Shiloh’s story, Part 1

“Tell me a story,” Shiloh says.

“No,” I reply without looking at her. “I’m reading email right now.”

She starts to pant, partly because it’s a side effect of the prednisone, partly to let me know she won’t be dismissed that easily, but mostly because she’s a dog.

“I need to see what’s on sale at Staples this week,” I tell her.

She wiggles closer to me. I point at the screen. “If I take this coupon to Staples before Friday, it says the final cost of a ream of paper will be just one cent.”

She sighs, lifts her big blocky head and drops it on my thigh.

I ruffle the top of her head between her ears. “You know that gets me every time,” I say. She gazes up at me with those expressive amber-brown eyes that so beautifully match her red-fawn coat.

“Tell me a story,” she says.

“If I don’t buy more paper, I can’t print anything, and that includes stories about you.”

“Tell me a story.”

I give in. “Ok, sweetie. I’ll do the right thing and spend quality time with you instead of the internet.”

She nudges my thigh. “And give me a biscuit.”

“No.” I rub both her ears. She turns her head so I can knuckle her right ear the way she really likes.

“Even though you are a goofball,” I say fondly. “I will tell you the story about a petite Dogue de Bordeaux who came from Franklin County, Ohio and lived with Mama Theresa and BaBaLu the Bitchy Bulldog in Chicago, Illinois.”

“That’s me!” says Shiloh.

“That’s right. Then she stayed one night at the Red Roof Inn in Cleveland on her way to upstate New York to live with me and Buster.”

“Buster the French Bulldog who died. Mama Theresa’s Bulldog, Burly, died. Blockhead the French Mastiff just went away at the shelter.”

“And here you are with me, my good girl.”

I start the story the way I always do. “Once upon a time, in the county of Franklin, in the state of Ohio, the dogcatcher was making his rounds. He was searching for the dogs that were lost. He was searching for the dogs that were separated from their people — on purpose or by accident. He was looking for the dogs that were hurt, and the dogs that were hungry. He was looking for those dogs intent on causing mayhem and raising hell. He drove along the rural roads, and he drove through the towns and the villages. He looked up and down the alleyways in the cities.”

“And there I was with mean ol’ Blockhead,” Shiloh says.

“Trotting along the sidewalk behind Blockhead was a petite Dogue de Bordeaux without a name.”

“I shouldn’t of stuck with him,” she says.

“Well, really…” I tell her. “You didn’t want to stay where you were, and when he took off, it made more sense to run after him than to stay with those people. You did the right thing. You just had limited options.

“So the dogcatcher of Franklin County, Ohio, he caught the two French Mastiffs… I like to say your family name two ways. French Mastiff and Dogue de Bordeaux. Did you know that “Dogue” sounds like “dog” in American, but it means “mastiff” in French? So you are a French Mastiff and a Mastiff of Bordeaux. Which is in France. I say ‘two French Mastiffs’ because I am not sure what you have when you have more than one Dogue de Bordeaux. Dogues de Bordeaux? Dogue de Bordeauxes?”

She looks bewildered, so I kiss the top of her head and continue. “At the shelter, all of a sudden, it was just you without Blockhead because they said he had food issues. They decided he was the one that put those tooth marks on your head, that he slit your ear that little bit.”

“I’m not telling,” she says. “But I was pretty scared of him.”

“At the shelter, they gave the petite Dogue de Bordeaux a rabies shot and water in a water dish and food in a food dish and they gave her a pretty name — Jasmine.”

Shiloh stares blankly at me.

“But that wasn’t her name. She didn’t even know what a name was, she couldn’t relate to it. She couldn’t relate to much, there in the shelter, could she? She drank the water okay, but she couldn’t eat the food because she was afraid of the food dish. She was afraid when anybody walked towards her with food in their hands.”

“How’d you know that?” Shiloh asks me like she always does. “You didn’t see me there. I didn’t see you.”

“I’m telling the story here,” I say. “And it goes like this… The petite Bordeaux, or Jasmine as she was being called, hid in the dark at the back of the pen. She wouldn’t come out for treats or biscuits. Every day, she got skinnier and skinnier and sadder and sadder. The shelter people gave her a bath and petted her and tempted her with the most amazing treats. But she could only slink away and drool. And shiver.

“ ‘Cheer up,’ the people said. ‘Cheer up, nobody wants a sad sack.’ Jasmine didn’t know what they meant. Because, you see, at the old place, if she ate any of those treats, she would get hit hard. Sometimes she was so hungry that she had to eat any food they held out, even when she knew she would get hit.”

“But look at me now,” says Shiloh. “Look at me now. I ate that biscuit from the cashier at PetSmart. I ate it right up. And then I sat down and looked at him for more.”

“And when he wasn’t giving you any more, what happened, my little piggy? You see the next guy in line pulling out his wallet, and you think he’s producing your next biscuit. So you go towards him and look up at him so hopefully. You are such a goofball.”

I pat her flank.

“You’re not fat,” I say. “You just get greedy sometimes. But enough bragging and let me finish the story,” I said. “Because in the story you’re still named Jasmine and you’re still in Ohio.”

She shakes her head, stretching out her front paws and lolling onto her right side so I can reach her tummy. I stroke her soft belly quietly. My nose tingles. A wash of emotion crests and breaks across my chest. She lifts her head to look at me.

“Oh, sweetie,” I say. “I just remembered the first time you went to sleep here in the living room with me. I would sit on the low futon with Buster the French Bulldog and you always laid on the floor. I was patting you gently with one hand and petting Buster with the other while reading something online. Suddenly there was a new soft noise coming from you. I leaned over to see you asleep, just barely snoring. You know what I did then?”

Shiloh waits. She knows I’ll be answering my own question.

“I cried,” I tell her. “I just kept patting you with my fingertips and sniffling because I was so damned happy that you felt safe enough to take a little nap.”

Shiloh sighs.

“I know,” I say. “We have miles to go before you get to upstate New York. Months and months before you meet Buster. You have to get to Chicago and meet Burly and BaBaLu, Mama Theresa’s Bulldogs.

I continue.

“So Jasmine sat in the corner of her cell, getting more and more freaked out. After two weeks, she was so scared that she couldn’t help but bark whenever anybody looked at her. One day, she heard the workers talking about someone from Breed Rescue who had said no.”

“She’s got to come,” said the first one.

“Her old bulldog is dying,” said the second one.

“Call her again,” said the first one. “Because nobody will adopt this dog the way she is now. We know there’s a good heart in that dog and with a little time and love, it’ll pull her through.”

“But her bulldog is dying,” said the second one again.

“Say whatever you have to,” said the first one. “Say that saving Jasmine will distract her from the grief of losing her bulldog, say that the bulldog will die anyway and if somebody doesn’t come and get her, Jasmine will die, too. Her date’s Thursday. She’s only got two days left.”

“Who told you this?” asks Shiloh. “I don’t remember that.”

“You were such a wreck by that time, you had no idea what was going down,” I remind her. “Mama Theresa, your foster mom-to-be, said no, she could not foster a dog right then. Her Bulldog Burly was very, very sick — he was dying. And BaBaLu, her other bulldog, was upset all the time. But the workers cared about you so much, they just kept calling her and calling her until she said okay, okay, okay. It was the middle of December. It was two weeks before Christmas, when her husband got in the SUV and drove 300 miles from Chicago all the way to Franklin County, Ohio to take you from the shelter and save your life.”

to be continued