a certain amount of dignity. I have known him since the day he was born, and now I am his caretaker as he grows old. There is something holy and hard about that. He began as one of the babies, and now he is the elder statesman, the small dog with the big memories, still convinced he is in charge.

Then there is Jake, my 8-year-old Lab-and-bulldog mix. Jake arrived on my doorstep as a tiny, bloated, starving, flea-infested ball of fur, someone’s castoff who somehow followed the sound of my dogs and found his way to us. He came starving and lost but whining and begging for pets and hugs. Naturally, he stayed.

Jake is my protector. He rules the acres and keeps the squirrels, armadillos, raccoons, and rabbits on their toes. No one is coming inside my gates to get me without Jake knowing. He has a wonky eye that makes him look like he is staring you down with the full authority of a sheriff in an old Western. He is my snake killer, my warning system, and my large, lopsided security department.

And yet this mighty guardian will not eat unless I sit with him and talk to him. Yes, I know. Crazy. But love is often a little ridiculous when it is doing its best work.

And then there is Jetson, my 3-ish-year-old Chihuahua mix, who came running under my gate two years ago this month like Bigfoot or a bear—or maybe both—was chasing him. He was skinny, flea-infested, afraid to be touched, and somehow even more afraid of going back to wherever he had come from.

In three days, he chose me. Not politely. Not gradually. He simply made himself at home, as if he had reviewed the property, the menu, and the emotional availability of the staff and decided this would do nicely.

Jetson’s face is a little wonky, kind of crooked, like God was smiling while He finished the details. He is my Velcro dog… under me, behind me, beside me, attached to my every step. But he has also breathed life into Tebow. Before Jetson came, Tebow seemed to be cycling down after losing the rest of his pack mates. There had been eleven of them once, yes, I know… crazy dog lady. Tebow was the youngest, and then he was the last. But after Jetson arrived, Tebow took an upswing, as if this crooked-faced little comet reminded him there was still a pack to boss around. But don’t tell Jetson that, he thinks Tebow is playing with him or trying to rule over him or kill him.

They are all unique in their own way, and somehow, they fit together in a motley, wonky crew kind of way. Tebow is standoffish but still believes, as the smallest, that he is the leader. Jake watches the gate with that hard wonky-eyed stare and makes sure the wild kingdom understands we have boundaries. Jetson follows me so closely I sometimes suspect he is trying to attach himself to my ankle.

This trio keeps me moving and doing. They give me purpose in ordinary ways. Food bowls, gates, flea medicine, vet visits, muddy pawprints, and the daily negotiations over who gets to sit where. But they also love me in the extraordinary way dogs do—without punctuation, without conditions, without needing me to explain myself first.

They are my emotional support mutts, and I am their emotional support person. That may not fit neatly on a form, but it fits perfectly in my life. We are a blended family of unconditional love, silly antics, strange faces, old bones, crooked grins, and second chances.

Maybe that is what makes them special. Not that they are polished. Not that they are perfect. Not that they came with papers or titles or a clear explanation. They are special because they are mine, and because I am theirs. They read my feelings, and I read theirs. We take care of each other.

And truthfully, I am a bit wonky too. Maybe that is why we all fit: one old man, one gatekeeper, one little bolt of lightning, and me…four odd little hearts making a home out of rescue, routine, and love.

Jake the Gatekeeper

Tebow the Old Man

Jetson the Velcro mutt