My pup wanted a dog of her own.
I’d adopted the Parsons Jack Russell in my late twenties, shortly after returning to college to earn a third degree. I named her Tempest, not only because I was continuing a childhood tradition of giving terriers T names, but also because I wanted to be able to call her Tempe for short, after one of my favorite fictional characters.
Little did I know what a prophecy that would be.
Because Tempest was a constant little storm of activity. She never tired. Even with daily trips to the dog park and walking miles at a time, she still had much more energy than I could help her burn off with my course load. Or my mere mortal stamina. Though I waited to be bitten by a magical flea that would gift me with the superpower I’d need to keep up, it never happened.
And she was getting impatient.
As more time passed, she made it clear—by trying to herd her friends out the gate with us every time we left the dog park—that she wanted a pack. I thought about getting another dog, but I didn’t know if a sibling was the right answer. I wasn’t sure I wanted—or could even handle—a second companion.
But I had to do something. People were catching on to her plan. We were starting to draw suspicious looks. And I’d heard rumors about what they do to dog-nappers in prison.
Then, after breaking my foot one night after being swept into the wall by the tornado racing around my apartment, I knew that the time had come for a change. So, I decided to give fostering a try.
I registered with the local SPCA and was told there was a little guy who could use my help. He was a terrier mix who was an involuntary surrender after his owner was reported for keeping him locked in a laundry room under inhumane conditions. That had been his third home. He was just under two years old. How could I possibly say no?
Which is how I found myself at a local pet store to make the exchange, wondering if I was about to make a huge mistake. Because three homes in less than two years is a lot. And there was one common denominator in all those equations. Were the other people the problem? Or was I about to encounter a true hell hound?
A crowd gathered as we crouched down, preparing to release the dog who was stuffed, in of all things, a cat crate. My heart jackhammered as I strained to get a look at the little guy hidden in the shadows. I’d seen a picture, but those can be deceiving. Take hippos, for example. They’re pretty cute. They’re also the deadliest mammals in the world.
I questioned my sanity. (I still do.)
I already had my hands full with Tempest. I could barely satisfy one boss, how could I handle reporting to two? But I felt increasingly guilty every time I left her alone. I knew she’d be happier with a companion. Keeping such a social pup an only dog was selfish.
Besides, what was the worst that could happen? I was only fostering. It was temporary, right?
I held my breath as the carrier door was unlatched. Seconds later, the dog burst from the crate like a cork from a champagne bottle, ignored the mob assembled around us, and leapt at me, knocking me over. All ideas of fostering immediately vanished.
I signed the adoption papers less than two minutes later.
My gut told me I was being rash. My heart told me there was no other option.
But I’m not going to lie—there were days I regretted my decision. Weeks I wished I were a cat person. And years I worked on getting him to be a well socialized pup who got along with other dogs. We’re still working on that, because when they told me he got along with other animals, they lied.
He screams bloody murder whenever he sees anything with fur, but especially other dogs. When people ask me what breed he is after hearing his outburst, I tell them he’s a Singapore Shrieker and hope they think he’s supposed to make those noises. I suspect I’ve been reported more than once for harboring an exotic species. (Good thing it doesn’t actually exist.)
To make matters worse, he wasn’t the only one who fussed. Tempest decided that the best way she could help was by trying to destroy anything that upset her brother, whether it was a squirrel or a Mastiff.
I became one of those parents. You know the ones I’m talking about. The ones you can’t help feeling sorry for because they obviously have their hands full, but at the same time, when you see them coming with their brood, you run.
But the amazing thing is, Tempest and Sullivan got along wonderfully. I’ve never seen two dogs who spent more time cuddling and loving on each other. I even wrote them into my Chief Maggie Riley series because they had such a special bond, I had to find a way to immortalize their connection and share it with the world. Tempe couldn’t have found a better companion than her Sully.
Few things in this world are as loyal as a dog’s heart, and these two are proof of that.
With degrees in Crime Scene Technology & Physical Anthropology, Florida author Shannon Hollinger hasn’t just seen the dark side of humanity – she’s been elbow deep inside of it! She finds writing to be a much cleaner way to spend her time than the autopsy suite. Most days it smells better, too.
Her short fiction has appeared in Suspense Magazine, Mystery Weekly, and The Saturday Evening Post, among a number of other magazines and anthologies. When she’s not writing, you can find her gardening, hiking with the snakes and alligators, playing butler to a demanding terrier, or pinned under a pile of unpublished manuscripts.
To see where you can find more of her work, check out www.ShannonHollinger.com
