Down the Rabbit Hole

Why A Rescue?

Why a rescue? ..For Ricky Bobby

This week we lost our 6yr old dog Ricky Bobby to a rare and aggressive mouth cancer. The decision to put him down was agonizing but we knew it was the right thing to do for our beloved family member. Ricky was a rescue, and his story, like that of so many rescues, is a story about turning a second chance into a life with a loving family for however long that life lasts, be it 6 years or 16.

It was actually my husband that found Ricky. We had made the decision to adopt a companion dog for our little red Min Pin named Turk. After missing out on several nice dogs, my husband sent me a picture of a dog named Rick. He was twelve months old and had recently arrived to a local foster home from his native Tennessee. His back-story was that he had been abandoned in a cemetery with his littermates and the kind woman who had taken in the entire pack, had managed to find homes for all of them but Rick. She was about to lose her home and fearing Rick would end up in a kill-shelter in the South, found a rescue group that agreed to bring him to the Northeast for placement.

Rick was listed as a short-haired Terrier-Sheppard mix. He reportedly had a gentle disposition, was house-broken and good with other dogs. He was younger than we had planned but we made the call and arranged to meet him at his foster home, over an hour away in Berlin. The foster home was bustling with dogs of all shapes and sizes. The pack swirled around our feet until Ramona scuttled them all away and let Rick in. He raced around the corner and right into my heart.

Rick was tall and honey-colored, a shade lighter and browner than our Turk. He was tall and had sickle-shaped tail that beat the air happily. You could almost make out the distinct breeds that might have been part of his genetic landscape, coming together in the most appealing of ways…the strong lines and large feet reminiscent of a Ridgeback and the perky, jaunting ears and face of a Collie and the soulful dark eyes of a Beagle, trimmed in black liner, that tracked our every move. We would soon come to recognize the other traits that made Rick that once in a lifetime dog…the protective instinct of a Sheppard, the loyalty of a Pit, the gentle grace of a Greyhound.
Turk and Rick hit it off immediately; they even looked like a matching set! We left that foster home with a peculiar ache in our hearts, leaving him behind after just now finding him.

After a series of meetings and home visits, we received that call that we were hoping for. Through grateful tears I listened to Ramona explain that she had chosen our family as the best fit for Rick and that we could pick him up as soon as we were ready. The next day, my grandmother and I made the trek back up to get him. We brought Rick home that afternoon, making it official by immediately amending his name to Ricky, which seemed to suit his playful, goofy demeanor much better than his more formal moniker. A few days later, while watching Talladega Nights together, I spontaneously called out “Ricky Bobby” in a really bad French accent and Ricky practically bounded across the room and into my lap. The nickname and the bad accent stuck.

Ricky Bobby, we often joked, was big on looks but not too brainy. He was often distracted by his own enthusiasm. He was prone to wild, happy spinning fits when excited, something my sister lovingly dubbed his “willies”. He adored the snow, bounding in and out of the drifts like a gazelle and snatching snowflakes out of the sky with his snapping jaws. He loved chasing the squirrels and jumping, surprising us with his athleticism by easily launching his big body three or four feet strait up off the ground. He loved to cuddle, leaning against you while you watched TV, casually throwing one of his large legs over your lap. He always snuck into bed after he thought we were safely asleep, curling his body up like a cat at our feet or boldly sneaking under the covers to lie against us in the cold nights. He also counter surfed, something we had been warned about, and occasionally ate shoes (he preferred the most expensive ones). He dolphin-poked strangers, once even nipped a particularly undesirable one in the butt. He snored, loudly at times and snatched food from our daughter’s unattended plates and occasionally from between her fingers. He also never had an accident in the house, never showed an ounce of aggression toward our daughter, even in those intrusive toddler years and never failed to make us smile or laugh.

The vet said the cancer was probably there all along. Given that he was a rescue and his history was unknown, he could have even had a genetic failing in his line and we would have never known. Regardless, we were devastated to learn that we would only have six short years with this amazing, loving dog who’d barely made it to mid-life. We expected much more for him, for us.

I started this out by asking, “Why a rescue?” Why take the chance of taking in a dog with an unknown history, questionable breeding and their own unique set of challenges? I can tell you simply and without hesitation that the answer is, because that dog will love you with everyone inch of their grateful hearts. They will love you and love you with the most unconditional, graceful love you can imagine. They will make you better people, over and over again. The right rescue will fit with your family like they were born into it. There may never be another Ricky Bobby, but as long as we are able, our home will always be open to another rescue, our hearts will always be open to that special connection with a dog looking for that second chance.

We all miss Ricky. It hurts every time we come home to not have him at the door, grinning and bouncing up and down on his big feet. We will miss you always, our big goof, our enforcer, our protector, our love bug and silly whirling dervish. RIP Ricky Bobby and know that you were our good boy and we loved you like crazy.