How I Met My Other: Furry Friends, True Tails: Furry Friends, True Tails

Dedication

To Maddux, the bestest boy, for always being sunny no matter how much it rains

and

To Lui, for all the kisses and cuddles. We miss you

Acknowledgements

I would first like to thank my husband, Tim, for capitulating to my incessant requests for a puppy when we were dating. I love our puppykins and couldn’t imagine life without him. To Luke and Caleb, you are wonderful brothers to your furry sibling. He loves you almost as much as lizards a nd cheese.

I also want to thank the contributing authors. Without you all, this book wouldn’t have been possible. You are an amazingly talented group of people, and I am honored to share your stories here. Please keep writing and gifting the world with your words.

Valerie Willis was the incredible formatter for this book, as well as several of my others. Thank you for putting up with me and making all my projects better with your personal touch. You truly are a wonder woman.

Introduction

Pets give us the purest form of love. They stay by our sides no matter what we look like or experience. Day in and day out, they’re always there. They also give us joy, great big belly laughs and little chuckles of delight. Pets are our strength when we’re feeling low, hold us up during difficult times, and give us something to come home to everyday. We cherish memories of them for decades, waiting for the day we’ll be reunited.

Sometimes we find them in shelters or get them from friends. Other times they find us, wandering into our lives when we weren’t even looking. Either way, they impact us forever. It’s time to celebrate the furry friends in our lives. This book is a love letter to all those incredible animals who share our homes and our hearts.

The Fox and the Hound

By Kristin Durfee

She stares at me, unblinking, as the small creature bites her neck. And feet. And ears. And tail.

Weren’t we perfectly happy, you and I? she asks me with her eyes.

Baby girl, I say, kissing her three times behind the ear. This is going to be so much fun. You’re my best friend and now I got you a best friend—a little brother!

Her eyes narrow in annoyance as the little one bites on her lip and hangs there, his little nubby tail going a mile a minute.

I never planned on having a two-dog house. My husband had clamored for another pet for years, but I’d always fought it.

We have the most special princess in the whole world. Why do we need another dog? That was my argument.

Okay, I think highly of my dog, but it’s true! Newport is incredible. A hound-dog mutt of unknown origin whom we rescued from a puppy mill in Tennessee when her litter was only two weeks old. She came to us knowing a handful of tricks, and she quickly mastered more. Our first year went smoothly. We powered through the training, and while she had some tummy issues, Newport was the perfect puppy.

Then, at Christmas, she ate every ornament on our tree.

I guess we can’t all be perfect.

Our Grinch dog brought us joy for the next few years. We ran, went on walks, swam, and hiked in Georgia and in the Ocala National Forest.

Each Christmas she ate every ornament she could get her paws on, but really, I can overlook a single fault that comes only a few weeks of the year.

As my husband and I worked, we worried Newport was lonely at home all day by herself. Plus, we were planning to add a two-legged kid to our mix and didn’t want her to feel neglected when the baby arrived.

I began to warm up to the idea of another dog when I walked into my local PetSmart to get Newport some food.

There he was.

When I tell you this dog was stinking cute, it’s an understatement. Kids surrounded his crate, reaching their fingers in, and his eyes closed in pleasure as he pushed into them, trying to get as close as possible. He looked like a miniature, tail-less German Shephard and was aptly named Foxie. I immediately fell in love and sent a picture of him to my husband, who was traveling for work. He responded instantly.

Get him.

Babe, I wrote back, you aren’t even home. Don’t you want to meet him?

Just get him.

Heart racing, I found the lady from the rescue and pointed out the perfect little gentleman now staring at me with straight-up ears.

He’d been at their rescue for a few months, and while he was available for adoption, there was a catch: he was positive for heartworms.

I’d worked at a vet’s office all through high school and part of college, so I knew how dangerous the treatments could be. There was a chance he wouldn’t make it. I told her we were interested anyway and said I’d be back the following week with my husband to fill out the paperwork and pay the adoption fee. Foxie was a risk we were willing to bet on.

A few weeks later, we got the call that he’d completed his treatment and could come home with us. The adventure was about to begin.

Which, of course, meant I now had to prepare myself for having another dog. Flashbacks of potty training and sleepless nights raced through my mind. Having a pet is totally worth it in my book, but holy cow it can be difficult sometimes. Here I was with my nice, stable life, about to jump into the uncertainty with two feet. I was apprehensive, but kept reminding myself this little dog needed a home, and we’d all figure it out together.

Plus, he was so cute. Like, literally the cutest thing. But what he had in looks, we soon learned he matched in fear of the world. We knew nothing about his background except that he was running loose on the streets of Alabama when they rescued him. They guessed he was about a year old, but other than that, he was a mystery.

