Personal Essays

Bringing Up Tazzy

He is crying. This grown man is crying in front of me as his dog happily hops into the backseat of my car. He utters something that sounds like “you be a good boy now”, his voice cracking, and turns away. I don’t know how to deal with tears. “We will find him a wonderful home. I promise.”

The first thing that I discovered is that I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I had dreams, big dreams, of opening up a dog rescue one day. A small one, on that great plot of land that we are going to have, where several lucky canines get to be members of my pack for a short time, and find forever homes beating down my door to greet them. Where do you begin with a dream like that?

If you have no impulse control, like myself, you begin with Tazzy. Perusing the internet classifieds one day, I happened upon a post that screamed of desperation. There was a picture of an Australian Cattle Dog staring at me, the text discussing that the family had to rehome all of their pets, all of them, and quickly. I am not sure I hesitated even a second before responding. You see, this breed is massively overrepresented in shelters around here. They are intelligent, active, and mischievous dogs. I saw that poor dog and I saw his future laid out bare before me. He would find a new home quickly, because he is so cute. He would be too much for them. He would go to a shelter, and he would not come out again. Perhaps I was being overly dramatic. Perhaps it was not anywhere close to life or death. But I did it anyway. I had found my first foster dog.