Rescuing a Scotty by Maggie Digiovanni

October 4, 2013

The author rescues older dogs that need homes.


I signed up with  Scotty Rescue last April.   It seemed like a good idea at the time.   Months passed with no call to action, and the good feeling of being prepared to do something wonderful went dormant.  Mid-September the phone rang.   Meg from Scotty Rescue asked if rescuing still appealed to me.   Yes! Yes! Yes!  It did.   A little fellow named Evan or Chewy, depending on who you spoke with, needed a new foster home.

“He’s a stray, a quiet dog that is good on the leash.”

“He sounds great.”

“He’s being fostered by a woman in Tampa. She has to give him up.”

This should have been the point where major alarms went off. Mine stayed silent.   If he already had a foster, why was she giving him up?  Nope, that question was also missing in action so great was my excitement over helping the poor pup. Meg must have realized I was either new at this or dumb as a rock because she volunteered a serious piece of information.

“He pees too much.   His foster can’t handle it any longer.”

“Oh, that’s no problem.   I’ve had other pets with that problem.  We can overcome it.

Folks, dumb comes in all sexes and sizes.  I, however, am the reigning champ in pet fostering.  I agreed to welcome Evan/Chewy with open arms and mop in hand if the current foster could deliver him.   She was totally willing.  (Another sign missed by my eagle brain.)

The next day the doorbell rang.   My shih-Tzu/cairn terrier mix, Little Bit, sang out that strangers were at the door while my shih-Tzu/beagle mix, Scotty, backed her up in his low, gruff bark.  Standing on the other side of the door was a lovely lady with a large bag and one very small pup in her arms.

She left letting me know she would call to see how things were going.  I assured her we would get along fine.   How much damage could a tiny fellow like this dog do?  I set him down to get acquainted with his doggy housemates and he thanked me by peeing where he stood.

“Oh, my, it was a long ride, huh, fella,” I crooned.  He looked at me with frightened eyes and peed again.  Throughout the day we learned to keep paper towels and a mop handy at all times. Surely night time would be better.  It was.  He puddled once in my daughter’s room.  Ah, it was getting better already.   He just needed to feel at home.

The following day was our morning at the Senior Center.   Off we went comfortable in the knowledge the worst was over with our new house member.   After the Center, I always took my daughter to get her nails done before returning home to get dressed for karate.

We walked into a spotless dining and living room area.   All’s well, or so I thought.   That was when the kitchenette table and chairs floated by.   Chewy (We dropped Evan and adopted the name of Chewy) had kept his madness to one room.   It seemed that possibly he posed a threat to our sixteen-year old Scotty, and there had literally been a pissing contest!

“Uh, Meg, I don’t think we can keep Chewy.   Well, my eat-in area of the kitchen is awash.   I now understand why the other foster gave him up.   This is his last chance?   If he can’t be placed again, he may be put down?  I’m sorry but I have to be firm on this.   I’m absolutely certain.   No, I just don’t see any way around it…send me the paperwork.   We’re adopting him.   He cannot be put down just because he tinkles a bit.   Get me the forms.   Yes, send them by email.”

I think I’m dropping out of Scotty Rescue.   If there’s any chance a rescue could be disposed of because of bad habits, I don’t have the heart to let it happen.   So, to avoid becoming a Scotty hoarder, I must give it up.

Will someone out there who needs a little heart that will love you without reservation take up the call to arms?

Chewy, Little Bit, and old Scotty all just came off vacation with us to my brother’s house.   Yes, they had accidents.   Yes, we cleaned a lot.   And, yes, I’d adopt that little runt over and over again just to see the sparkle in his eyes when he decides to play, or chase a lizard, or tap me on the back of my leg for attention.  Doggy diapers don’t really work.   Nor do belly bands.   But I think love and patience just might do the job.






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