It was the summer of after 10th grade that I met him. I met him in June and by July, he was officially mine. His eyes were brown. His demeanor inquisitive. I wondered how I was so lucky to get him. His name was Buddy, but to me, it just didn’t fit. Murphy Loveawitz seemed much more appropriate for a 15 pound, extra-long Yorkie mix.
Rewind eight months. I had just decided I wanted a dog, as a joke really because I knew that there was no way we were getting another dog. But I kept proclaiming my desire to own a dog, researching local shelters and pounds in three cities and two states. I spent free time looking at images of shelter dogs: one-eyed dogs, snaggletooth dogs, fat dogs, hairless dogs, old dogs, puppies all searching for a home.
I had exhausted my resources when my grandmother informed me that her neighbor was fostering a few dogs. I halfheartedly agreed to go, certain that someone with just a couple of dogs compared to the pounds with countless dogs had little to offer. As we walked into the living room I was greeted by four dogs. I realized that I found him -- a dog that was quiet but still had a personality. A dog that was small, but still sturdy. A dog that clearly got along with other dogs. I was off to call my parents. My parents questioned me firmly, “Are you certain this is the dog you want? You’re certain he is going to get along with Shep (future big brother)?” I held myself together as I repeated, “Yes” to the line of questioning. My parents finally satisfied, I hung up the phone and began filling out the forms.
It seemed that the chance to own this dog, to cuddle up with him, to ask him for advice and to spoil him with treats could not come soon enough. After an inspection by the foster association of my family, our home and our backyard we were given the date of retrieval -- July 20.
The first week was rough. The first month was rough. The first problem was T’Choupi (the first name I gave Murphy) had a volatile stomach. Day one he threw up on my grandparent’s brand new carpet. Day two he threw up yet again. To be honest, the throw-up thing is an ongoing problem.
The second problem was the relationship between T’Choupi and Shep. We worked constantly trying to teach the dogs to co-exist, but every moment we turned our backs Shep would pounce on T’Choupi. The problem only worsened every time I called T’Choupi’s name, Shep thinking I was calling TooSheppy. The concept of brotherhood never set in. T’Choupi was renamed to Murphy and eventually Shep moved to my grandma’s.
So while I can’t say the transition to adopting a rescue dog was easy, I can say that it was worth it. Murphy has become a part of our family. When I sit on the couch Murph is quick to sit up, human-style, right next to me. Open the fridge and he is immediately at your side. Walk through the front door and he throws himself to the ground, legs open, bearing all to the world. He’ll work with you through the night on your homework, but only if you carry him to bed. As you pick him up, he may just rest his head on your shoulder content with the world, content to be the one and only Murphy Loveawitz.
Adoption is a family tradition for me, one that needs to become a national tradition. Across the nation, it is estimated 10,000 puppy mills exist and of those 3,000 are regulated according to Do Something Org. Every year 2 million puppy mill dogs are sold, and an estimated 3 million die in the shelters due to overcrowding. Most states allow puppy mills, but in Phoenix, Arizona pet stores are required to provide dogs only from pounds or rescue shelters making steps towards reducing dependency on puppy mills. If you are looking for a dog to love and to care for to the end of their days, why not pick a shelter dog? Why not pick a dog that is alive and lonely than the full breed dog manufactured in a mill? You may not be the only one looking for a companion. The dog who was abandoned by his human family or born on the streets can lick as well, run as fast and love as hard as any shelter dog. Paws down, shelter dogs are the way to go.
