Aaron was in between housing arrangements, spending a few nights with his brother and family in Seascape, CA. It was a Saturday morning in May. The digital clock read 3:41am. With the entire household obviously fast asleep, he reached for the MacBook Pro and began whittling away the hours.
The last time I can remember browsing Craigslist was when I was looking to buy a used upright piano. 2002 I think it was. I have friends who comb the site almost daily which I’ve never quite understood. Now in fairness to Craig, I don’t have a bad thing to say about his product other than it’s never been my thing. At any rate, there I was for the second time in as many decades, rummaging.
How a picture of a cattle dog needing a new home made its way to my 12 inch screen still baffles me. Why it made its way to the screen I’ve come to more easily interpret as one of those elementary twists of fate. Without even the slightest conscious hankering of putting myself on another dog journey, somehow I got lured into this moment. This 3:45am moment. The picture will forever be etched in my brain. The ad read:
2 year old Red Queensland Heeler. Great dog for a family or being a companion for a female preferably. Quinn is smart, sweet, affectionate and active. I’m asking a $100 rehoming fee just to know she goes to the best home possible.. Give me a call and we can chat further. I would prefer she go where she would be the only dog. She is a gem.
After reading through the ad a handful of times, my attention had been officially captured. The essence was so palpable that I couldn’t let it go. I have always had this secret admiration for the Queensland Heeler, Blue and Red. Something about The Cattle Dog has always seemed to scratch my fancy. That fixing aside, I also remember thinking that the ad itself read a bit wonky.
I don’t know exactly what it was about the ad that felt so lopsided. For one, the line about wanting to charge money to ensure her dog went to the best home seemed like an oddball request. I mean if I ever had to give up a pet, which I wouldn’t, but let’s say I did, I too would want my pet to go to the best possible home, who wouldn’t? And if it could be safeguarded that my pet was going to the best home possible, which of course it couldn’t, but let’s say it could, then I would be graciously willing to actually pay money for the transfer of ownership. I certainly wouldn’t be asking for money.
Is rehoming even a word?
When my brother walked downstairs, and after hitting the play button on the coffee machine, I told him that I spotted a dog on Craigslist that I wanted him to check out as well. Like me, he thought the ad was curiously written, wondering why the seller would think her dog would make a better companion for a female. Neither of us could put our finger behind that bit of uncanny bias.
Nevertheless, I decided to reply to the ad to say that I was open to the idea. I didn’t reveal all that much. I told her that I was going through one of life’s rough spells, and that bringing a dog back into my life felt like a suitable remedy. I tacked on that I was experienced in the dog game, ensuring that I could provide a wonderful home for their Red Heeler.
Seeing that I didn’t have a home, allow me to explain my rationale behind the trivial fabrication. As far as I was concerned, regarding avant-garde dog ownership tactics, home is where the heart is, not necessarily where the leather couch and microwave oven are. I knew with 100% certainty that I’d be able to ‘house’ this dog as adeptly as any 3 bed/2 bath ever could.
We went back and forth for a bit electronically by way of the Craigslist email platform. It progressed into a cell phone conversation. We spoke for a few short minutes before deciding to meet up later that morning.
They were coming from Bonny Doon and I was coming from Seascape so we agreed to meet up at New Leaf Community Market on the westside of Santa Cruz at 11am. I arrived at 10am because I had nothing better to do with my time. Looking back at that day, I can honestly say I was in rather bizarre shape.
It had been seven whole years since there had been a dog in my fold. During that dog-free period, I afforded, among other things, the luxury and the ability to exchange the cold and rainy Central California winters for the warmer tropical climate of Southern Mexico. More specifically, Puerto Escondido. Puerto (pronounced Porto) for short.
Seven straight winters I pulled off this stunt, typically mid October through most of February. Eight months or so slaving away in the rat race, four months or so recharging the battery. It worked for me. As much as I would always look forward to getting back to Porto each and every winter, I also looked forward to the return, and the bounty of work that thankfully ensued.
