Butters

Topanga Days Parade again and this year my goal is ten dogs. I start much earlier, a full six weeks prior to the parade. Now a year and about twenty rescues later, I have had some solid practice in choosing adoptable dogs. I walk right past the barkers and the howlers, no matter how pretty, puppy or purebred they are; they don't interest me. I avert my eyes from the ones that cower and shake in the back. The little guys picking fights with their cellmates don't even get a second look, for me they are always out of the question. With work and love, they can all be great dogs, but I don't have the time or space for them. If I am going to move them through quickly, they have to be "issue free" as much as possible.

A little scared after being pulled from her cage.

On one of my trips to North Central Shelter I meet Butters, a female Terrier mix. She is under a year old with an unusual mole colored coat and intelligent, almost human looking gold eyes. She is at the front of the cage, tail wagging and a big smile. Her calm energy stands out amid the anxiety and stress of a long row of barking, howling dogs. I know at once she will make a great family pet. I fill out the adoption papers and pay my $102. I wish I could take her with me then and there, but unfortunately they won't release her. They tell me she will need to be spayed and even though it is early in the morning, she will not be sent out to the vet until the following day.

The next morning I call the clinic and after listening to a long-winded recorded message, which basically says, "don't call us we'll call you," I finally speak to a live person and find out that because she is female they plan to keep her overnight. This is not typical for shelter pets, male or female you can usually take them home within hours of the surgery.

On the third day after meeting and adopting her, I am at my office trying to concentrate on work while waiting for the clinic to phone to say she is ready, but they don't and I begin to feel a little annoyed and worried. So rather than call and sit on hold or go around and around on their recorded message, I ask my daughter, Hannah, if she wants to come with me to retrieve Butters. Hannah is eight months pregnant, but she is always up for dog adventure and is usually my partner in rescue. We drive straight down to North Central Shelter, and although this is my first adoption from there, typically shelters have a vet hospital attached to the building, and, if not, it is always close by.

We pull up at the shelter and of course do a quick run through to check out the inmates, but we are a little short on time and it is an especially hot, muggy day. I am feeling anxious and tired, so we inquire at the front desk for the location of the vet hospital and find out that it is actually a short freeway ride away. Hannah gets the directions and off we go again.

Five minutes later we arrive in a part of LA that might be considered by some to be a little sketchy. I am starting to feel, for want of a better word, cranky. I have my very precious pregnant daughter driving us through the "hood" in my SUV, and poor little Butters adopted a full three days earlier is still in a cage somewhere, probably confused and in pain. I just want to get the dog and get home as soon as possible.

Hannah finally locates the vet and parks us right in front and I jump out and march purposefully through the glass doors and straight up to the counter. I mean business, and I must have had that "don't mess with me" look on my face because two men that are standing waiting to be helped move quickly aside and let me pass. I am so single minded at this point I don't even have the courtesy to thank them.

I slap the paperwork on the desk in front of receptionist. I suddenly can't remember the name of the dog so I say angrily, "My little girl has been in this place for three days and you don't even call to let me know if she is ready to be picked up." The receptionist looks up at me flustered and confused. She is a very pretty, young Latina women with shiny black hair, perfect make up and round cheeks. I see the color rise up on her face as she fumbles with the paperwork. Trying to make head or tales of it she flips through the pages but doesn't appear to be reading them. At that moment my daughter bursts through the door, "Mom!" she yells, "this is the dentist office, the vet clinic is next door." Mortified, I snatch the paperwork from her hands, mumble something that sounds like sorry and make a hasty exit. I don't look back to see the expressions on everyone's faces, but I can only imagine.

Happy Butters at the Parade.

Hannah is laughing hard as we enter the packed waiting room of the vet's office right next door and is still laughing when we have Butters safely on board and are racing back to Topanga. I cannot believe what an utter fool I have just made of myself. Normally I am very slow to anger, and almost never rude. My patience is legendary with children and animals, but on the rare occasion I lose my temper it usually comes back to bite me. I have to laugh with Hannah, as I imagine the receptionist telling her family that night about the crazy blonde lady with the British accent.

Butters is sitting on my lap, her frail little body safe in my arms. I already love her and I say out loud to her, as I do to all my rescues as soon as I have them safely on board, "You have had your last bad day, I am taking you home."