It's A Ten

My dog, Lance, turned ten-years-old on July 14th – Bastille Day. I was somewhat in denial about the whole thing because the higher his age ticks up, the less time I have with him. Lance is, without a doubt, the best dog I’ll ever have. Knowing that all the dogs after him will be great, fabulous dogs is still somewhat hard to swallow because the bar has been set so high.

And I’m as equally devoted to Lance as he is to me.

Lance came into my life the way any younger man does… sad brown eyes and a sob story that tugged at the heartstrings. Let me tell you, am I a sucker for the underdog! And yes, pun intended, so stop groaning. But people who meet Lance now-a-days can still see shadows of who he might have once been, but really – who Lance is now and who Lance once was is night and day.

Lance, short for Lancelot… because Arthurian literature has the best names for pets, was a severely abused puppy when a Humane Officer from the Humane Society of Missouri picked him up. His life had been spent living in a backyard with no shelter and hardly any sustenance. In fact, it was his lack of food that caused a neighbor to put in a call for animal neglect.

The Humane Officer actually had to go by the house where the neighbors said the abused puppy lived several times. The little brown and black puppy had tucked himself into a hollow by the back porch steps and blended right into the dirt yard. But a bit of movement on the last visit caught her eye.

Knocking on the door, she told the family that she was taking the dog in, pending the results of the allegations of animal neglect. The family protested, to which they were told that if they willing gave up the dog, it would cost them $35.00, but if they fought and it turned out that there was neglect, it could cost them upwards of $250.00.

They gave up Lance willingly.

The cage card for Lance said Mohammed when I first met him. Such a strange name for a scrawny puppy, but the Humane Officer told me that it was either Mohammed… or Killer. And she said that there was no way she could put Killer down as his name.

Lance hadn’t been fed for four days when he was picked up. Four months old and only weighing 12 pounds, he was severely underweight and had a slight case of rickets.

He also had no soul left.

I won’t get into the existential argument of animals having souls, because I believe that being able to communicate and express emotion are the building blocks of what comprises a soul, but Lance didn’t car if he lived or died. I would pick him up and he would drape himself on me. Not drape as in clingy, but drape as in wilted.

He hid in the back of his cage, piling up the bedding in front of him to act as a barrier between himself and the rest of the world. But I would have none of that. Not to be biased, but he was too good looking of a dog to not fall in love with. And really, abused animals can become untrustworthy. There was none of that in Lance. He was a dried up little sponge, just waiting to be rehydrated with love.

And I loved him as hard as I could. Multiple trips outside housebroke him within a week. And if I got busy and missed a trip, he would potty in the far corner of the cage. I taught him to sit and shake. I wanted him to become adoptable.

Wasn’t happening.

He was terrified of everyone else but me. No one else could go near him without shaking like a leaf. I was told over and over again that if I didn’t take him, Lance would get put down.

I made a decision. I brought him home for my Mom. It had been a few years since we had had a dog and I knew she needed a companion. A quiet, gentle dog for my quiet, gentle mother… What could be a better combination?

Well, the only thing better would have been if Mom had wanted a dog. She refused to come out of her room to see him, completely breaking my heart. But back Lance went to the shelter.

Immediately, I started thinking about how to save Lance. Lightbulb moment – move out and get an apartment that took dogs.

Mom ended up seeing Lance about a month or so later and FELL IN LOVE WITH HIM. I mean, it was almost disgusting how much Mom loved him. He was perfect for her. Sat by her side. Shook hands with her. Let her rub his chest.

Mom got Lance. Not only had he been neglected with no food for days on end, but a five-year-old boy who lived with his original owners used to punch Lance in the head. There had to have been yelling, too, because Lance still cowers at elevated voices. And Lance hates baseball caps. Something there, too.

Dad never got Lance. Head rubs were the way you showed affection towards dogs. And Dad was excitable and would raise his voice often, sending Lance running for cover.

But it was like a grandchild visiting. Bring the little lover boy and then take him home at the end of the day.

Which was fine because there was no mistaking whose dog Lance was.

I moved back home two years later to take care of my ailing parents. Lance was with my Mom when she died and was elemental in getting me through that tough time. Lance would go with me to visit Dad in the nursing home. I took him to restaurants that had outdoor seating. I took him to friends’ houses. We went to obedience training.

He ended up failing the Canine Good Citizenship test because he loved the other dogs too much. But really, I never saw that as a detriment. Lance IS love.

In fact, as a reward for his years of devotion, I got him a sister. Now, there are those of you who know Lainey and will argue that Lance was not rewarded but penalized. Yes, yes. I know. But they are faithful companions.

Just learn from my mistake and don’t get a Border Collie as a pet. They need to be working dogs. Anything less and you and the dog will want to kill each other.

I mean it.

Seriously.

But now that Lance is ten, I reflect back upon the years with affection and a bit of melancholy. I mean, he’s closer to his death than his birth. But I am a better person for having Lance in my life.

And there is no better dog than Lance for me.