Milo

Banjo, Milo, and Oaklee in the Field

He had no name, and now he had no home.

He was a castoff... not a pet, not a family member, but refuse, someone's trash, an inconvenience to be dumped in some out-of-the-way place and forgotten about.  He was just a puppy, but no longer in that tiny, big-eyed, ball-of-fuzz stage of calendars and greeting cards; he was an older puppy, about four months old, old enough to be weaned, old enough for the novelty of having a litter of puppies to have worn off.  

The person who dumped him and his siblings in a lonely field in rural Tennessee is unknown.  Perhaps the owner of the mother dog was one of the sorts who didn't cotton to having their dog spayed out of principal.  Perhaps he or she wanted to show the kids "the miracle of birth."  Perhaps the hapless owner simply didn't have the money for the operation and didn't understand that there are groups who will help with the cost, even provide the service for free.  Perhaps, once the pups were born, they were somehow ignorant of the existence of rescue groups and shelters.  

Perhaps, though, he or she simply didn't care.  Didn't care about the canine health issues associated with having an unspayed female, didn't care about the inevitable consequence.  These were just run-of-the-mill mutt dogs, after all, not valuable in any monetary sense... why trouble oneself with trying to find them homes?  Why bother taking them to a shelter or a rescue?  An empty field would do just fine.  If they lived, they lived.  If not, they weren't anybody's problem anymore.

How long he and his siblings stayed in that field is anybody's guess.  They might have romped away from the car or truck, thinking it all a grand adventure, unaware that their previous owner was driving off without them.  They might have been chased off with shouts, kicks, and curses.  They might have just been unceremoniously tossed from the vehicle, which then sped away.  What we do know is that they stayed together, a pack of three, confused and alone and utterly unsuited for life without the protection of humans.  It was March.  It was cold, even in the South, and they had no idea how to find food or shelter.  They shivered, huddled together, and stayed in the place they had been dumped.

They might have been on their own for hours, or perhaps for days, before their luck turned for the better.  Dog loving strangers, out for a ramble in the fields and woods, came upon them and knew that these pups could not be left to fend for themselves.  They were rounded up, maybe with the help of a food lure, bundled into a different vehicle than the one they had known, and these kind people immediately set about finding a rescue group willing to take in three siblings.  

Companion Pets Rescue, or CPR, a rescue based out of Tennessee but with foster homes and prospective adopters across several states, took the little family in and gave them names.  Big brother Banjo, little sister Oaklee, and mostly white Milo were housed in a foster care kennel and provided with the love, nourishment, vet care, and the socialization all pups so desperately need.  Photos of them were posted on the CPR website, letting the public know that here were pups in need of homes.  Soon, Banjo, Milo, and Oaklee found themselves on a transport truck heading north to Connecticut.

Pretty little Oaklee, listed as a Basset Hound/ Australian Cattle Dog mix like her brother Milo, was the first to find her forever home.  Brothers Banjo and Milo went on to the CPR adoption center in Southbury, CT.  On May 1, both met their own forever homes - one in Massachusetts, the other in New Milford, CT.

When I met Milo, I have to admit that I had a moment of Pause.  Out from the stable that served as many puppy and dog pens came a wide-eyed, half-grown pup with ears back and tail down, carried by a CPR volunteer.  When she set him down, he became a dervish, whirling, tugging at the leash, whining, crying, and howling to get back to the other dogs, back to his brother, back to what he had only recently come to see as his Safe Place.  He would not come to me to be petted.  He would not walk with me on the leash.  I'm not sure, in fact, if it wasn't actually one of his first experiences BEING leashed.  Whatever it was, he was not liking it, no sir, not one little bit.

Milo in the Car

After a time, Milo did settle - partly with the help of brother Banjo, who was already outside the center with his prospective owners. He eventually came to me, let me stroke him, wagged his tail.  I managed to lift him into the back of my car.  He was, understandably, reluctant to go.  Cars meant Nothing Good for Dogs in Milo's life - they meant CHANGE, and change is scary.  Once inside, he hunkered down with the air of someone making the best of a bad situation.  His life was changing again... and that's enough to put any pup's tail between his legs.

Getting him out of the car once we'd reached our destination was another matter.  Rather than trying to bolt from the car, as many of my other dogs had, Milo flattened himself to the floor, splayed his paws, rolled his eyes upwards, and silently begged not to be moved.  Coaxing and calling did nothing.  Waiting did nothing.  Even trying to lure him with treats did nothing.  He was fully prepared, he seemed to be saying, to spend the rest of his life in the warm, confined safety of the back of my RAV-4.

We eventually lifted him out, and once back on the ground, he shook himself, wagged his tail, and happily followed me to the fenced area where my husband waited with our other dog, an 8 year old Pom-Spitz mix named Ariel.  We wanted to introduce her to Milo on neutral ground.  Ariel, the queen of our house pets, ignored the approaching puppy, instead flinging herself against my legs in tail-whipping greeting.  When he bounced and whined, licking at her face and groveling, she regarded him with tolerant disdain.  

"Oh," she huffed, eyes narrowed.  "A puppy.  How... charming."

We let both off leash, and Milo glued himself to Ariel's flank.  Where she went, he went.  Where she
peed, he sniffed.  Occasionally he would turn, rush back to us with a frenzy of tail wags for petting, then race back to her side.  Ariel was nonplused, but not hostile; if this silly, large-footed pup wanted to be her shadow, so be it... as long as he respected her place as Top Dog.  Milo, belly pointed to the sky, tongue flicking upwards, assured her that he did, indeed, respect it.

That evening, after having been forcibly lifted into the car once more and then gently pried out of it again, Milo explored his new home on leash.  He met Skimble, the resident cat, whose tail poofed out but who seemed more curious than doubtful.  He was given a meal, and given toys.  He demonstrated an immediate and unforeseen talent for fetching Mr. Cow, his first plush squeaky.  He was patted and petted and spoken softly to by the Man, the Boy, and the Woman.  Slowly he began to unwind and, when I flopped down into my favorite chair to relax, he climbed up and into my lap, circled once, and promptly fell asleep.

Milo was home.