Not that we thought it would be an easy transition, but we weren’t quite prepared for the uphill battle we were about to embark on. Everything outside scared him. If he got too close to a fire hydrant, he’d slip out of his collar and try to run home. If a loud truck rumbled down the road, he’d leap into my arms. Manhole covers clearly led straight to a cavernous abyss that ate dogs and had to be given a wide berth.

Foxie expressed his anxiety indoors by eating anything he could. Once, I came home and discovered he’d removed all the laundry from our baskets, sorted them into nests, and ripped apart a few odds and ends. He cowered in the corner, trembling so badly I didn’t even have the heart to yell at him.

When my husband came home from work a few hours later and I showed him the carnage, he walked up to Foxie to admonish him, but was also faced with the fearful creature I’d witnessed.

Oh bud, he said and turned to me. How do we yell at him?

I shrugged. Just as it had worked for us when we were kids, apparently the disappointment card was enough to send this poor little dog into a tailspin. If you spoke sternly or wagged a finger at him, his ears would flatten and a sad little grin would spread on his face. He was off the hook, for now, but we soon realized what we’d previously had to deal with in a few destroyed ornaments was nothing compared to what Foxie had in store.

A short, incomplete, tally of the things Foxie had eaten:

- four dog beds (all Newport’s)

- the tongues of three running shoes

- at least ten books

- a welcome mat

- a TempurPedic pillow

- a bra

- two dog beds (his)

- an area rug

- I’m sure another dog bed I’ve forgotten about

Each time I came home, Newport greeted me at the door, groveling and apologizing for what her brother had done. I’d find Foxie hiding in a corner, shaking violently in fear and anticipation of punishment. I worried something terrible must have happened to him.

Some days I thought someone had physically hurt him. Other days, I wondered if he lived an isolated life and was so fearful of the world because he was never desensitized to it.

Whatever the case, he now had a loving home, even if he broke my heart a little when he ate stuff I cared about.

As time went on, we got into a rhythm. Foxie’s house privileges were given and taken away (see note above on items he’d eaten), but he was folding nicely into our family. Newport, however, still had her doubts.

She would play with him a bit at night, some tug-of-war or chase, and she’d greet him when we returned from work and let him out of his crate. Still, I’m not convinced she was entirely sold. She would sleep innocently on the couch, and Foxie would slowly creep over. He’d spin a few times in a circle and lie down partly on top of her. She’d open an eye, promptly get off the couch, and with an audible sigh, lie down on the floor.

She might be a saint, but everyone has their limits. Snuggling was not going to happen.

But she was still game to be on our team as we strove to show Foxie the ways of the world, and how all of it wasn’t so scary. We walked him in a harness so he couldn’t escape from us, did longer and longer walks, and calmly talked to him when a monster showed up. We gave him treats and huge hugs and kisses any time he was brave.

He didn’t try to leap into my arms when the trash truck went by today! I’d exclaim when we’d get home.

Only tried to walk under Newport to hide twice, my husband would say.

Bit by bit, day by day, it got better. He could now go on walks without crawling out of his skin at every loud noise. On the rare occasion when we didn’t keep him in the bathroom while we were away, he still ate stuff. But overall, he’d settled in nicely.

But as Foxie’s world smoothed out, our personal world felt like a roller coaster ride.

After years of trying, it became clear birthing a child wasn’t in the cards for my husband and me. It was a blow, one that I got through by crying many tears into the furry necks of two loving dogs.

Full disclosure though: Newport is way better at comfort than Foxie is. If she hears someone crying, she comes to sit in your lap, and stoically sops up as many tears as you can spill. She doesn’t move a muscle until you’re done. Her empathy is astounding.

Foxie, on the other hand, sees Newport getting attention and promptly starts biting her. Then he licks your face. Then he wriggles between you and Newport, pushing her out of the way. To say he’s jealous is a gross understatement.

In his own way, though, Foxie turns tears to laughter in his desperate attempt for attention. Newport gives him the side eye, trying to convey the important work she’s doing. Have I mentioned before that she’s the best?

I’d kiss Newport the contractually-obligated three times behind the ear and tell her she’s a good girl. That, of course, drives Foxie even more insane.

When we decided to pursue adoption, it came with its own ups and downs and stresses. It took longer than our lawyer led us to expect to be matched with a birth mother. We finally found a match, but when the baby was born, the mother changed her mind and decided to keep him.

I came home from work that day and hugged Newport, crying into her neck. Foxie came and sat in my lap, and we all clung to each other. The dogs, having no idea why but sensing I needed them, absorbed my pain without demanding an explanation.

