Her origin story will always remain a mystery. One of the few known facts is that she was born on or around March 3, 2015, near the Mescalero Reservation in southern New Mexico.
This is a familiar tale. Stray dogs on Native American reservations are a growing epidemic. It blew me away the first time I saw it first-hand, driving through the town of Shiprock near the Four Corners. Most of these mutts will never see a veterinarian, much less a spray/neuter clinic, and when they breed their puppies enter a harsh and unforgiving world. Many are killed well before reaching adulthood. Most survivors earn an emaciated life as scavengers scraping by in a barren landscape, detested as rodents by the human world.
A few are lucky.
She and her brother found their way into the hands of a La Luz, N.M., woman who makes a hobby of rescuing these “Rez Dogs.” She was even given a name: Daisy. I try not to think about what happened to the rest of the litter.
Daisy and her brother were nursed to health, along with four other mutts. When they’d reached the proper age, on May 8, 2015, the puppies were surrendered for adoption to an animal shelter in Ruidoso, N.M. This is speculation, but I’d wager that a humane society that borders a reservation in rural New Mexico probably falls on the wrong side of the supply-and-demand equation. I don’t know if whatever shelter that housed Daisy and her brother has a no-kill policy, but it’s another of those things I try not to think about.
Here’s where Daisy’s good fortune continued. She was located by Colorado Puppy Rescue and brought north to the Denver metro area, renamed “Puppy #509.” In case you didn’t know, Coloradans think dogs are just super neat-o. The supply-and-demand equation suddenly flipped.
Empathizing with the early part of her life is heartbreaking for me. She was born into a world that didn’t want her. I can’t imagine what was going through her little puppy brain as she saw the harsh realities of reservation life before being passed from kennel to kennel and finally being put in the back of a van with a dozen other crying canine orphans as they drove for hours to the Colorado state line. Here’s this sweet girl, so full of curiosity, affection, intelligence and playfulness, who spent the first three months of her life without a loving hand.
The weekend she was born just happened to also be one of the worst weekends of my life. I was on a two-year anniversary trip with my girlfriend in Del Norte, Colo., hunting down some new ice climbs and enjoying all the leisures of the surrounding San Juan mountain towns. Things had been heading south for a while, but our long-weekend adventures were always the highlight of our relationship. No matter how bad things were at home, we always found love again on the road.
That trip was different. We bickered and fought almost constantly. Though we went through the motions for another couple weeks, it wasn’t a huge shock when she said she was moving out. She took with her a dog, Remy, that I’d grown to love as if he was my own.
I didn’t take it well. Without going into too much detail, I found rock bottom pretty fast. I was depressed, I was careless with the feelings of others, I alienated friends and I retreated into a shell of self-loathing and self-pity.
I grew up with dogs. There was always one around, or more likely two or three. Cowboy, Wolfie, Babe, Clover, Lucky, Cassie — and even that awful min-pin Shadow — bring a smile to my face to this day. I always wanted my own, but I forced myself to wait until I had the maturity, living situation and financial security required to be a responsible owner. By then I had Remy. As I pulled my life back together, I realized the timing was finally right.
Puppy #509 wasn’t my first choice. She wasn’t even my second, third or fourth. I showed up to Colorado Puppy Rescue’s May 28, 2015, adoption event with a handful of other dogs in mind. I arrived an hour early expecting to be near the front of the line, but in classic “me” fashion, I was unaware there was an early online check-in beginning at midnight. Despite being one of the first arrivals, I was roughly 20th in the first-come, first-served line to see the puppies. The four I was most excited about were chosen first. I guess I have a good eye for cute dogs.
I’d driven all the way to Aurora, however, and I figured I’d at least play with a puppy. My friends counseled me both before and during the adoption event to be patient. It’s as much about a dog choosing you as it is you choosing a dog.
“When it’s the right fit, you’ll know it,” said seemingly everyone.
The black-lab mix I’d been eyeing found her forever home with the family literally in front of me. With few puppies left, in a rushed last-minute decision I locked onto #509 and her brother, still sharing a kennel after their long and improbable journey from southern New Mexico. I remember observing how calm, quiet and alert they were despite all the fuss. Most of my favorite dogs growing up were girls, so I asked to see #509. The sign on her kennel called her a “Border Collie Mix.” I walked over to the small playpen as a volunteer went to grab the puppy I was pretty sure I was going to pass on.
I knew I’d been chosen from the second she wobbled over to me, tail wagging in overdrive. I even teared up waiting in line to pay the adoption fee. Very little in my life has ever felt so right.
Daisy/#509 became Zia, in honor of her homeland. She’s served as my constant companion ever since. From the almighty Wikipedia:
The Zia Sun Symbol is featured on the New Mexico flag. The Zia Indians of New Mexico regard the Sun as a sacred symbol. Their symbol, a red circle with groups of rays pointing in four directions, is painted on ceremonial vases, drawn on the ground around campfires, and used to introduce newborns to the Sun.
Adoption day was a whirlwind, full of friends and wild emotions. When I finally had some alone time with my new pup, I whispered into her ear a promise of which I remind myself almost daily: “I’m going to give you the best life, little Rez Dog.”
Zia turned 1 year old today, on March 3, 2016. I’ve had her for barely nine full months and already I feel like I have a lifetime of happy memories. It’s a symbiotic relationship. I provide her with love, food, attention, exercise and limitless toys to eviscerate, while she continues to help me heal and grow as a person.
There were lows, to be sure. The time she cut her paw and had to wear a bandage for weeks because some jackass threw a glass beer bottle over the fence. The time she had the runs inside a retail store. The time she turned her (third) brand-new $40 bed into tatters. The time the wind blew open my back gate while she was outside and I didn’t notice for nearly 20 minutes, assuming she was gone forever. (She was waiting patiently at the front gate, wondering what all my melodramatic screams were about.)
The highs were far more numerous. The time she was my kickball team’s mascot, the time she went for her first hike at Elk Meadow Park, the time she summited a 14er and spent the night clawing her way into my sleeping bag with intense terrified shivers because she heard a coyote howl a mile away. Our Christmas together. The time she caught her first frisbee in mid-flight. The time she tried to play with my now-girlfriend’s cats and got swatted so hard she wouldn’t go within 10 feet of them for weeks. The time I picked her up from being spayed and her groggy eyes finally focused on me and I saw pure, unbridled happiness.
My favorite memory is the first time she experienced snow. Zia, my little Rez Dog from southern New Mexico. How would she react? Well…
It’s a good thing, too. Snow and ice are two of my favorite things. I only know a handful of people who feel the same way. I don’t say lightly that Zia might even love frozen water more than I do.
Today, for her birthday, we went to St. Mary’s Glacier. I had grander plans, but an absurd wind forecast scared me off. The end goal was just to let her play in the snow for a while. Per usual, she went insane. So much so that she’s been snoring on my feet during the entire writing of this blog. She’s starting to wake now. Oh, these border collies — dead weight one minute, juiced the next.
I might be a crazy dog man. The thing is, I don’t take that as a negative. Anyone who doesn’t “get it” probably has never felt the bond between a boy (or girl) and his (or her) dog.
She was born on a reservation and didn’t know love for the first three months of her life. She’s now snoozing on a dog bed that’s two sizes too big after spending a day running in the snow with a belly full of some sort of expensive dog food that’s supposed to mimic the diet of wolves or some crap. Yet, somehow, I feel like it’s my life that’s become richer.
Happy birthday, sweet girl.
One thought on “Rescued: A Boy and His Dog”
Wonderful story, Jeff. She is a very lucky pup-and cute as all get out.