I bought my little dog Huckleberry a year ago. He was meant to blend smoothly into my pack of two, the oldest of which was very old: sixteen (Parsley). I wanted there to be a puppy for the middle dog (Gilly) to become friends with (back-up, to put it crudely) and asked the breeder for the quietest dog she had. Huckleberry, however, and however adorable, turned out to be the wildest little beast imaginable: affectionate, cheerful, clever as all get out… but wildly energetic: too much for a sixteen year old packmate to cope with.
I took all three dogs to spend some time with Deena, who agreed that Huckleberry was too much for his ancient friend to cope with. I was very distraught and could not imagine letting him go, however much he disrupted the household. I spoke with Deena about this (tears flowing) and she offered, at first to keep an eye out for someone who might be able to foster him for a while. She then phoned me later that day and told me she’d be willing to take him in herself. Huckleberry stayed with Deena for over two months during which time he began to settle down. I came to her house and spent an hour walking with him every day and between the two of us we taught him how to be the very good dog he is today. He loved the companionship of the other dogs and he was happy with her. He’s been home for a long time now and every bit the joy Deena and I knew he could be.
Dear Parsley had to be put down about a month ago. Gilly went into terrible mourning but Huckleberry has been her constant companion. As I write this I can hear them on the floor above, rioting and running between the rooms together.