We were quickly matched a second time and when the long-awaited phone call came to announce our son’s impending arrival, we knew a lengthy, out-of-state trip was in store for us. We made appointments at our local kennel for both dogs to stay. We weren’t sure how long we would be gone, and we packed a month’s worth of food for them, just in case.

Dropping them off, I did the totally embarrassing mom thing and showered them with kisses. Newport got way more than her allotted three. Then we took off on our next new adventure.

Little can prepare you for being thrown into the deep end with a newborn. But our dogs did give us insight on caring for someone when you can’t tell exactly what they need. As we adjusted to our temporary home-away-from-home—a hotel two thousand miles away—a softening was happening a few hundred miles away.

The kennel was attentive and sent us updates and photos of our dogs. They said the dogs were getting along great, which I only partly believed, since I knew Foxie would hone in on any space Newport occupied.

Two weeks later, we got on an airplane with a baby so young, we needed a doctor’s note to let us travel. Deep end, here we come.

The flight went off without a hitch, and we were itching to bring the dogs home as quickly as possible. They burst through the door of our house, running around like they thought they’d been forgotten (sob). Suddenly, Newport stood stock still.

She smelled the air and followed the scent to the dining room table, which held an infant carrier with an actual infant in it. I lowered it to the ground, and Foxie naturally scurried for cover. My heart swelled as Newport stuck her head right in to meet our son.

The mother hen took up her new charge instantly, following us around anytime we walked from room to room, laying by the porta-crib, and right by my side anytime he cried. During moments when she could sense my frustration as a new parent, she’d press against my legs or come sit in my lap. She knew just what I needed.

As much as she blossomed into my support buddy, what really surprised me was later one day when I walked by one of the beds Foxie had yet to destroy (key word: yet). Are you familiar with the concept of locking two fighting kids in a room until they get along? Well, it also works with dogs.

They were lying next to each other in the bed. TOUCHING!

Our kiddo wasn’t the only miracle in our house.

Maybe our two weeks away made Newport realize Foxie wasn’t so bad. Or maybe she felt abandoned and had to suck it up and hang out with this crazy little dude. Either way, she finally gave in. My already full heart spilled over.

It took a bit longer to get the hang of this new routine. I amused the neighbors in those first few weeks, a baby strapped to my chest and one dog leash in each hand. I’d perfected the art of cleaning up after the dogs without us all toppling over. I started running with the baby at the various trails in our area, a much-needed bit of normalcy in what sometimes felt like a Groundhog Day routine. Wake, eat, diaper change, sleep. Repeat.

But magically one day the routine became more predictable. Our outings got longer, I got more comfortable, and our rhythm became comfortable again.

And after a few months when the small human figured out how to throw a ball, it was all over. Newport was in heaven.

Our first Christmas as a family of five, not looking to push our luck, we skipped the Christmas tree. To make up for it, we did our first family picture for our holiday cards. We packed everyone up in the car and headed to a local museum with a beautiful lakeside sculpture garden. The light faded through the Spanish moss that draped over the old oak trees, and we got the perfect picture. Somehow, everyone looked at the camera when the shutter clicked.

I turned to my husband, head shaking.

Can you believe it?

Huh? he asked.

Newport and I used to run here all the time. Did you ever think we’d be back here with another dog and kid in tow?

He shook his head. Me either.

When we lived downtown, I’d always wanted—but had never been able to pull off—a picture of Newport posing with the dog sculpture in that park. Our now nine-month-old was close to losing it on this outing, but my perfect little angel dog, channeling her inner model, posed perfectly for the exact shot I wanted.

It hasn’t been an easy road, and I know the path in front of us will have its own bumps, but there’s no other crew I’d like to travel it with.

It’s been almost eleven years since we brought Newport home as a little puppy. We’ve been through a lot together, and I like to think that if we had the chance to do it all again, she’d agree in an instant, wagging her tail with a wide, happy smile on her face.

Sometimes at night when the kiddo has gone to bed and Foxie is outside and it’s just me and Newport sitting on the couch, I’ll catch her looking at me.

We were happy before, weren’t we? she seems to ask me.

We were baby girl, but think about how much happier we are now.

And I swear she glares at me just a little bit as I kiss her three times behind the ear.

The Cat Burglar

By M.R. Shorey

My cat is sick and I’m worried about him. Time for a visit to the vet. Oh boy, here comes a clash of wills. We’ve been together for fifteen years. He’s my most loyal friend, my best listener, and my lap warmer. We communicate all the time in our own special way, keep each other company, know each other’s moods, and never fight. Yes, our wills clash occasionally (like they’re about to), but that’s rare. We’ve lasted longer and much more pleasantly than either of my marriages, for gosh sake!

