Cutthroat as you may think New Yorker’s are, there’s one arena where their ambitions are at their most exaggerated. Dog adoption.
When I landed there in 2007, fresh on the heels of divorce, I had no idea competitive dog rescue was a thing. And god help me if I ever find myself trying to adopt a dog in New York City after telling this story. But not long after settling in, I began to joke that I missed my dogs more than my ex.
As with all humor, there was a grain of truth. What I really missed was having love in the house. By 2013 however, I was pretty sure love in the house was not going to manifest through dating, so I’d been trying to find a dog.
None of this was on my mind the freezing cold January day when I met my friend Paula at a Brooklyn diner for brunch. But there we were, sitting in front of a huge window waiting for our overpriced eggs when across the street I see a gaggle of hipsters clogging the sidewalk, all attached to these dogs in neon vests that say “adopt me.”
I look back at Paula. “It’s a Badass Brooklyn Animal Rescue dog adoption event! Let’s go!”
Paula takes a sip of her coffee. Puts down her coffee. “It’s so cold out,” she says. “And anyway, they’ll all be gone by the time we get there,” she says.
I’m thinking, then let’s ditch brunch, but I say, “Please?”
And Paula’s a good friend, and she agrees.
When we do get there, I don’t know if all of the dogs are spoken for, but there is only one left inside. A little slip of a thing, all of 20 pounds, about a foot high, looking miserable, shivering in the corner. We lock eyes.
This dog has these flying nun ears that perk up when he sees me, and in that instant I know, this guy hates the cold as much as I do. I will rescue this boy.
I kneel to the ground, and he marches right over and puts his paws on either side of my shoulders. And I think, “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.”
There’s just one problem. I am about to leave for India again.
This was the period in my life where I went to India every other year for six months at a time to study yoga and meditation. Thanks to these practices, my life has gotten bigger and this will be the shortest trip I’ve ever taken to India. I’m headed to the Kumbh Mela in Rishikesh—a trip I wrote about in part here—the world’s largest spiritual festival, a trip I’m hoping will soothe my unholy angst.
I cannot tell BBAR I’m about to be gone for a month. Such revelation could lead to uncomfortable questions, like, “How often do you do this sort of thing?”
Fortunately, competitive dog rescue is a marathon, not an event. After filling out the application and paying my deposit, I have to send in references for them to contact, a clean vet record, and prepare my home for inspection. I can stall for three weeks.
For the first time ever, while I’m away I can’t wait to be back. I keep seeing my soon-to-be adoptee’s amber eyes, his little paws, his flying nun ears. It feels like forever until I get to go home and feel the love in my house.
When I do get back I play it cool and don’t reach out to BBAR immediately. Then I start to get nervous. I reach out to my references. Two out of three confirm they’ve spoken. I don’t hear from the third. Now I’m getting really nervous. Did I get a bad reference? What if his foster mom decided to keep him?
I’m back two weeks before I hear from them. But I can’t be mad because she tells me she’s bringing my dog along since it’s been so long. This is not at all their standard operating procedure, but I’m psyched. I can’t wait to see him again.
When she does come, I’ve got his leash, dog bed, food, toys, everything. And my baby is just as perfect as I remember him.
Baby Hartley in my apartment building, photo courtesy of the author.
I’m so excited I think I might pee, so I take my fur baby to the dog run at Tompkins Square Park, which I’ve been dying to get into since I moved to this neighborhood, but again, dog ownership is serious business in this town. No people allowed without dogs inside.
All that’s behind me now. I am officially a dog mom again. In we go. I love watching all the dogs run and play together, it is as magical as I hoped it would be.
I am entirely unprepared for what happens the next morning: food poisoning.
That’s right. I’ve gone to India five times in the past eight years and never gotten a bug. I come home and get food poisoning from the deli around the corner from my house. And it’s ugly.
A neighbor kindly takes him around the block in the morning, but when night falls I am not so lucky. This is exactly what I’d worried about. I am failing.
It’s 11PM by the time I limp out, and truly, I’m mostly motivated by my need for electrolytes. I have already asked Paula if she will take the dog when I give in to this thing inside my body that clearly wants me dead. We inch to the bodega at the end of the block, only to find they’re closed.
Fine. The one on the next block is still open, thank the gods.
No dogs allowed.
Fine. I tie him to the metal window grate and head inside to find Gatorade, which naturally they don’t have.
Fine. I’m dying. I settle for some artisanal ginger ale. I’m psyched to get back to my toilet. But when I get outside… There’s no dog.
Impaired as I was, I’d tied the lead in a sailor’s knot, one my dad the Marine would’ve been proud of; there’s no way that came undone. Did he Houdini his way out of his collar?
I search the grate — maybe I was mistaken on where I’d left him? But no. Now I see — the goddamn grate has been pulled down. Some asshole had to actually untie my dog so that they could lock their grate rather than take one second to walk inside the store and ask whose dog was tied outside.
I really want to go inside and yell at that person. Anyone, really.
But there’s zero time. It is pitch black outside. My dog is all of one foot tall. I can’t imagine a car seeing him, but I can imagine…
I look left. I look right. He’s nowhere. I start to yell for him, but, Does he even know his name?
One thing he does know? Treats. I race to my apartment and as I’m fumbling for the keys, all of a sudden Hartley appears.
I kneel down to pet him, and he does that thing again, puts his paws on my shoulders. Now I know. It really him who’s saying, “I got you.”
Not quite the two paws on shoulders, but you get the idea. Photo courtesy of the author.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Hartley in Tompkins Square Park, courtesy of the author.