On a Rescue Chihuahua Who Changed Things

A small chihuahua named Bean arrived at our house, in a soft crate borrowed from the rescue group, on a Saturday in March of the year before last. He was four years old, give or take. He had been surrendered, the rescue’s intake form said, by a previous owner whose name had been redacted; the surrender note attached to the file was three sentences long and not at all helpful for the column I am now trying to write. What I can tell you is that Bean weighed five pounds, had a small white patch on his chest, and looked, on the kitchen tile that first afternoon, like a dog who had been moved before.

This is the column about the year that followed. I want to be clear, since the title is a little dramatic, that I am not actually a person whose heart changes. I am a person whose schedule changes, and the rest of the changes follow.

The arrival, on a Saturday in March

Bean came with a printed sheet. Small breed, low energy, food allergies suspected, vaccinations current, microchip registered. He had been at the rescue’s foster home for nine weeks. He had not destroyed anything during that time. He had also not made eye contact with the foster mother for the first three weeks, which was on the sheet.

He sat in the corner of the kitchen for forty-seven minutes after we set the crate down. My wife sat on the kitchen floor with him at a distance that, in retrospect, was the right one. I made tea. The dog watched. After forty-seven minutes Bean walked, slowly and with the bearing of a small dog who has decided to give the situation a chance, to the water bowl. He drank. He returned to the corner. The water bowl had been a kind of test, and the water bowl had passed.

The first month, in concrete terms

I want to write the inspirational version of what happened next. I am not going to. The first month with Bean was a series of small, mostly boring adjustments to a household that had previously been a household of two adults and a kitchen that contained, on most evenings, a bottle of wine that my wife had selected.

The bottle of wine moved to a higher shelf. The wine glass on the side table moved with it. The shoes by the front door moved to a basket. The phone charger that had previously lived on the kitchen floor moved to the counter. A baby gate appeared at the top of the stairs. A small fleece bed appeared at the foot of the couch. A jar of small training treats appeared on the kitchen island. None of this was dramatic. All of it was, in aggregate, a different kitchen.

The quiet paragraph, planted on schedule

I will plant a sincere paragraph here. It is a rule of the column. The thing that surprised me, and continues to surprise me, is how much of the work of integrating a rescue dog is the work of becoming a slightly more attentive person. The first three months with Bean rewired my own awareness of the house. I started noticing where the drafts were, because Bean did. I started noticing which floors were cold, because Bean did. I started noticing the moment, around 4:30 p.m. each afternoon, when the available sun moved off the dining-room rug, because Bean did. I am, by training and inclination, not a noticer. The dog has, slowly, made me one.

The 2019 American Heart Association review I have cited in earlier columns found a meaningful association between dog ownership and cardiovascular outcomes. It did not specify rescue chihuahuas. I am, statistically, fine. The data does not really capture the noticing, but the noticing is the thing.

A few practical things, since I am not entirely sentiment

A short list of what I would tell anyone bringing home a rescue chihuahua of uncertain history.

• Decompression first. The first 72 hours are observation, not training. Let the dog watch the house. Do not pet aggressively. Do not introduce visitors.
• The bowl is the first relationship. Drinking, then eating, then accepting a treat by hand, in that order, are the first three trust signals.
• Veterinary visit early. A wellness exam in the first two weeks, with a written log of what you have seen so far. A read-once primer on the emergency vet visit is worth bookmarking before you need it.
• One quiet routine per day, kept. A morning walk, a meal time, a settle on the couch. The dog reads cadence faster than any other signal. A few gentle bonding practices are most of the framework.
• Rescue group support. The ASPCA’s adoption guidance is calm and worth reading; the rescue group itself usually has a follow-up coordinator who is available for the first six months.

Where Bean is now

Bean is, as of this writing, asleep on the small fleece bed at the foot of the couch. The kitchen has a baby gate at the top of the stairs and a charger on the counter and a jar of training treats on the island. The wine glass is on a high shelf. The shoes are in a basket. The household is, on balance, slightly more organized than it was, and the dog has not, in any direct sense, been told he was responsible for any of it.

If you are reading this with a rescue dog at your feet, I do not need to convince you that this is real. If you are reading this without one and have been thinking about it, the rescue group’s foster coordinator is, in my experience, the right next call. The dog you eventually bring home will not be Bean. He will be his own dog, with his own version of the corner of the kitchen and the water bowl. The kitchen will, in a year, have moved without you noticing.

That has been, more or less, the entire column.