“He’s afraid of strangers,” I added, “and may run off if approached.”
Bailey had been a “gift” a year earlier from my teenager, who brought him home one evening from her summer job at a New York dog adoption center. He was originally from Georgia, where dogcatchers had picked him up running loose on a road. Once they had him in custody[8], his days were numbered.
He was sprung free by members of a growing movement of nationwide dog rescuers. Just like the brave volunteers of the Underground Railroad who smuggled fugitive slaves to safety in the North during the early 1800s, these animal lovers pick up dogs that face certain death in Southern “high kill” shelters then drive them hundreds of miles north to “no kill” adoption centers.[9]
I quickly learned why Bailey had been found running on a road. If I left a sliding door even a tiny bit ajar he’d push his way through and take off like lightning.[10] It became a game. He’d escape; I’d grab my keys and go after him in the car.
Inside the house, Bailey entertained himself by shredding my furniture, chewing whole boxes of tissues into tiny bits, and barking like a maniac at everything that moved: school buses, garbage trucks, and even the wind.[11]
We passed the cold winter nights watching TV; I held the remote in one hand and scratched his ears with the other, speaking softly in hopes he’d become more accustomed to being with people. Bailey seemed particularly interested in the “Dog Whisperer” program. He’d sit directly in front of the TV, nose to the glass with his head cocked, as though listening intently to trainer Cesar Millan’s advice.[12]
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