CHAPTER SEVEN A TEST OF HEARTS—A NEED TO BE FREE (29th installment, Scruggs and Samantha, by Mary de la Pena)

CHAPTER SEVEN

A TEST OF HEARTS—A NEED TO BE FREE

(29^TH installment, Scruggs and Samantha, by Mary de la Pena)

After my run-in with Prince Charming at the office, my need to see Scruggs was forefront in my thoughts. At the Humane Society I scurried to cage 83.  Floating from the wire mesh was a yellow ribbon.  For the first time that day I smiled. Agent Tamara had kept her word. Scruggs was safe.  Better still, as soon as he saw me his eyes lit up and a smile split his face with a lolling tongue grin. I sat on the concrete floor, my feet in the gutter, thrusting my fingers through the mesh to rub his face.  Resting my head against the gate that separated us, he licked the top of my head, giving me the kisses I had so desperately wanted from my husband.

As the two of us sat, a shelter worker came through the building.  When he queried me about the dog and the yellow ribbon, I told him I was adopting the dog.  He asked me if I wanted to spend some time with the dog in the “adoption run.” I was surprised at his question but readily agreed.

It turned out that the “adoption run” was a fenced outside area with a couple of benches, a tub of toys, and a container of dog treats.  It was a quiet, peaceful area separated from the shelter, with a clear view of Elephant Hill and the small meadow at its base.  The cacophony of barking and the hustle-bustle of the dog runs were muted, and the only intrusive sounds were from the occasional car as it passed by on Mission Boulevard.  It was the perfect place to interact with a dog to form the first bonds of a lasting friendship.

Scruggs readily came with us when we leashed him up to take him to the run. He was almost giddy with delight at being free from the confines of the dog run. He twirled and laughed and prancing with delight as we traversed to the backside of the property.  We led Scruggs through the four-foot gate and into the grassy area of the adoption area.  He came easily with us but, as soon as he saw the street and meadow through the fencing, he froze, lifting one foot as he sniffed the first air of freedom.  I watched as he took his first tentative steps onto the grass, nose held high, letting the breeze ruffle his shaggy coat and whiskered face.  He closed his eyes, frozen in place, tail held erect. I watched the dog, feeling his joy.  A smile split my face as my heart filled with love watching this street dog find happiness in the simplicity of a breeze on his face and grass at his feet.

We stood like that, frozen in our shared joy for what felt like an eternity.  Looking back, however, it was probably less than fifteen seconds or so.  The young man who accompanied us reached down and undid the clasp of the leash.  Suddenly, the mood was broken.  Scruggs bolted like a race horse out of a starting gate.  He hit the end of the enclosure at a full run, and threw himself at the fence in a mad scramble to scale it.  His toes dug into the chain-link fence.  For a frightening moment I thought he was going to make it over the fence.  But quicker than Scruggs was the worker who was at his side, quickly disentangling the dog’s toes from the fencing and gently pulling him off the fence.  He carried the struggling dog back to where I stood, frozen in horror.

“Happens more times than I can count,” he said.  “They see the street and want to escape.”

I was still too shocked to respond as he reached into the doggy treat barrel and handed me a biscuit. 

“Here, try this,” he said. He held onto the chain collar of the dog while handing to me a dog treat, making sure to run it close under Scruggs’s nose. 

I extended the treat to him, but the dog didn’t even flinch.  His eyes were still on the Great Beyond.

“Can he escape?” I asked.

“Not unless he goes for the gate, which most dogs don’t.  They all go for the fence to the street.”

I tried the treat again, stepping between Scruggs’s street views, blocking it from sight.  He shifted his eyes toward me as I softly spoke his name.  I said his name again, taking the biscuit up within inches of his nose.  He sniffed, sniffed again, and then gently took it from my hand.

I was surprised at that.  I had expected a stronger reaction to the food.  As thin as he was, food had to have been a scarce commodity, one I expected he would have lunged for or protected.  Yet, he took it from me as if I had offered him a cherished gift.

“Can we let him go again?” I asked.

The worker shrugged as he let go of the chain collar.

This time, Scruggs ran the perimeter of the fence, but did not try to jump it.  He ran around and around the enclosure sniffing at the ground, stopping only to stare at the street and the meadow beyond.  He vibrated with longing.  Everything about him telegraphed a need to be on that street and continue on a journey interrupted by his capture.

I felt desperation begin to seep into my certitude.  What if this scruffy dog had belonged to a boy somewhere and gotten lost?  What if someone was looking for him and longing for him, just as I looked and longed to find Cosmo, my missing cat?  How could I take this dog if he had somewhere he needed to be?

I turned back to the young man who was intently watching Scruggs’s behavior.  “What if he’s looking for someone?” I asked.  “What if he’s lost and can’t find his way home?”

“Naw,” the young man answered.  “I was here when they brought him in.  He’s been a street dog for a very long time.  He was skin and bones—almost dead—dehydrated, and suffering mild anemia from the ticks and fleas.  If he was lost, he’d been lost a long time.  My guess is that he’s always been a street dog.”

We watched as Scruggs continued to circle the enclosure.  Around and around he went, sniffing and circling.  The only thing I could think to do was interrupt him by offering another treat.

“Scruggs,” I called, offering a second biscuit.  “Come here, boy.  Look what I have.”

That time he stopped to look at my outstretched hand.  Tentatively he approached me, extending his nose to sniff the treat.  Again he sniffed it several times before gently taking it from my hand.  As soon as I handed Scruggs the treat, the shelter worker handed me another.  We worked this assembly line for several minutes.  Each time I handed Scruggs a biscuit, I pulled my hand a little closer to my body, forcing him to come to me.  Eventually, he stood directly in front of me, allowing me to stroke his head between me handing him the tidbits of food.

Eventually I cupped a biscuit in my hand and eased my way to one of the benches, taking a seat.  Scruggs tentatively followed me, his nose following my cupped hand.  The young man handed me several biscuits then faded to a far inside corner of the adoption area, letting me interact with my dog.

I watched closely as the dog leaned toward the street, his eyes shifting from the treat in my hand to the siren call of the meadow.  With every offering of food, I was rewarded with a slight wag of his tail.

I took the opportunity to rest my hand on his back, running my fingers down his spine, feeling every protuberance of his vertebrae.  His ribs were visible through the shaggy coat, and he definitely smelled of the oily, tar-based street.  Maybe the shelter worker was correct.  Maybe this dog was not meant to be a companion dog to a human, but rather was imbued with the free spirit of long ago wolf ancestors, needing to howl at the moon and run free.

 The distracted dog standing in front of me was not the same exuberant dancer I had fallen for the week before.  This was a dog that was focused on getting far, far away from where he was at the time.