As I write this, our brand-new dog lies snoring gently at my feet—though always with one eye half-open. If you read my previous post, you could probably predict how this was going to go. Maybe better than me: I was nervous and full of second-guessing about this “Rusty”. But then we took a swing around the lake to his temporary suburban digs in Stoney Creek. (“You have a pool! In your backyard!” our city-kid Zach marveled to the foster couple.) And we found Rusty every bit as lovely as his profile said he was.

Rusty is soft and sweet. He gently rolls onto his back when he realizes you’re up for giving him some love. As for his manners—I’m just going to put it out there—we could see right away this guy was, ahem, a tad better behaved than our much-loved Zoe.

The only shocker came (still comes) looking at his ribcage. Past that strong Lab face and glossy coat, there’s a cruel count-every-rib gauntness. And just when you wouldn’t think Rusty could get any thinner, there’s just empty space where he should have a waist.

Before we knew it, we had Rusty in the hatch of our car. And quicker than you can snap your fingers, we are dog owners again. Having raised a breeder puppy before, Rusty takes some getting used to. There are all these missing pieces to the puzzle. It’s crazy. We know so little about him except that he’s come from a shelter in Ohio, is maybe 7 or 8, has been well-trained, and did well in foster care.

Thus far, Rusty’s settled in with a quiet thump and quickly accumulated a list of good points: He’s an easy guy in the house. No chewing furniture. No stealing or begging for food. He enjoys the backyard without a bark or a whimper. This big boy is perfectly content to sleep on the floor—and wouldn’t dream of claiming the couch, or the humans’ beds. And best, he’s been greeting neighbours and Zachary’s friends with just the right soupcon of friendly tail wagging, lowering his handsome head ever so slightly to receive hello pats.

Seems the only thing we need to train him on is his exuberance upon meeting other dogs. When it comes to other canines, Rusty is ready to party. I’m suspecting he was a country dog, or maybe a hunting dog, so needs some schooling on restrained city-dog hellos.

But the big job now is to feed him. And here I’m having fun and seeing little hints of what might have been. Unbelievably, for such an emaciated dog, Rusty is choosy. We’ve been offering him bowlfuls from the monster sack of kibble his foster family gave us, and hungry as he must be, he’ll politely walk away. Out of curiosity yesterday I threw some avocado in his bowl. Yum, he said. Then we tried some cans we still had of Zoe’s premium fish-oil laced lamb and rice. Double-yum. Similarly, he delicately polished off slices of bacon, oatmeal, and butter. Real food, man, he’s saying. I like real food.

When our family chose “rescue” over pedigree, we landed squarely in the middle of a growing North American trend. According to Linda Lord, a professor of veterinary medicine in Rusty’s home state of Ohio, “In general, across the country, the adoption rates have gone up.” And stats from the Humane Society of the United States and the A.S.P.C.A show this trend is making a huge difference in kill statistics. Today in the U.S., an estimated “3 million and 4 million unwanted dogs and cats are euthanized annually. Forty years ago, an estimated 20 million annually were euthanized.”

It’s not all rainbows and puppy licks of course. Rescue dogs aren’t for everyone. I just read today that almost half of rescue dogs get returned right back to foster care. Even a sweet dog like Rusty was just returned by one family last weekend—in that case, the family’s cats scratched and hissed ‘no deal’. But by applying our previous experience as dog owners and choosing a dog that seems suited to us, we’re hoping we’ll have better luck. For his part, Rusty is enjoying some peace and quiet and I think he’s getting more comfortable. I just saw his eye close.

More:
- “Kill rates vary widely at Ohio dog shelters”. An article from The Columbus Dispatch on the patchwork condition of Ohio’s animal shelter and adoption system, and the rising popularity of “rescue” animals.
- “Ad Featuring Singer Proves Bonanza for the A.S.P.C.A.” New York Times, December 25, 2008. Great article about how those ASPCA ads by Canadian singer Sarah McLachlin made a huge difference.
- “To the Rescue. Nearly 20% of dogs and cats are adopted. Here's how to streamline your search for the perfect pet.” Prevention, November 2011.  

Is it too soon? Am I going to regret this? What if I don’t like him when I meet him? Tonight around 6 p.m. our family is going on a blind date. We’ll be meeting Rusty, a 65-pound bundle of well-aged chocolate Lab currently residing in a foster home.

At about 7 or 8 years old, and with his greying snout, he’s not a highly sought after companion. But something about him has drawn us in. I saw him first this weekend—a sad case of online dating where I kept telling myself I wasn’t really looking, just seeing what’s out there. Then I saw Rusty’s profile. Even after the pages upon pages of “rescue” dogs I saw next—beseeching eyes, mewling puppies you could cradle with one arm—Rusty seemed to have claimed me already. Part of it may be practical. I liked these words from his foster mom: “amazing quiet and gentle soul”, “fully house trained”, “soooo gentle with EVERYONE.”

But I can only partially explain why this dog feels so right. Saturday afternoon I showed his profile to my husband and held my breath. Was it just me? I walked away but his stillness at the computer, punctuated only by the occasional click (scrolling down), told me he was similarly engaged with Rusty and his story.

Having lost our own dog prematurely (she died at age 10 just over three months ago), Steve and I are not yet keen for the lightning jolt of a puppy in the house. Our son, small surprise, is desperate to get a puppy but, slowly, even he has become receptive to adopting a shelter animal. This older dog and particularly his mystery seem more right somehow. His foster mom says his eyes tell a story of “love lost”, writing, “I wish he could talk and tell us what happened to separate him from someone who obviously loved him very much.”

Perhaps that’s why we connect. Our dog Zoe left suddenly too. It was only in January that we learned her cancer had resurfaced, aggressively, and two weeks later we gathered to put her down. There was a great deal of crying around here, not to mention a great river of unexpected kindnesses: cards, pictures, emails, and even a food basket. Friends and family have visited and let us talk about her.

My way of handling that loss of dog love has been to walk our friends’ dogs—two in particular. The dogs lure me away from my hermit-like hunching at the computer. I rediscover walking and sunshine and that happy-doggie-love feeling. But that isn’t the real reason I’m about to go and stand on a stranger’s doorstep.

Oh no. My son got me here. Not sure how it crystallized—was it the page-long essay he just wrote at school all about his dog? Was it his occasional tears or his comment after we had a friend’s dog in for the day: “Mom when [so-and-so] was here, didn’t it feel like our family again?” He’s also complained that since Zoe died we’re always on him. Probably true. My son has been realizing the impact of loss, and reacquainting me with the benefits of pet ownership for a one-child family. When I add these things up it’s a strong case.

So—insert small sigh here—much as I’m enjoying wantonly setting appetizers on the coffee table and giving my vacuum cleaner a break, I’m accepting it. This house is likely to see sloppy dog bowls and fresh dust bunnies sooner than I expected. It’s just makes sense for us.

Will Rusty be the one? I admit I’m drawn to the poetry. He’s a dog who’s lost his family. We’re a family that’s lost our dog. Can we find happiness together? Will it be the dog behind door number 1? It can’t be that easy, can it? I’ve already prepared myself that something will go wrong—or weird. But even so, we’re heading out on the QEW tonight to give Rusty a chance. What’s going to happen? We're about to find out.