I know this is a travel blog but it’s also about photography, life, exercise, outdoors, my home state and apparently I can’t seem to stop myself from writing about my dogs. With that said, this post has to do with travel AND my dog.
Charlie, my about 5-year-old (we think) abused rescue dog’s story starts . . . well, we’re not really sure. Every rescued dog has a story, but my Charlie’s story is quite interesting. I started fostering Charlie from a rescue in January of this year and before officially adopting him, I acquired what record they had of him. In October of last year his owners dropped him off at a shelter located about an hour or so from my home. He got adopted, but was returned back to the shelter a week later. He made his way to the rescue by December.
The first day he came to my house he stunk the place up within 10 minutes of arrival. I don’t know when the last time he had a bath, if ever. I quickly thew him in the tub and gave him the bath of a lifetime. I don’t know for sure, but I think that’s what originally bonded him to me. Although he was scared, I think he liked to be taken care of and he was attached to me from then on.
When I was in the process of adopting Charlie I got an email from the rescue saying they had run into something on Charlie that was a first for them.
It turned out Charlie’s microchip was registered to the United Kingdom, so I needed to get a USA chip put in him.
My mind raced with a million questions. What part of the UK? How did he get here? When did he get here? Where else has he been? Does that mean he’s REALLY from there? Is he Irish? Scottish? English? Welch? Northern Ireland is still part of the the UK and the thought of having an Irish dog would be enough to send me into giddy convulsions.
I came home from work that day and just looked at him. A huge smile spread across my face.
“Charlie!” I said. “You never told me about your secret past!” He just wagged his tail.
Everyone said Charlie was MEANT to be my dog when they found out the news. The girl who lives to travel just got a dog from her favorite part of the world without even knowing it.
Shorty after adopting Charlie, he had to have mouth surgery because his teeth were so horribly decayed from never being taken care of (which brought on a plethora of British teeth jokes to accompany the already standing jokes that I was harboring an illegal immigrant in my home.)
It’s funny because I think he knows I rescued him. He worships the ground I walk on and never, ever leaves my side when I am home. He looks up at me like I am a God. I’m the only one he listens to. Every time I leave the house he literally goes into a panic attack that takes at least 15 minutes for him to calm back down. There is no better word to describe Charlie than sweet. He is the sweetest thing I have ever met in my life. He is also very well-behaved, not to mention adorable. I don’t understand how anybody wouldn’t want him. He is my loyal companion and loves me unconditionally. I am so happy and proud to say he is mine.
I can’t begin to imagine all the things Charlie has been through in his short life. His past 8 months alone have had more change than I’ve had in my entire life. I have so many thoughts of what Charlie’s been through and where he’s been. Who knows the extent of his abuse, the places he’s been, how many owners he’s had or how many shelters he’s been to. But all that stuff doesn’t really matter.
All that matters now is he’s finally home.