The Year of the Dog

Dear Montana,

One year ago today, we met you for the first time, in the parking lot of the Denver Women's Correctional Facility. You were delicate, polite, timid. You let us pet you and you were friendly but you were not exactly overjoyed to see us. We later found out that we were your fourth interview. I don't know what in the world could possibly have caused those first three families to decide not to adopt you, but it's our good fortune that they didn't take you.


We watched you in your "go-home" class, going through your training and skills with your inmate handler one last time. We watched you look at us and whine while we waited. You were so graceful in the middle of that group of dogs, so beautiful I cried, and your dad and I both fell in love with you on the spot.

At the end of the go-home class, your handler taught us your commands, what to say and do to get you to do what we wanted. The first time I told you to come, you stared off in the other direction, looking so very innocent that you almost convinced me that you had a hearing problem, even though I was only five feet away from you. But the handler taught me that you were testing me, and eventually I figured out how to pass that test.

After the class, when we'd signed the paperwork and written the check, we walked back out to the parking lot with you. We opened the door to the back seat of our car and tried to cajole you to get in. We patted the seat and made kissy noises and pulled on your collar and even got in the back seat ourselves to show you what to do. You were having none of it, and finally we had to pick you up and lift you into the car. Even then, you sat on the floor instead of on the seat. Mostly, you were just very confused.


When we got home, we walked you up the stairs to our then-apartment. They were those outdoor stairs, made of concrete with gaps between them. You didn't like that at all. You verrrrrry cautiously picked your way up the stairs, and I swear you seemed relieved when we got to the top.

As soon as we got in the apartment, you selected the kitchen floor as your favorite spot. I took photo after photo of you as you sat tentatively. You sniffed around the apartment, sitting under your dad's desk, then under mine, before returning to your spot on the kitchen floor. We showed you all the toys we'd bought for you, but you had zero interest. And you maintained that zero interest for so many months that when you did, just once, chase a ball down the hallway a few times, we had to mark the occasion with a video.


When we got you, you were scared of new surfaces. You wouldn't walk on the tile floor of the bathroom, and when we stayed in a hotel that required us to take an elevator, we had to drag you in--and once you were in, you spent the whole ride crouched low to the ground, shaking. You never barked. You didn't care much about food. You never ate your meals right away, and you often skipped them entirely. You were more interested in hiding treats than eating them. You always wanted to be near us.


But now... oh, the dog that you are now. You love to run and play and wrestle with other dogs. You love to fetch tennis balls. If another dog takes your ball, you will bark and bark and bark until you get it back. You also bark at snowplows, and the UPS guy, and pretty much any loud vehicle that drives by. You eat your meals right away, and then walk around the house with your nose to the floor, scavenging for crumbs to eat as dessert.


You still like to be near us, but you will also go upstairs by yourself to lie in your favorite patch of sun in the mornings. You go in and out of your dog door at will, sprinting around the yard, barking at squirrels and the neighbors' cat, and burying and/or digging up bones and other treats. When you see a squirrel or a cat or a rabbit, you yelp and whine and shake all over.


You love to nuzzle and roll. If we get out a towel, you will immediately come running over to rub your face against it. You hate baths, but the time after a bath when you can roll on a towel in the yard almost makes up for the indignity of being sprayed with water. You could spend hours just rubbing your head against our legs.


You love treats, especially other people's treats. You have still never jumped on anybody (thank god), but you will beg with both front paws in the air if you know that somebody has treats and you think you have a shot in hell of being offered one. Even if there's a whole group of dogs waiting for a treat, you will somehow find your way to the front of the group and sit pretty much on the feet of the person with the treat, wagging just the very tip of your tail.

You love the car, because you know it means you're going somewhere fun. We can't open the door to the garage without you sprinting in there, hoping it's your turn to go for a walk, or a hike, or a run around the dog park. Even if it isn't time to go anywhere, you will do your absolute best to convince us otherwise.


You bark in your sleep. You love to look at your reflection in the shower door. You cock your head when you hear a baby crying on TV. You like to swim, no matter how cold the weather. You roll in mud puddles. You always want to get in other dogs' cars when it's time to leave the dog park. You fart far too frequently for our liking, and you can happily spend hours licking your own ass. Your fur is soft, much softer than it looks.

You aren't that timid dog anymore. You have all the confidence of a dog who knows she is safe and loved and always will be. When I look at you curled up peacefully in your dog bed, or lying on my feet on the couch, it's hard to believe that you are the same dog who just spent an hour wrestling with other dogs in the mud at the park. You are so active, so happy and exuberant, and yet so mellow and peaceful.


But you haven't lost your grace. You are still delicate and beautiful, no matter what you do.

You are our family. And we could not imagine our lives without you.


Love,
Mom