MY DOGS I – A Night at the Kennels – Chapters 1-5

MY DOGS

PART I: A Night at the Kennels

CHAPTER 1.1 – The Right Dog

“I want a dog”. The thought came out of nowhere while I was working on travel expense reports. My mind wandered from mind-numbing hotel and credit card receipts to our old dog Kenny. Kenny had been my parent’s dog, a Golden Retriever, a beautiful soul, and my playmate for hours and hours when I was little.

I had just moved out at home a few months ago and had a small apartment with my boyfriend. We were… well, I guess “happy” is a bit too much, but “contend” could be the right word. Life was good. We both had jobs. He loved me and I appreciated him. A dog. What was missing from our life – no: my life – was a dog.

I quickly looked up a few breeders and sellers in our town. The prices on their websites were, well, sobering. Then I found a private-run animal shelter, prices there seemed a lot more affordable. My initial thought had been to get a puppy. But a grown dog, not too old – that also sounded good. A dog that’s maybe already trained. A dog that could be my companion and my guard when I went for a late run to the 7-11 through the shadier parts of our town.

I called the number on their website and a lady picked up after the 2nd ring, a hoarse voice “Yeah?”. I told her what I was looking for. “You can come any day, I’m usually here until 7 or 8” – “Great, I’ll see if I can make it this evening or tomorrow. See you then” – “See you then”.

I went back to my travel expenses and went through stacks of crumpled receipts, sorted out the ones that were obviously not related to travel, entered the straightforward ones into our system, and set aside a few to discuss with our HR guy.

I worked at a small start-up and days there were mostly chaotic and relaxed, stressful and tranquil, loud and quiet, with just the click-click-click of a dozen keyboards audible through our large one-room studio office. I didn’t have any formal training and I couldn’t even say what my real job de***********ion was. I just did everything that could distract software developers from developing software. What kind of software? Something fintech, something micro credits and crypto. I really don’t know. Some devs tried to explain it to me and I just nodded and said “cool”. My only contribution to the thing they were working on: The initial name was “MiCrypt” (for micro and crypto) and I casually mentioned that this sounds a lot like “my crypt”. This was met with long stares, and confused looks – and a week later, our product was called “BlockLoop”. What did BlockLoop stand for? No idea and I didn’t care. But I still felt that not having “my crypt” on my resume was a good thing.

Technically, my job was 9-to-5 and I got paid for 9-to-5. But in reality, it was anything between 7 and 11 to 6, 7, or 8 at night. I did enjoy the freedom to come in late on some days when I had errands to run or just got stuck on my morning coffee. I hated evenings, though. I got most of my work done by 5. And every day, something super urgent came up, somebody ordered pizza or sushi, lots of yelling, more furious typing, cursing – and suddenly it was 7 or 8 and I just left while devs were still at it.

I had joined the start-up 14 months ago but hadn’t made any friends. The devs kept to themselves. All of them were friendly and even though they communicated with each other using curse words and lots of “bro” they were always polite when asking me for help. Most of them were in their mid-twenties and the dress code was… well, one could say “casual”, but “sandals, army shorts, and band shirts” would describe it a lot better. I made a point of being well-dressed when I came to the office. Nothing over the top, certainly not provocative. White blouse, black skirt, black shoes, no high heels. I don’t know why, but this somehow felt right to me. It took me some time to figure out that this is how Mom dressed when she was still working. I know that most of the devs liked to look at me. At 23, I stood at 5’1 and I knew that even though I certainly wasn’t a knock-out, I had a nice body and even a conservative blouse and skirt brought out more curves than some of the devs could handle. Almost all of them were between slightly and severely overweight, almost all of them had bad skin and one or two had very strong body odor. I still liked them. None of them had ever made a move at me, said something inappropriate or made me uncomfortable.

