Inky was not an immediate fit into our lives. We'd had to put down Acer a month or so prior and were still unsure of when we wanted another dog. Honestly, we felt a little coerced into agreeing to foster again, but it turns out that's what we, by which I mostly mean B, needed.
A bright-eyed, skinny ball of energy. The skinny part would diminish with us. :-D
This little boxer was much stronger and more energetic than our old Methuselah (rescue name for Acer). She liked to jump and had a knack for landing square on the crotch of the target. She was only about 50 pounds, but it was 50 pounds of muscle packed on her small stature.
I didn't want such a frisky dog. It didn't feel right to force a dog with so much energy to stay in a kennel all day while we were at work, then expect her to find a way to disperse that energy when we had none by the time we got home.
I made efforts to be a good dog foster. I gave the rescue a written description of her personality to put on their webpage. I took her to an adoption event in Belton and answered a lot of
Excuse me, I'm perfect as I am, sir.
But one day, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, my left leg stretched out in front of me, my right hanging off the edge. Inky was right between them, getting full body rubs and loving every moment. She turned toward me, her head upside down and natural boxer smile exaggerated, and gave me this look.
It was a combination of love, trust, contentment and devotion in her eyes, given in that pure, unadulterated, in-the-moment way only animals can manage.
I knew then she'd decided to keep us, and we would keep her.
Her energy level adapted to ours. She had her bat-out-of-hell moments when she was let out of her kennel in the evening for dinner, but she always ended up finding "her" spot in the couch -- her preferences being having her chin elevated slightly and some part of her body wedged against me or B -- and settled down.
Not uncommon.
She was a bit of a "grumpy old woman" at times, known for growling at whatever noises she heard in the front yard. B and I joked that she was muttering for them kids to get off her lawn.
She loved squeaky toys and being chased down for them.
She was completely food-driven, even learning new tricks at 7+ years old with the promise of a Milkbone. But she did have manners; she never got on the couch when one of us was eating. Someone, at some point, had taught her a thing or two before she ended up at Killeen Animal Shelter, and eventually the Austin Boxer Rescue.
I still compulsively look at her kennel when I walk into the bedroom, I guess checking to see if she's just reappeared. I haven't had the gumption to take it down yet, though I've put her bowls and toys in the garage. Every time I pass the kennel, it clinks as I brush it and my heart clenches a little.
The bed feels colder than usual, even with two people, because we don't have a little boxer body anchoring the top of the covers in place near our feet.
Like this, for example.
I don't have to worry about getting home in the evening to feed her, though the driving habit is still there. I still feel odd staying out later to run errands or do things because I Have To Get Home for no reason now.
You'd think you'd cry out all your emotions at some point. I thought I was doing well after that first week. But reliving things still unloads the tear ducts.
My heart aches for something to fill the dog-sized hole in my life. I'm trying to respect Brian's grieving process, which is taking longer than mine. It's not that I'm over Inky, I just can't stand the coldness and quietness I feel in the house without her presence and the gap in my daily routines that used to be filled with feeding or cuddling or other care.
I've never known a better cuddler.
Some of B's favorite moments.
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