To lose a pet is devastating, whether it be from cancer, old age, or just bad luck, but to lose one because an animal’s mental stability is tampered with is uniquely traumatizing. Meet Harlan, the first dog-love of my life.
As a stray, Harlan had a tough life. I was told that he was brought to a shelter at five years of age when All Breed Rescue found him and transported him to Vermont.
On a cold Friday morning in late January, I found an ad on Craigslist from a large rescue I had vaguely looked in to. It said that a large transport of dogs was coming in, and fosters were desperately needed. I quickly filled out a foster application, delighting in the fact that there was no experience necessary. I waited with baited breath, wondering if I would get a dog the next day. Later that evening, I received a phone call from a Lynne Robertson, letting me know that I could come the next day to a Northfield Savings Bank parking lot to pick up my brand new foster dog.
“Any breeds you want? We’ve got a transport of over 30 dogs,” she said.
“Bullmastiff, Mastiff, anything big!” I exclaimed happily.
“We’ve got this dog Harlan, who is definitely mixed with some sort of Mastiff. He’s such a handsome boy. We’ll see you tomorrow at 7:00 in the morning!”
Delighted, I hung up the phone and began to make preparations for my new roommate. I ran to pet stores to find the best toys and the healthiest treats. I put out a giant water bowl, food bowl, and created a makeshift bed of cushions, egg crate pads, and blankets. It was just like Christmas, but better. I’d never gotten a puppy for Christmas before, so this was it. This was my Christmas. This would be my dog.
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