I wanted to be at the kennel between 6 and 7, so I made sure to finish the travel expenses before 5, cleaned up all the other things off my desk, and got ready to leave around 6. I noticed that the atmosphere in the office changed, it was calm and quiet around 5 and then things got more agitated. Don, the head of development came over: “The cheque for the cloud service bounced… can you check what happened”? It took another hour to follow up on that, clear the cheque with the bank, notify the cloud provider that we had transferred the money, and so on. It was after 7 when I had finally cleaned up the whole mess.

I called the animal shelter lady and asked if she’d still be around if I came 7:30ish.

“Oh, honey, I’m not sure. But you got the address and the kennels are in front of the house. You can just go and have a look. You know, when you find the right dog, your dog… you will know. You don’t need me to tell you”.

I said bye to the folks in the office, rushed to my car, sped out of the parking garage – and then was stuck in traffic for over half an hour. I made it to the shelter and looked at my phone. 8:07pm. Damn. 9-to-5 had been another 9:30-to-7 today…

The shelter was a large, U-shaped compound at the outskirts of town. An ugly house that looked like it was cobbled together from half a dozen other ugly houses sat at the back of the property. Left and right of the driveway to the house were large kennels, like a row of garages on both sides. I could smell a very distinct odor… it smelled of dog shit, dog sweat and dog food. Not the nicest smell but it did remind me of Kenny’s basket at my parent’s house. It did smell like this, just maybe a factor of 10 or 20 less than the blanket of dog air that engulfed the kennels.

On the left side, each kennel housed smaller dogs, 3 to 5 in each kennel. They barked excitedly when they saw me, wagged their little tails, and stood up against the netting wire. I wasn’t sure what kind of dog I wanted, but one thing I knew: a big one. Not a purse rat. So I ignored the dogs on the left and inspected the right side. Slightly bigger dogs, the biggest was a Golden Retriever just like Kenny. He looked old and hunched over, his fur pale and tattered. Other dogs looked better (and younger), but none of them caught my eye. They were all mid-sized, most of them a mix of different breeds. If the “You will know when you find your dog” was right, I didn’t find it here, not even close. Maybe coming here had been a mistake. There’s a reason why real breeders charge more. This looked like the leftover bin at WalMart. I got goosebumps when I realized that this was a terrible thing to think and I’m glad that there was nobody there I could’ve told such an insensitive thing. It wasn’t the dogs’ fault that they were old, it wasn’t their fault that they didn’t look well-groomed. I couldn’t know what some of them had been through and how much they longed for a real home and not a dirty kennel, cramped together with other dogs and superficial chicks like me walking by and counting out “You ugly, you ugly, you old and ugly…”.

But even if that was a terrible thought, there was a kernel of truth to it: none of those dogs looked like the kind of companion (or guard) I was looking for. And there certainly wasn’t anything like a magical connection with any of those scruffy animals.

I let out a sigh and had to smile at all the trouble I had been going through to arrive at the shelter in time (and failed miserably at it) and at the excitement I had felt when I stepped on the property. OK, it had been worth a try – next stop: a professional breeder and who knew, maybe with a bit of haggling I could get one I could afford.

I turned around, ready to leave, when I saw another kennel next to the house. It was much smaller than the long row of kennels along the driveway, roughly the size of two garages separated into three smaller compartments. “Might as well check out all of it” I thought and walked up to it. The first thing I noticed was that it didn’t smell as bad as the other kennels. There was a clean smell to it, even though the kennels themselves looked old and worn down. There was that musky dog smell, but no smell of dog poop or piss. The second thing was hard to miss: a big sign, about 10 feet in front of the kennels

Beware Not for Sale Danger

“Ok, that sounds reassuring!”… I stepped a little closer but kept my distance from the kennels. There must be a reason for that sign – and finding out what kind of “Danger” lurked there was probably not a good idea.

The kennel in the middle housed a large German Shepherd. When I approached he stood dead center and looked at me. He didn’t bark or growl, he just looked at me. I tilted my head to the side, he watched me and tilted his head to the side. I smiled and tilted my head to the other side. He tilted his head to the other side. “When you find the right dog, your dog, you will know”.