As soon as the vet’s office opens, I call for an appointment. His very efficient receptionist answers, and after swapping hellos, I give her the symptoms. He’s feverish and has a wet cough. I’d like the vet to take a look at him.

Is he panting? she interrupts.

Off and on, and he makes a wheezing sound.

"What about eating, drinking?

He turns his nose up at food, but he’s drinking as usual. I don’t mention that he drinks water from the toilet every time I flush it, thirsty or not. Must be something about cold running water.

His nose? she continues.

Dry and hot.

I’m used to her rapid-fire question-answer conversations. She needs to know what to relay to the vet. I expect to be put on hold while she checks with him, but am startled when she immediately tells me: Bring him right in. We’ll take a look at him.

It must be serious.

I hang up the phone to take my cat in, but he is gone! Something in his feline brain says go hide whenever he hears the word vet. He never hides long. I wait around tapping my foot with impatience, then decide to pull the flushing toilet trick on him. Sure enough, after a few flushes, he comes into the bathroom and I nab him.

While sitting in the waiting room, my mind wanders back to the time my cat and I first met those fifteen years ago.

It was a beautiful morning at the house I lived in then. I had been sitting in a creaky wooden rocker on the back porch, skin cooled by the light breeze, hands warmed by a hot cup of fresh coffee. It was the best part of the day. In the high humidity of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, it was the only reasonably cool time. And the sounds—all tied together by the rhythmic creak of the rocker, the diminishing wake up calls of the birds, the traffic noises from the front of the house punctuated by the clip-clop of the horses pulling Amish buggies.

The peace of the morning shattered when a strange movement through the foliage at the back of the yard attracted my eyes like a magnet. I sat bolt upright to watch more closely. Yesterday, a badger had walked right up on this very porch. It could be returning. They’re mean, vicious animals with evil tempers and claws as sharp as razors. I froze, hardly breathing, my eyes tracking the moving leaves. Whatever the creature, it moved in my direction. And then I saw it—one little kitten’s front paw. I sighed with relief. Then the paw lifted slowly, like a kitten on the hunt. Then I saw the other front paw, then a back paw, then the other back paw. Though I watched until the coffee mug had turned cold in my hands, that’s all I saw of him that first time—four little paws.

It turned out those four little paws belonged to the Bailey’s new kitten. They were the tenants who lived in the side apartment. I didn’t mind the cat part. I told them it was fine when they asked if they could get one, but I wondered how they’d fit the added cost of a cat in their budget when they already had trouble paying rent.

As the weeks went by, so did the kitten, now grown into adolescence. Though I greeted him whenever I caught sight of him, he never warmed up to me. His eyes only showed mild curiosity.

One evening when I was sitting in the rocker, Ivette and Jason Ostrander who lived two houses down, came running onto the porch, all upset. They both started at once:

It’s the Baileys’ cat. He just got hit by a truck—right in front of your house.

We saw it happen! He’s hurt!

And he just kept on running, headed into your back yard.

Can we go look for him there?

Oh, no! No, I mean yes, I said. Of course look for him. I’ll help. We’ll find him faster with the three of us checking. Did you tell the Baileys?

We tried, but they’re not home.

Okay, I answered. I’ll start under the front porch and work my way back. You two start in the back and work your way forward. We’ll meet in the middle and check the outhouse and garage together.

And so we looked for nearly two hours but hadn’t found a trace of him.

I can hardly see my own feet, I said as I gave in to the fading light. And I’m afraid of stepping on the little guy—especially if he’s hurt too much to get out of the way in time.

You’re right. It’s safer for him if we stop for now, the Ostranders answered, finishing each other’s sentences.

The next morning I pulled out to go to work and spotted Jason.

I see the Baileys are home, he told me. I thought I’d drop in and let them know about their cat and help look for it.

Thanks, Jason. Let me know what’s going on when I get home, I said as I drove off to work.

When I returned that evening, neither the Ostranders nor the Baileys were home. I optimistically figured they had found the cat and taken him to the vet. But just in case that wasn’t so, I decided to do a little poking around before preparing dinner. I checked out the best hiding places, taking my time in some old storage boxes when . . .

Grrr! Pfft! Yeow!

I had found the Baileys’ cat—a very angry cat. Poor thing. I caught a fleeting glance of him scrunched in the back-most corner of the box, his ears flattened back and every piece of fur sticking straight out from his teenage body. He must be badly hurt, or he would have run off to a safer place.

By a long stretch of the imagination, one might call that meeting a cat, but this cat absolutely did not consider it a meeting: it was a confrontation. I walked away slowly, talking to him in what I thought to be calming tones. "It’s okay, fella. I’ll put a note on your folks’ door so they can come