We got our dog out of the Wichita dog pound, or whatever it was called. Initially, I had seen a "for sale" ad for a dog, the breed for which I was looking. We already had a Bouviers de Flandres dog, and I wanted our elderly pup to have a companion to keep him active. I answered the ad, a few days after the 4th of July of that year, and the owner's reply was that she (the dog) had jumped the fence and fled during the fireworks in their community. She was in the pound, and they, the owners, had elected to not collect her.
Would they collect her for me? I would pay to spring her from the joint.
The owners agreed. They paid her bail, I repaid them, and the dog "Holly" came home with me.
Soon after, I renamed her Biserka. Our dog is a nutcase. She is timid, scared, yet can get totally out of control and attack the thin air in a millisecond. I think it is poor care. Abusive care. Whatever, this dog is now and will be our responsibility till her dying day.
It's a love/Lord-have-mercy relationship, for all of our family - that Spouse o' Mine can barely get her to come to him, and he can RARELY approach her without her cowering. So, so sad.
This week she was cowering upstairs during a particularly bad thnderstorm. Later, I chanced to find that she had chewed up one of my favorite paperback short-reads (I Don't Know How She Does It). Just yesterday morning, another bad storm (our world was green in atmosphere), and poor Biserka was flat-out spread eagle on the study floor. I sat down beside her (pondering how I might cajole her into the basement if need be for a tornado?) and she refused to acknowledge my presence, at all. Poor pup.
Tonight I was up in my art room, and upon reading about Nice, France's horrific news, I began crying. Silently, but the tears were flowing.
I heard pawprints downstairs. ( Biserka is an outdoor dog who gets to live indoors in hot summer and freezing winter.) I heard her climb the stairs, and then she came and lay her head in my lap. Nothing else. Just looking up at me.
This is so out of character for our little nutcase.
Maybe she knows more than she reveals.
Here it is, the following morning's edit:
Last night, I went downstairs from the art room. I went into the living room to read a bit. But, Biserka had managed, (quite out of character, I might add,) to shred the first few chapters of this week's project:
War and Peace