I met Sophie, a Black Australian Shepherd-Golden Retriever mix who looks just like a Flat-Coated Retriever, when she was a year old. She raced out to the rocks at the southeast border of my backyard, curled her lip Elvis style and wagged the lower half of her body so hard that she wound up shaped like a U with her tail and her shoulders side by side. It was love at first wag.
As sweet as she was neglected by her owners, Sophie shot over to the fence as soon as she was let out of her five-foot by ten-foot chain link dog run. Every day I would look out my bedroom window and see her sitting in that mega cage, often up to twelve hours a day or more. I couldn’t bear it. So I made friends with her owners and got them to agree to let me bring her along on dog outings or bring her over to play with my two Cocker Spaniels, Hoover and Dashiell.
One cold, rainy fall night I returned home late. As I was dropping the bedroom window shade, I spotted Sophie still in her dog run. Her owners had draped a tarp over the top, but the water that had pooled in the plastic was now dripping down from all sides. Sophie was soaked. I couldn’t take it. I headed straight for my computer and began to search the local Craigslist to see if anyone was selling a Dog Igloo. Sophie clearly needed shelter and that would keep her warm in the winter and cool in the summer. I found a couple of options and emailed the owners. The next day one of them called me.
“Is there any way you would give me a better price?” I inquired when he asked for $60. “You see, it’s not even for my dogs.”
When I explained the situation, he dropped his price to $40. I picked up Sophie’s “new” dog house that afternoon and snuck it into her dog run. Then I lied, telling my neighbors that I had found it at a yard sale for $5 and couldn’t resist.
That January, temperatures plunged down to single digits as they do every year in Bend, Oregon. I called Sophie’s parents.
“You can’t leave her outside,” I announced firmly. “Bring her to me in the morning before you go to work. You can pick up her when you get home.”
They didn’t argue and Sophie rapidly became a fixture in my house. I dog sat her when the family went camping, although I have to admit I never understood why you would want to camp without your dog. I took her to dog training classes with my two pups. And I continued to bring her along on dog walks during which all three pups would run free.
“You want my dog,” my neighbor announced when she opened her front door for me one morning.
“Yes I do,” I replied. I had no idea if she was talking about that day or forever. It didn’t matter. The answer applied to both.
A few months later, Sophie’s owner called me. Sophie had turned on the family’s 3-year-old son who tormented Sophie regularly, catching him under the eye to the point where he needed a couple of stitches. Clearly she had had enough.
“We can’t keep her,” the mother told me on the phone through her tears. “You have been so involved with her, I wonder if you would want to foster her and help adopt her out.”
“Bring her over right now,” I said.
I had her chipped within the month. So much for fostering.
Sophie fit right in. She had spent so much time with us that Hoover and Dashiell accepted her without question. She had already become part of the family. She already belonged.
My friends loved her and she loved them right back, making each feel like he or she was her favorite person in the entire world. At least half a dozen of my friends and their kids still believe they’re Sophie’s absolute favorite.
How does she do it? Whether she goes in for a kiss or pets, or rolls on the lawn with a toy, she plays to her audience. Sure, there’s an element of neediness in her behavior, a result of her early neglect. But she’s found a way to win over just about every person she comes in contact with. That’s a talent every writer needs to cultivate to successfully market his or her work.
My black, furry people-pleaser also has the ability to focus more intently than anyone I know. She sits by the window with her chin on the ledge and stalks squirrels in the rocks to the left of her former home. Dashiell watches with her from a nearby arm chair. In the flick of a rodent tail, they dash out the dog door and rocket over to the rocky embankment. The squirrels are fairly safe with Dashiell. No so much with Sophie. Luckily, I remembered that we don’t have any squirrel toys, so I didn’t make the mistake of picking up the stiff carcass on the stair landing.
Sophie merges deadly effectiveness with unbounded love. She’s focused, enthusiastic and dedicated. Exactly what every writer needs. She would have made one hell of an author.
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