Side of Toast
“Hello, this is Emily.”
“Hi Emily. It’s Kristen from Austin Outreach. We spoke this morning about the application that you submitted for adopting a pet this fall.”
“Yes, of course. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. I have a situation and that’s why I’m calling. I told you there weren’t any pets in our Outreach pipeline right now and gave you some other resources, but we got a call today from one of our families asking to return a pet to our program.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, it would be an immediate foster situation. The dog’s name is Toast, and she would need to be re-homed right away. She has too much energy for the current owners, and they are giving her back to us. The way this would work is that you, your husband, and Toast could all take a trial week and see how it works out. Her picture can be found on our website. It may not align with your timeline, but Dr. Austin thinks she might be a good fit for your family.”
Decision making varies in the Carter household. While I’d like to say that I’m more decisive than Smokin’ Hot Love Biscuit, if you’ve ever been in a restaurant with me, you know that I like to converse about the selections, discuss the server’s personal favorites, and take a tour of the kitchen. If they allow a guest Sous Chef and I get to wear one of those fancy toques blanches, as I contemplate my order, even better. If you’re dining at my table, please feel free to get an appetizer and recline with a CBD gummy as I explore the menu options.
SHLB decides before we arrive at said eating establishment that he’ll have whatever the special is, as it’s prepared, and a PBR, no glass. He’d also like some water, as it comes from the tap, served in a paper cup, or slurped from the hose pipe. He’s not picky.
In contrast, this is the same man who makes multiple trips to Ace Hardware, Lowe’s Home Improvement, Williams Hardware, (and possibly others that I don’t know about,) to decide on the perfect piece of PVC pipe. After each trip he returns home to stare with intention at his yet to be birthed project, step off paces in the yard, then get back into his truck, rinse, and repeat. Entire crops are planted and harvested before he commits to an overthought-out purchase.
I can clean out a closet and fill a shipping container of discards bound for Goodwill in 2.5 hours. Haven’t worn it in the past six months? Buh-bye. No longer fits, feels right, or suits my vibe? Off with your hanger.
SHLB? Disposal is not his mamma jamma. When we were downsizing and packing for our move to Beaufort, he proudly displayed himself in a pair of burgundy, flair legged corduroys that he last wore during the Nixon administration. To his credit, they almost fit. He kept them. As a personality trait, nostalgic is more positive than psychotic hoarder, so I’ll go with that.
Mostly, we make these differences work. He’s the yang to my yin. We both have intense moments of decided decisiveness and undecided indecision.
We agreed after losing our dog Fergie that we would wait to get another pet. It’s been two months and the absence of furriness in our house is just shy of excruciating. We also agreed that SHLB would take the lead on choosing our next four-legged friend. At first he said next year, but I developed a rash around a 2024 conversation, so we relented to a cortisone cream and a target of autumn.
In preparation, I joined rescue groups and started laying the groundwork for our new family member. I completed applications and submitted credit reports to be pre-approved for petdom. At the top of our list was a rescue program coordinated by our local vet that pairs dogs with inmates. It’s called “New Leash on Life” and our neighbors’ dog, Honey, is one of their graduates. This program felt right on many levels and their training is remarkable. We got in line for a prison pup.
Once you enter the space of animal search and rescue, there are so many opportunities, so many little faces in need of homes and love. I want to bring all of them home and let them sleep with us. Under the covers. This is not SHLB’s bedroom fantasy.
I screenshotted and copied dog pics and sent them over to the Man Cave. A drip marketing campaign of sorts was sure to help expedite the PVC pipe discovery phase. In response to my efforts, SHLB hunkered down in the oldest of negotiation strategies – silence. He said nothing. I sometimes sent him a picture when we were in the same room so that I could hear his text chime, see him look at his phone, and then put it down. Nada.
This did not deter me.
So, when Kristen called, I didn’t text, I held up my phone to watch SHLB take in all that this scruffy little Toasty. “I like the looks of that dog,” said SHLB. “Send me a picture of that one.”
And that is how we came to get Toast. By day two, we were in PetSmart filling a cart with dog toys and having a name tag engraved with her new home address. We are sappy love song kind of people, so there is no way we could foster this little nugget and not keep her. It’s not in our DNA.
There are gaps in her history and her age is more speculative than exact. She came into the Pound in Pamlico County as a stray, then went to prison in Bayboro. She was adopted by a family outside of Wilmington and after eight months, they sent her back. And here we are, with an order of Toast that we didn’t even see coming.
She is loving and grateful. She’s not a fan of nighttime shadows or loud noises. Bald, stocky males cause her pause. Gas powered golf carts must be eradicated from the planet. She’s a destroyer of anything involving fluff or stuff. I have never seen a dog thrash a toy like she does. I’m not sure if it’s aggression or zeal, but it is entertaining – unless you’re fluff and stuff.
Along with Toast’s deep love for a tennis ball, came a journal that her inmate trainer prepared for her humans. It’s neatly handwritten with exceptional penmanship on notebook paper outlining all the commands that she knows and insight into her personality. It’s a love letter, signed by someone who says he’ll never forget her, who asks her to remember that obedience means safety, who offers to her new humans that she chases her tail if she’s feeling anxious or uncertain, and that a “No, no, Sweetie,” will turn things around. And it does. The playbook is from someone who knew Toast was being paroled into the world – and he wasn’t.
I’m not one for saccharine sayings. If someone tells me to take the “t” off can’t or turn my frown upside down, I respond that the letter t makes a good sword for stabbing people in the throat region. So, I’ve been rethinking my reaction to the whole “not sure who rescued who” philosophy that I often see in Humane Society ads. Damn if it ain’t the truth. There’s no way to erase the grief we feel in missing Fergie or to totally reassure Toast that we aren’t a temporary arrangement, but we’re all now in a life raft together and it feels happy and good to be among the rescued.
One thing that SHLB and I can quickly and easily agree and decide upon is that timing and love rise above – lifting all things.
