A Dog Named George

I have been a Correctional Officer for twenty seven years. In 2003, my little jail closed and I was relocated to a new jail an hour away from my home. Compared to my former jail, this one was huge, which I found a little overwhelming. That first year was a hard one. My marriage ended, I was suspended from work exactly one year later, in January 2014, and to make it that much more difficult, the day after my suspension, I moved to a new town of 2,500 people knowing not one of them. It was just myself, my two cats, a litre and a half of red wine every night, and my anger. Then depression set in for the first time in my life. I found myself staying in bed all the time.

A friend and co-worker was concerned that I would drink myself to death. She suggested repeatedly that I needed a dog. I told her repeatedly that I didn't. I had cats, to which she replied, "No offense to the cats, but they don't need you." Now, only someone who has never had a cat would say that.

After a few weeks of this, I said I would go see this puppy. It was a border collie. Now I knew what a border collie was, but was drawing a complete blank, so I put my big pet taxi cat carrier in the car and I left. On the way out of my little town, I stopped at the pet store, bought a collar and a leash. Remember, I didn't want or need a dog. I also withdrew the money from the bank for this dog I didn't want or need.

So I arrive at this farm, fifty minutes away. I meet this woman, who leaves and comes back with this little ball of black and white fur—this dog I didn't need or want. I took one look, and said, "His name is George." It was love at first sight. The Breeder was busy showing me his parents hip x-rays, filling in paperwork for his registration. All I wanted was to take my baby home. George threw up all over the cat carrier. The drive must have made him sick.

George became my life. He house-trained almost on his own, which was a good thing, although I knew that much about training a dog, that was about it. Still, he was trained with the usual social behaviours, to walk on a leash, to sit, give a paw, etc. When I would walk him through town, people would stop and pet him, tell him how handsome he was. Yes, he then expected everyone to love him, and they did. The end result was he became a spoiled, but very loved, little puppy.

A niece trained him to smile, to bring his ball, and place it on the end table. It was not strange at all to find 18 tennis balls on the end table in the mornings. He would go to bed when told to. Unfortunately, with that little trick, he wanted to be home in his own bed every night by 11 PM. It made going anywhere overnight impossible. He ruled my life. And I loved him. This dog I didn't need or want.

Five months later, my suspension ended and I returned to work. My older British neighbors offered to take care of George while I was at work. I thought this meant that they would put him out a couple of times a day. Silly me. I would have to go get him when I got home from work. They would keep him the entire day. Lucky dog. Spoiled again.

Two months after returning to work, I was working an overtime shift on a Saturday. I volunteered to go out on a coffee run, informed my manager, took his order, and left. On the way, a little dog ran out in front of me, running to a couple on the sidewalk across the street. I was so angry. I asked if it was their dog. It wasn't. They held her for me while I turned around and I put her in the car. Now what was I going to do? I continued with my coffee run, called my manager, asked if there was a humane society in town. There was, it was closed. When I returned to the jail, there was a police officer there. He was there about the dog. He looked at her, said, "Oh, my wife is going to be mad." I asked why, he replied, "She's going home with me."

I took one look at him, said "Nope, she's going home with me."

I brought the coffee into the building, called the manager and told him to come get it, I was taking the dog home and would be back in an hour. Long story short, George had a playmate I named Ginnie.

So I went from not needing or wanting a dog to having two. George also managed to get her pregnant. They had seven little girls. Not one boy in the litter. I honestly cried each time I found a home for one of the puppies, and they left. Good thing I didn't need or want a dog, right?!

These beautiful animals changed my life. I had the joy of being with them for thirteen-and-a-half years. They're both gone now—Ginnie last year on December 30th, and George this year on July 5th. I still cry.

The moral of my story: don't ever say you don't need or want an animal. Maybe they need and want you.