Soccer Dog

I haven’t mentioned our dog yet because I was waiting for just the right moment to share her story. But I am mad at her today, so she is getting an early mention.

So the kids wanted a dog. Of course…what kid doesn’t? My daughter's birthday list last year looked like this:
1. dog
2. dog
3. dog
4. dog
5. hamster

We held off until we thought they’d be responsible to at least pick up poop (which they do not do, by the way). Then we started looking at dogs without telling the kids. Turns out, adopting a rescue dog is not as easy as it would seem. We tried all the local shelters and rescue sites online and filled out countless forms and applications. People who rescue dogs are selfless and compassionate and serious about whom they let these animals ultimately live with, so they scrutinize and question. Every time I found a dog that seemed a good fit for our family, by the time I got through the process he or she would already be adopted. I was glad we hadn’t yet let the kids in on it.

This was in the fall, so my daughter was just starting her soccer season. She plays forward but hadn’t yet scored, so we offered an incentive: once you score we’ll get a dog. That girl grew wheels! She was suddenly faster and more aggressive, and practiced dribbling and shooting nearly every day. But two more games passed and she still hadn’t scored. Now she had the added pressure of her siblings, who blamed her for remaining dog-less.

It wasn’t looking too promising the day they played a team clearly out of their league. Our girls were down 9-0, when from way down at the other end of the field I saw the ball go high into the opposing net. I didn’t see who scored, but the mystery was soon solved when the entire team started jumping up and down screaming, “Cory! You’re getting a dog! Cory’s getting a dog!!” No one cared that the score was 9-1. Cory was getting a dog.

Our search got more aggressive then. Every spare weekend minute was spent scouring shelters and adoption events. After just a few more weeks, we walked into the empty back area of a Salvation Army where a local group takes adoptable dogs on weekends. Taking a quick glance around, were ready to walk back out the door when we spotted a beautiful dog in a crate in off to the side. This poor pup was just 7 months old and recovering from multiple illnesses, including parvo—from which she almost died—and kennel cough. She wasn’t adoptable yet. Her rescuer just wanted her to have a change of scenery, but we weren’t giving up. We all fell in love with her that day and aggressively stayed in contact with her rescuer in order to prove that she belonged with us. Two weeks later, after a clean vet evaluation, we picked her up and she became ours. We renamed her Angel, because she obviously had one looking out for her. She’s even the color of my carpet—a white husky-lab mix. Super-smart and easy to train, she’s never given us any trouble. Truly an angel.

Until this week, that is. I stumbled into the kitchen to make the coffee this morning, and our little “Angel” had her nose in the trash and recycling. It was all over the floor—chewed up plastic and stinky rotten food spread all over the wood. The bins pull out from a kitchen cabinet, so either we left the door ajar or she’s smarter than we think. Regardless, I startled her and she scrambled out of there, clearly admitting her guilt. I wouldn't be so mad, but she woke me up at 4am a few days ago with the same offense. That time I forgave her easily because she had never done anything like that. This time I am taking it personally.

Washing the floor twice in one week is just not cool.