I'd like to tell you about my dog, Lipstick.
Ugly, middle aged, healthy as a horse. I'd guess some sort of pitbull mix. I don't care to pay to find out for sure. I met him a year ago, at my local animal shelter.
I walked in and strolled up and down the kennels. All the other dogs were barking, losing their minds. But in the middle of the madness, I saw one brown, spotted, mangy looking dog whos fur was stained and dirty looking. He sat quietly. I looked at him, and he looked at me, and I knew it had to be this dog.
He didn't have a name. I talked with the adoption counselors and they tried to persuade me to pick a different one. The lady said he wasn't aggressive or anything, but he was too skittish for them to bathe, and he had no interest in humans. I knew that it was a kill shelter, I wanted him out of there. Throughout the entire process, the lady kept trying to dissuade me.
I asked her point blank, what's the problem? Why don't you want me to take this dog? She lowered the blinds in her office and told me that the dog came to them in really bad circumstances; its last owner had died of natural causes. The dog was able to get to the back yard through a doggie door, where the owner had left an overflowing huge bowl of food. Despite that, the dog stayed by the owner's corpse... and ate. And ate. And ate. When they found the dog, he was covered in blood, and the food bowl in the back was still full. He was only left alone with the body for twelve-or-so hours. It seemed that he shouldn't have even been hungry.
When they took the dog into the shelter, he started to throw up pieces of his companion. A thumb here, some cartilage their. His lips were stained red. That really stuck with the lady. The dog's hungry, wild, red lips.
So I named him Lipstick. We've been together ever since. Honestly, he's given me no problems. But there are days I wake up to Lipstick, standing over me, sitting quietly. I know his food bowl is full. I wonder if he's still hungry.
Ugly, middle aged, healthy as a horse. I'd guess some sort of pitbull mix. I don't care to pay to find out for sure. I met him a year ago, at my local animal shelter.
I walked in and strolled up and down the kennels. All the other dogs were barking, losing their minds. But in the middle of the madness, I saw one brown, spotted, mangy looking dog whos fur was stained and dirty looking. He sat quietly. I looked at him, and he looked at me, and I knew it had to be this dog.
He didn't have a name. I talked with the adoption counselors and they tried to persuade me to pick a different one. The lady said he wasn't aggressive or anything, but he was too skittish for them to bathe, and he had no interest in humans. I knew that it was a kill shelter, I wanted him out of there. Throughout the entire process, the lady kept trying to dissuade me.
I asked her point blank, what's the problem? Why don't you want me to take this dog? She lowered the blinds in her office and told me that the dog came to them in really bad circumstances; its last owner had died of natural causes. The dog was able to get to the back yard through a doggie door, where the owner had left an overflowing huge bowl of food. Despite that, the dog stayed by the owner's corpse... and ate. And ate. And ate. When they found the dog, he was covered in blood, and the food bowl in the back was still full. He was only left alone with the body for twelve-or-so hours. It seemed that he shouldn't have even been hungry.
When they took the dog into the shelter, he started to throw up pieces of his companion. A thumb here, some cartilage their. His lips were stained red. That really stuck with the lady. The dog's hungry, wild, red lips.
So I named him Lipstick. We've been together ever since. Honestly, he's given me no problems. But there are days I wake up to Lipstick, standing over me, sitting quietly. I know his food bowl is full. I wonder if he's still hungry.