Shit. There was no real way to describe it, but I felt… something. He held my gaze. His brown eyes looked kind and curious… he opened his mouth and licked his snout.

“Well, great, I have found my magical connection with a dog labeled as ‘Beware!’, ‘“Danger’… and not to forget, ‘Not for Sale’”. I forced myself to look away, this felt like a major heartbreak. In the kennel to the left was a strange mix of… what? Pitbull and St. Bernard? Something like this. The dog was huge, it looked like a fat pig. He paced back and forth and looked at me. No barking, no growling. He was ugly but in a… I dunno… cute kind of way. Everything about him seemed a little off, the short legs carrying his giant body, the long tail wagging not left and right but more like a crooked up and down. His eyes weren’t as kind as the German Shepard’s, but he didn’t look aggressive or mean… just mildly interested in this new guest. I looked at him and smiled. He sat down. Because of his short legs, he looked hunched over and I had to smile.

I turned my head and looked at the right kennel. From where I was standing I couldn’t see all of it. It seemed to be empty. I took two steps forward, making sure I was still outside any zone that could be referred to as “Beware” or “Danger”. Half of the right kennel was in shadow and it seemed empty. I took another step forward, now I was 3, maybe 4 feet away from the thick bars. Still outside the “Danger!” zone but closer than I was probably allowed to approach. There was a piece of dirty duct tape next to the kennel’s door handle and it simply said “Kong”. I smiled… I kinda liked hyperbolic names for dogs.

I stared into the darkness and thought I saw a movement. But it was too high up to be a dog unless the occupant of the kennel was lying on a bunk bed or something. I heard a scraping sound, like paws on concrete and then I saw two eyes. “This… this can’t be!” I thought. The eyes were level with mine and I stand at 5 feet and one inch. The eyes closed and opened again… and out of the shows came the biggest Great Dane I had ever seen. He must’ve been on his hind legs when I saw his eyes… now that he was walking towards me, his eyes were at the height of my chest. I could see his muscles move under the thick, black fur.

“Hi Kong” I said… and he sat down and looked at me, motionless. On his hind legs, he was taller than me, by a good 2 inches, maybe 3. “Where do they breed monsters like this?”… I had seen big dogs before, some scarily big ones, but never anything even remotely like this. Now I kinda got what the “Danger” sign was for. This beast looked like it could bite my head off. His mouth was open and now I saw his teeth… this was insane. He had big fangs in his upper jaw, but his lower jaw… those things looked like the tusks of a wild boar. Is this some mutation? I vaguely remembered a Great Dane who lived down the street from my parent’s house. He was huge, but probably merely half the size of this giant… and I was pretty sure that I remembered that he had, like, normal dog teeth. Not… this abomination. It looked scary. It looked wrong.

Kong was still sitting 5 feet away from me, he didn’t move and his eyes were… seizing me up? Maybe calculating if I would make just one big dinner or would last him a few days if he saved the stringy bits for last?

I shuddered. “OK, there was a definite connection with the first dog. There was kind of something with the second dog… but this? This was just weird… and wrong… and terrifying.”

“First dog… what’s his name?” I thought and moved two steps back. Kong looked at me, he didn’t even blink. I looked at the door of the kennel in the middle. Another piece of duct tape, and in small, neat handwriting “MacGyver”.

Now I really had to laugh. Can he build a key to his kennel from bones and straw? Speaking of keys… it seemed none of the doors had a real lock. Just round handles in the middle of a big iron plate. Round handle. Big plate around it… probably so the dogs can’t reach through the bars and press down a door handle. Smart and simple. This was lasered on a stone plate in our office. Smart and simple.

“Hey, MacGyver!” I winked at the big German Shepherd. Looking at him felt much more consoling than looking at Kong. MacGyver looked at me but didn’t really seem to react. Does he know his name? Or is this something they just assigned to him and never used it because he was locked up in the “Beware! Danger!” kennel all day and night? “MacGyver! MacGyver! Mac…”. On the last try, the dog’s ears stood up and he tilted his head again. Can dogs smile? It seemed he did. And it was really, really difficult to look away from those big brown eyes.

