Henry The Eighth Is Number One – Part II

Dumping your pet at a dog park may seem like a better idea than leaving him by the side of a road or taking him for a “drive in the country”. Perhaps you think some soft-hearted dog lover will take Fido in and life will be happy ever after. Never mind that your pooch may be confused, terrified, hungry and at the mercy of the elements. The stark fact is that most such abandoned animals are found by park staff who are obligated to call their city or county animal control, which is rarely no-kill. So you may just have condemned your pet to death; and a callous one at that.

In recent months there have been three dogs at our local park who were spared that dreadful fate. A precious little chihuahua left on the counter in the public restrooms was given a home by the mother of one of the temporary park staff; a young and very sweet-tempered pit bull was taken home by the girl who found her and eventually re-homed; a darling little dog who looked like a fox went to Southern Hope Humane Society (one of the best rescue groups around) and was very quickly adopted.

Then there was Henry VIII. Let’s resume his story.

Time was running out for our abandoned little Yorkshire Terrier. There were just a couple of days to find him at least a temporary home before I left town. A friend had suggested that Hans, who runs Camp Woof, might be able to help. “Bring him over and let’s take a look,” was the response when I called. So off we went.

My intent was to ask that Hans keep Bailey (as we’d named the pup) either until a permanent home was found, or until my return. Camp Woof has many dog-lovers in and out of its doors every day, so it seemed likely that someone would see Bailey and fall for his irresistible charm. Well, within just a few minutes it was looking as if Hans might be that someone.

Bailey was born to perform. He can do cute better than a dimpled Shirley Temple singing “Animal Crackers In My Soup“, and he certainly laid it on for Hans and everyone at Camp Woof that day. I left him there with assurances that he’d be well cared for and a strong suspicion that he’d be a fixture at the camp by the time I came back.

Sure enough, a couple of weeks later I raced over to the daycare to check on my former protegee and found him ensconced, throne-like, behind the counter, his every whim being catered to by the staff and graciously accepting the adulation of all who passed by. Never was a dog more assured of his kingly status than this petite pedigreed pooch and he had a new name to prove it – Henry VIII.

In actuality, Henry was not named for the infamous Tudor of Olde England but came by his name for a more practical reason. He had indeed joined Hans’ already extensive family of rescues and, as it happens, was the eighth dog! So, as Hans tells it, “He had to be Henry the eighth”. Turns out the name was a little serendipitous, however. Henry, though the smallest dog by far in the Hans’ household, in short time was reigning supreme both at home and Camp Woof.

As Hans tells it, when he first came home Henry was a little timid; within a week he’d taken over the household. Seven of the other dogs accepted him immediately, including JJ, the rotweiler mix. Hope, a dachshund mix who didn’t like anyone at first sight, now loves Henry. “His Highness”  grandly helps himself from everyone’s food bowls and none of them object. At night he sleeps with Hans and likes to get under the covers when it’s cold. He insists on sitting on Hans’ lap when being chauffeured around town.

The one thing that Henry will not now or ever be able to do is have an heir to his throne. During my absence, he had received all his shots and been rendered unable to spawn progeny. Not that a bunch of ditto dogs wouldn’t be adorable, but no-one (at least, no-one who reads this blog) wants more little unloved and homeless yorkies running around.

If only every story could have such a happy ending as that of Henry and Hans. Theirs’ is a perfect match. It’s obvious that King Henry has no doubt of his status in Hans’ heart and, in return, is devoted to Hans. “He’s such a character,” says Hans. “I can’t imagine my life without him”.

“To his dog, every man is King; hence the constant popularity of dogs.” – Aldous Huxley

Henry the Eighth Is Number One

You know, abandonment is such a cavalier form of cruelty; it’s not like being beaten senseless or half-starved or even used as bait in a fighting ring. And the people who dump their pets off in the woods or by the side of a road often justify their actions as “Giving Fido a chance”. It’s rubbish, of course. People who so callously forsake their “friends” do so because they haven’t the guts to face up to their own shortcomings by admitting they can’t care for a pet, or else they really just don’t give a damn. Here’s a case in point.

This is Henry VIII, as regal a pup as you will know and ruler of his domain. It wasn’t always that way, though. This is Part I of his story.

It’s not unusual for me to be the first person at the dog park with Angel, Vinny and Coco, sometimes before sunrise. On this particular morning, Bruce and Henry (the biggest little dog in our park), were there ahead of us.

The night had been brutal; horrendous thunderstorms and it was still raw cold and dark. As I got out of the car I heard Bruce calling me from the small-dog park. Ambling over I saw Henry (no, not the Henry VIII who’s the subject of this narrative), who’s a Yorkie, and on the far side of the park was another little dog.

“You got Henry a buddy,” I exclaimed. But no! Bruce had noticed the little pup when he arrived with Henry. “He won’t come to me,” said Bruce. Henry wasn’t exactly helping as he didn’t want the potential usurper to commandeer Bruce’s attention, so I stepped in to try my luck.

It took about five minutes before the little guy let me hold him. He wanted to come to me but was wary and I can’t say I blamed him. He was shivering violently, probably a combination of fear and the fact that he was completely soaked and had a pronounced limp. The hair clinging to his body showed how thin he was and when I picked him up he weighed next to nothing. In spite of his bedraggled condition, though, there was no doubt he was another Yorkie.

Bruce was tempted to take him home but figured Henry would be miffed about that, so the diminutive waif came home with me.

We (my husband and I, that is) called him Bailey, after Sir Donald Bailey, a Yorkshire-born engineer who invented the Bailey bridge (and because we had to call him something other than hey you).

Here’s the thing about Bailey. Someone had taken care of him and not so long before. Yes, he was very thin and hungry; yes, he was dirty; yes, he was frightened. But he’d had a professional haircut, he had no parasites and he was used to being handled. When you bent to pick him up he would automatically raise up on his hind legs to be lifted. And once he got over his fear he was perfectly at ease in the house with both the dogs and cats.

After a good meal a trip to the vet confirmed Bailey had no ID and no major health issues. The limp was caused by luxating patella, a dislocation of the kneecap that apparently is quite common in Yorkies and, happily, was rendered OK by a little maneuvering of the joint. A warm bath took care of the last of Bailey’s immediate needs and then the major issue was what to do with him.

Problem was, my husband and I were a couple of days from going away. Making Bailey part of our family was tempting; this pup had personality with a capital “P” and he was just a love. Our pack, however, weren’t the right fit for him. Angel can play too rough and I didn’t want the threesome to gang up on him. And Bailey did have one problem – no housetraining. Not only was it was an issue I didn’t have time to handle, with nine cats and three dogs we already had a tentative “balance of power” and I didn’t need to upset that with a fourth dog marking his territory all around the abode. So, it remained to find Bailey his perfect forever home.

Half a day later and things were discouraging. The Yorkshire Terrier rescue group were only taking the most severe abuse cases because they were over-loaded. Same problem with other groups that fostered out their rescues – no room. A county shelter was simply out of the question; too little oversight of potential adopters. And I’d phoned just about everyone I knew. Then back at the park where our hapless hound was abandoned, a fellow pet parent suggested Camp Woof.

Camp Woof is one of the local doggie daycare centers and Hans, who runs the show, is known to be a complete softie when it comes to strays. This was my last shot, so I made the call.

Part II of Henry VIII’s story will run in our next issue on February 3rd.

“Money will buy you a pretty good dog, but it won’t buy the wag of his tail.” ~ Henry Wheeler Shaw