Grace’s Story

I was just approved to foster for a new rescue group, a huge operation with hundreds of dogs, some living on the group’s farm, others placed in foster homes.

As with all good rescue organizations, their policy is clear: If—at any time and for any reason—you no longer want the dog you’ve adopted, you MUST return him or her to the group. It’s the only way to ensure that dogs don’t end up worse off than before.

I got the call that someone adopted a dog, kept her for the summer, then tried to get rid of her on Craigslist. Craigslist! Luckily, the woman was dumb enough to say where the dog came from and a vigilant animal advocate alerted the group so they could retrieve her.

That’s where I came in. Knowing that she wasn’t wanted by her new family, I figured she had serious behavioral issues, prepared the house accordingly (Cords wrapped. Garbage hidden. Sofa covered. Tables doused with bitter apple spray. Crate prepped. Cleaning products handy), and went to pick her up.

She was quite a sight. Black lab body, stubby bassett hound legs, and named Grace by the nutjob who tried to auction her off online.

She walked into the house, peed right on the rug (ahh-haa!) then proceeded to be the easiest, most entertaining, obedient, and lovely creature you could imagine. What more you could want from a dog, I can’t even fathom. Why she was rejected, I’ll never understand.

It was as if she understood English. Go outside. OK. Get in the car. OK. Go in your crate. OK. Put that down. OK. (I probably employed the crate during working hours for way too long. Left out that first time, she promptly went to sleep on the living room chair and never caused a bit of trouble).

Grace was the third dog in more than 10 years who fit in so well I wondered whether it was a sign. In fact, caring for her never felt anything like work. I couldn’t wait to see her at the end of the day and was constantly amazed at how well behaved she was.

Except for the bolting.

Six months into her stay we had a major scare. I was walking Keeper and Grace and somehow her leash detached from her harness. (I still don’t know how.) I was standing there, holding both leashes, trying to comprehend how Grace was half a block ahead of us. I called her name and she took off like a Florida greyhound.

(panic)

I threw Keeper in the house, grabbed the car keys and some dry food (how did I think of this?) and sped off after her.

Every time I spotted her and called her name she’d make a mad dash down an alleyway, into traffic, chasing squirrels with happy abandon. The chase went on for quite some time, but she kept on circling back towards our neighborhood.

At a critical impasse, with cars approaching and a busy highway ramp within her reach, I got close enough to rattle the cup of dry food. She couldn’t resist.

Food. Her biggest reason for living probably saved her life.

Shaken and distraught (me, not her), I thought we should try satisfying her desire to dash off by running together even though previous attempts at this god-awful activity was nothing but chest-crushing misery for me.

I can dance in a studio with music for hours, but I could barely run three blocks. Turned out that Grace was exactly the inspiration I needed. On her short little legs, she’d pull me along—straight and steady as an arrow, rarely stopping to sniff things, never seeming to tire.

First we did a half mile. Then a whole mile. Then two! I hadn’t been this exhausted from anything at the gym in a long time, probably because it was completely new. And my back and knees felt great, other reasons I thought I’d never be a runner.

Then, of course, the call came: A family was interested in Grace and wanted to meet her at the event on Saturday.

We were sitting in the grass with the other dogs when they came over to us, a mom and her four kids. They got down on the grass and rubbed her belly and fell pretty much in love at first sight. Their elderly dog had a difficult last few years and they were so excited to have a playful dog in the house again.

My only fear was that a gate might get left open in busy household with kids, giving her a chance to high tail it.

Enter: DogTracs. That’s right, GPS for dogs. (Thank you, technology, and the geeks who invent these things.) It was my shower gift to Grace’s new family, although it was mostly for my own peace of mind. Now I can sleep at night knowing Grace is well loved and, most importantly, traceable, should she get the urge to dash off again.

What she left behind: What can you say about a coach who inspired you to do something you didn’t think you were capable of? I’ve always envied runners. No gym memberships, no special equipment. They just take off out the door whenever the mood hits and get a hell of a workout. Whenever I run, for the rest of my life, I’ll think about Grace and how she made my first mile possible—stubby legs and all. Thanks, Gracie.