When he had to put Kalo to sleep, he cried all the way to the vet. She’d been his sole living companion for 17 years. In his 80s now, the idea of losing her tore at him.
He’d thought about that when he adopted her from the Hawaiian Humane Society. What if I die? Who will take care of her then? And if she dies? How can I live with another pet gone in a lifetime of pets passing on?
Kalo had proved to be not just any dog. He’d had some he loved more than he thought you could love dogs. He’d never loved any person more than he loved some of them. He’d never thought that he could love a dog more than he had. But with Kalo he did.
Kalo, named that by the HHS staff because she was a poi dog, had not been the easiest dog to adopt. He’d seen a message from the HHS that two dozen dogs had been seized from a home on the West side of the island. The man, an elderly dog hoarder, had collected them and jammed them in cages in his backyard. Eventually, the noise and the smell resulted in neighbors complaining about the situation to HHS.
The dogs were seized, and now the HHS kennels were packed with dogs needing homes. He’d sworn after his last dog had died that he’d never have another one.
He feared that Kalo might outlive him and face no other ownership option but to go back to HHS. Probably elderly, the chances of being readopted were slim.
And if he outlived her, he’d have the heartbreak of another companion lost.
Sometimes he wished that Kalo and he would go out at the same moment. But that would mean some disaster had struck, a fire burning down the house, say, and that would be a horrible way for both of them to die.
When he went to HHS to see the dogs, he drove there knowing it was a mistake. He’d stopped going to HHS because, for his entire life, he’d never been able to leave there without adopting some kind of animal. Dogs, cats, rabbits, and guinea pigs, he’d had too many weak moments when he’d break down and say, all right, all right, just this one last time.
But it was never the last time. His furry family grew and grew. At some periods in his life, he could barely afford the food and vet bills for all of his menagerie.
When his dog Cindy, his last adopted baby, had passed on, he steeled himself and swore once and for all that he’d never go back there.
Then there he was.
“That one,” he said after viewing all the dogs who’d not yet found homes.
“She’s going to be a hard one,” the HHS volunteer said. “She’s one of the wilder ones.”
He watched the little poi dog cower in the back corner of the cage.
“Let me try,” he said.
The woman opened the cage and he slid in, trying his best not to alarm the little girl.
Leaving him a bag of treats, the woman said she’d come back in a while to see how things were going.
He eased himself to the floor, then took one of the cookie pieces and tried to coax her to him. Not only did she back herself up against the fence harder, but she began to whimper.
Again he reached out. Now she began to growl and bark.
He gently tossed the treat toward her and she quieted down immediately. Inching her way forward, she kept one eye on him and the other on the food.
All of a sudden she darted forward, swept up the cookie, and then flew back against the chain link fence.
“Are you hungry, little girl?” he asked, placing another treat closer to him.
Now she started pacing along the fence. He could tell she was looking for a moment to swoop in.
He sat back and waited. Bam! She leaped in again then flew back.
Another piece, closer still.
This time instead of charging, she walked toward the cookie.
“Go on, girl,” he said. “That’s for you.”
She came forward and picked the treat up as though it were some treasure she’d unearthed.
“That’s right,” he said, “that’s a good girl.”
She swallowed then sat down on the spot watching him.
“Another one?” he asked
Cocking her head to one side, she was listening intently.
“Here, little girl,” he said, holding out his hand, the bit of cookie in his palm.
Again, very cautiously, she inched toward him, glancing back and forth from his hand to his face at his face.
Her lips and tongue were soft. She was a gentle eater. One more, she seemed to say.
This time he held it in his fingers. Just as cautiously, she took it and swallowed without chewing.
“Man, I hope they’ve been feeding you.”
She cocked her head and stared at the cookie bag.
“Okay,” he said, taking another piece. “Come and get it.”
With new found assurance, she stepped right up and took the piece.
“Can I pet you?” he asked.
It seemed she wanted that. So he did. And she came to him and sat in his lap, licking his hands, his arms, and then his face.
“Wow,” said the volunteer, coming up behind him. “Looks like someone’s getting adopted today.”
“Right,” he said, “she’s adopting me.”
Lanning Lee 