MacGyver stepped forward, close to the bars, and pressed his snout between two bars… I took a step towards him… he looked at me, ears and eyes following my motions. I stuck my hand out, slowly… I could see that he couldn’t possibly move forward anymore, so my hand was safe. I brought it close to his nose and he sniffed my hand and gave it a quick lick. His tongue was warm and wet and I couldn’t really tell why this gave me goosebumps on my arm. MacGyver drew back and just stood there, his tail wagging and his head tilted just a little bit. I said “Mac, sit!” and he sat down. “Mac, up!” and he stood up. “Mac, sit!”. Now he tilted his head some more as if he wanted to say “Now, can we please make up our minds about the sit or up stuff?”.

“Damn. I like this dog. The lady was right. When it’s there, you just know”.

“Not for Sale” – we will see about this. “Beware! Danger!” – well, this was obviously for Kong and maybe the Pitbull/St. Bernard mix but certainly not for this docile and gentle animal with such kind eyes.

I had to force myself to look away because MacGyver’s eyes gave me a strange feeling… like a warm embrace on a cold winter night. Damn, this sounded so corny, so not me. But this was the first thing that came to my mind. A warm embrace. A companion. A guard.

The duct tape on the left kennel said “Gandhi”. Now that’s… pretty damn fucking funny. “Beware! Danger! Gandhi!”. The fat dog paced back and forth on his short legs and looked at her. “Hey Gandhi!”. He stopped. “Gandhi, sit!” He sat down. His long tongue was hanging from his mouth and he waited for his next command. “Gandhi, up!”. Nothing. “Gandhi, up!” He just sat there. Well great. MacGyver barked and Gandhi looked at him. MacGyver sat down and then stood up. Barked. Sat down and stood up. Barked. Gandhi stood up. MacGyver barked twice. “Amazing!” I thought. Had this dog just taught another dog a command? “Gandhi, sit!”. Gandhi sat down. “Gandhi, up” He stood up and wagged his tail. MacGyver barked twice. “Good boy, Gandhi”. I moved closer and held up my hand. Gandhi sniffed it and then put his short, stubby snout into the palm of my hand. I caressed the soft fur, moved a little closer so I could move my hand up and down his neck. If he wanted to bite… well, it was now or never. But Gandhi just looked at me… his eyes weren’t as mesmerizing as MacGyver’s, but I did like that he looked a bit… demanding. More goosebumps. Why?

I decided to try my luck with Mr. Kong. I certainly wouldn’t let him sniff me or touch him. That dog could hurt me without even trying (or wanting to). Kong sat close to the bars, motionless as always. “Kong, up!”. He didn’t move. “Kong, up!”. Nothing. And it didn’t seem like MacGyver wanted to lend a hand (or a bark). I sighed and turned away. Kong stood up. I turned back. Kong looked at me. Could dogs look defiant? If they could, Kong did. “Kong, sit”. Kong stood motionless, closed his eyes and opened them again. “Kong, sit!”. Eyes closed, opened. I turned away and walked towards MacGyvers kennel… and then I looked back over my shoulder. Kong sat and looked straight ahead, away from me. “You don’t like taking commands, right?”. He didn’t look at me. “Well, guess what: I don’t like you either”.

I stood in front of MacGyver’s kennel. My eyes moved between him and the handle of the kennel door. “Now, this is a really bad idea…” I thought. “Mac… back. Go back!”. Mac looked at me, confused. He obviously didn’t know this command. “Mac, go back!” and I pointed my arm to the back of his kennel. He took a step backwards. “Good boy! Go back!” I pointed again. Mac walked backward, holding my gaze. When his tail bumped into the wall, he stood still. “Mac, sit!”. He sat down. I sighed. “This is such a bad idea…” I turned the handle and opened the door to Mac’s kennel.