Again, this new way of life was made possible once I no longer had the responsibility of caring for a pet, which in my case had been two dogs. From 1995-2008 I very rarely wandered away from my pack. Even a weekend getaway felt like too long of time to be away from my animals. What can I say? I was consistently reminded why this new lifestyle of mine was an inconceivable blueprint to achieve with any kind of dog in tow.
Without getting into the nitty gritty just yet, something real unpleasant happened in PE between me and a close friend that hurt me pretty badly. Severely enough that I was convinced I would never return. In and around the very same time period, something pretty darned shitty happened in the US between me and another close friend that also cut pretty deep. So much so, that apparently I was unwittingly coaxed into feeling that I needed a dog to help see me through it.
At 10:45am, two young women with two dogs in the back of their Toyota RAV4 pulled up right next to my big white van. I couldn’t believe it was really happening. As meaningful as the moment felt, on the surface it oozed spontaneity.
Both women got out of the Rav4 and we said our hellos, shook hands, blah blah. One of the ladies lifted the tailgate, and while holding the other dog back, Quinn jumped down. I got low on both knees and offered up my hand. Yep, that was how it all began.
Immediately I noticed the golf ball sized knot around her left knee area. One of the young woman said that Quinn had injured her growth plate when she was a puppy, but that it didn’t seem to bother her. She said it was scar tissue that had grown around a plastic band that never held in place as a result of a mismanaged surgery. She sensed my concern and assured me that it had been checked numerous times and the general consensus was that it didn’t aggravate or hinder her, and that an additional surgery to remove it wasn’t necessary.
I then noticed that the inside part of her rear right leg wasn’t growing hair. There was an explanation for that as well. Apparently Quinn had been caught in a barbed wire fence about 18 months prior, and although it was awfully traumatic for her, that too was seemingly a non-factor.
The half inch long scar under her left eye likely came with an explanation too but I didn’t bring it up because I didn’t want to know the answer. The same held true for not wanting to know why Quinn was being given up for adoption in the first place. Fact is, my mind was racing. It became impossible to keep myself in the moment. Looking back, it was all very surreal.
One of the girls said they were going to go inside New Leaf for a Kombucha and that maybe I should see if I could bond with Quinn while they were away. I could sense that Quinn didn’t like them leaving. She dealt with the separation by standing very still, keeping both eyes glued in the same direction that the girls had gone.
When they officially disappeared, that’s when I scooted closer to this canine, trying to distract her fix, casually attempting to make some eye contact with her. I kept my hand on her underbelly, and nonchalantly moved my head closer to her head. I went to pet behind her ears, and she wasn’t having it. She nipped me on the wrist which totally caught me off guard. I knew right then and there that she was my kind of dog.
I sat there alone with Quinn for 10 minutes, making her feel as comfortable as the circumstances would allow. She didn’t whine. She didn’t bark. She stood like a statue. I could tell she wasn’t thrilled, but she handled it like an understanding dog should. As the girls were exiting New Leaf, I removed the leash and let her loose. She beelined directly to them, which to me was another very positive confirmation.
When we all regathered, some nervous and hollow chit chat ensued. One of them muttered that Quinn’s heir-apparent had to promise not to change her name because it fit her character and behavior to perfection. I had never even known that Quinn could be considered a girl’s name, but to preserve the moment I went along with what I considered to be another outlandish undertone.
I asked them how she(they) wanted to go about this potential exchange. The more talkative girl said she was trusting that maybe I would agree to a one week trial with Quinn to feel it out and test the waters.
“When would you like to start this trial?”(gulp) I asked.
“What about right now,” she said.
It was early May in 2015, and I now had a dog on my hands. A real-life dog. Holy Cow! The seven year itch was being scratched. She sat in the passenger seat of my 2002 Ford E-250. A passenger seat that in short time would essentially come to represent almost everything to her.
I drove straight back to my brother’s home in Seascape. When I pulled up to the house, the whole family was outside in the driveway. Everybody’s eyes lit up. From out of the blue, I had just come back with a new dog.
“Hey everyone, say hello to Quinn!“