Jodie is fixed, folks. Solidly. She’s running to keep up with Wilma these days and makes it up onto the couch all on her very own. She’s gentle and sweet natured, and that nice comfy medium-smart that makes her quick to learn and eager to please without being cagey or neurotic or obsessed with cows, (Wilma). She trusts us, and did from almost the very beginning, which I still find hard to reconcile.
I think about the speed of her recovery all the time. Here are my conclusions: While some rescue dogs take time and hair-rending, nail-biting, up-all-night effort before they come around, others don’t take as much to get back on their feet. Jodie is our easy, happy girl, and we love her dearly. I don’t love her more or less for taking only a little to find her happiness, but it’s changed the way I think about need and all it might take to repair damage.
We’ve decided to adopt her. No surprise, I realize. She loves us, and we love her back. Also, Wilma thinks Jodie is the best thing that ever rolled into this town, and visa versa—I have no heart or want to separate them.
Because this story was meant to be about her recovery, I think it ends here.
Thank you for keeping me company, and for your suggestions and well-wishing. I remember outlining my hesitations to a co-worker the day I sent the distraught “ack! I’ll foster that thing” message to Los Angeles—sort of a laundry list of potential disasters I’d just invited into my nice, clean, calm little family. She acknowledged my fears, but also their opposite: that this could also be one of the best things, looking back, that I'd remember.
Thanks for being with us while we got there.
