The Dirt Field

This story happened almost two months ago, but ten years from now when I look back over this website, I want to be able to reread this episode of our lives and remember it fondly. And shamefully.

Early one Saturday morning in late March, I was browsing the Internet and decided to search the Craigslist pet pages for Shiba Inus. Kobe is a Shiba Inu and I always like to see what other Shibas are out there looking for homes. It’s simply a passive interest; after our failures with Mischa and Kiko last summer, Bobby and I had decided we were absolutely not getting another dog. Our only plans for a new pet included a chameleon, and I was not even sure a weekly cricket purchase was an obligation I could handle.

My search brought up a listing for a “free to a good home – purebread shiba inu” and I saw that someone was giving away their six year old male Shiba Inu named Scout. These ads always kill me because I can’t imagine raising a dog, owning it for years, and then giving it away; maybe a child, but certainly not a dog. I also can’t image misspelling “purebred”, but I suspect that’s just me being picky.

The ad had a phone number listed, so Bobby urged me to call and at least get more information. When I called, the guy who answered the phone seemed confused and deeply backwoods. He had little information to provide on Scout, except to tell me that the dog had no behavioral issues and that he and his wife were getting rid of it because they had five dogs, a herd of cats, several ferrets, and a baby on the way. The ad listed his residence as Falmouth, VA, so I asked for clarification on where that was in relation to the Washington DC area. “Right by Falmouth Elementary,” he explained helpfully. When that didn’t register for me (or anyone else outside of a 2-block radius of the school), he added that he was also near the local grocery store. Since that equally helpful direction did nothing either, he went more global: “Have you heard of Interstate 95?” Yes, that and also America. I’ve heard of America.

I ended the conversation by saying that Bobby and I would be down in the early afternoon to see the dog, and that we would call just before leaving for Falmouth. As promised, later that day I called and spoke to another guy at the same number who assured me the dog was still available, so Bobby, Kobe, and I drove 90 minutes to their house. We pulled up and knocked on the door (which was festively adorned with a Christmas wreath…in March), but got no response. After waiting a few minutes, I called from my cell phone and the original guy picked up. I announced that we were there to see the dog, to which he replied, “Which one?” When I answered him, he sounded hesitant as he explained that he was in the backyard, but that somebody was already there to get the dog.

A few moments passed and then two men came out from around back of the house. A fluffy, adorable Shiba Inu trotted out between them and ran up to me. I petted the dog and exchanged a few brief words with his new owner, before the owner loaded Scout into his pickup truck and drove off. It was heartbreaking. Not that we’d decided to even adopt Scout or determined that Kobe would accept another dog; those were just semantics. All I knew was that Scout was free and cute and that a man had just taken him away in a pickup truck.

The original owner just looked at us, shrugged, and said, “Sorry.” I wanted to stab him with his mailbox.

I don’t recall exactly how we came to our next move, but I am certain it did not involve a lot of extensive, reasonable thinking or planning. Within twenty seconds of getting back in the car, we decided to follow the man in the pickup truck to try convincing him to give us the dog. That doesn’t sound any smarter two months later.

We picked up speed and found him on the main road outside the former owner’s neighborhood, at which point we started waving and honking and flashing the high beams. After a mile or so of insanity, the guy pulled over into a gravel parking lot. Bobby and I quickly decided to offer him $100 for Scout, with a maximum offer of $200 if he wouldn’t bend. The guy rolled down his window, I rolled down mine, and the first words out of my mouth were, “I’ll give you two hundred dollars for that dog.” I drive a hard bargain.

He said no and explained that the dog was for his girlfriend and he really couldn’t let her down now and blah blah blah but the ONLY way he would part with Scout was if we could cover the final part of the payment he needed for the dog he REALLY wanted, this wolf in West Virginia. He was only $350 short of his dream wolf, and if we could give him that, Scout was ours. It only took a moment of deliberation to decide, okay, sure, let me just follow you to an ATM so I can get you the cash in exchange for that free, dirty, middle-aged dog I’ve never met. I wish I was kidding.

My only stipulation was that Kobe be able to meet Scout before we finalized the deal, but since we were in a gravel parking lot and Scout had no leash or collar, I introduced them by holding Kobe up to the passenger seat where Scout was sitting. They didn’t immediately try to kill each other, so I decided it was a match made in heaven and I could empty my checking account in good conscience.

We followed the guy to the nearest ATM, and while I got the cash, the guy showed Bobby pictures of his other dog, a 130-pound Rottweiler from Germany, and discussed his search for the perfect wolf. I came back at the end of that conversation, handed over the cash, waited while the guy took a picture of Scout for his girlfriend (“Darling, look at the adorable dog I didn’t get you!”), and then climbed into the backseat of Bobby’s car with Scout on one side of me and Kobe on the other.

Just as we merged onto the highway heading home, Scout started foaming at the mouth. I immediately worried that I’d spent $350 on a rabid animal, but my fears were calmed when Scout leaned over and dumped fifteen pounds of lightly processed kibble on the floor. I did the best cleanup I could on the side of the road, throwing handfuls of discarded food out the window with a plastic bag, and all was good until he threw up again. That was harder to clean up, since I was out of bags and we were going 70mph on the highway. I didn’t think it could get much worse, until the stress of the whole day became too much for Scout, who started leaking pellets of poop on the backseat.

We made it to the pet store with no further incidents (because really, what else could have happened, short of maybe having the dog bleed out on my lap?) and chose to take Scout into the store using Kobe’s leash and collar. Scout was straggly, dirty, and sprinkled with bits of poop, but by the time we fitted him with his own collar and leash and made it back out to the car, no fewer than a dozen people had gushed about his extreme cuteness. At least I know that my expensive free dog was a worthwhile investment.

It has now been two months, and I can’t imagine my life without Scout. He is sweet, cuddly, and a great companion for Kobe. The two of them get along like brothers and now share all of the same quirks and bad habits, which is especially nice considering Kobe’s inability to interact with other people or dogs without lunging and snapping. Other than that, and a proclivity for peeing on the corner of the bed and pulling paper products out of the trash, Scout is a wonderful dog.

On another note, if you have any stuff you’re looking to give away, let me know. I pay top dollar and am more than willing to negotiate.