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