Mr. Write's Page

After my dog Kelly died in 2003, I vowed never again to have a pet.

And I meant it. The loss of my girl Kelly was horrific, and I had no desire to go through that kind of grief again.

But, five months after Kelly died, I spotted my next dog Paco on cable television.

At the time, of course, I didn’t know he was the future Paco. But there he was, on the local government channel, part of the Pet Parade of animals available for adoption from Walton County Animal Control.

The future Paco caught my eye immediately. He was a border collie, like Kelly, although his markings were unusual: a mostly white coat with a few black highlights.

There was that improbable black dot in the center of his forehead. And that ridiculous patch of pink on top of his long, collie-style muzzle.

When the technician brought him in front of the camera, the future Paco was quite animated, in a decidedly happy and friendly way. Clearly, this was a good-natured pooch.

But no matter. I had taken a no-more-pets vow.

Pet Parade ran weekly on cable. The routine: an animal would be featured once, twice, maybe three times. After that, they weren’t seen again — leaving you to wonder if they had been adopted or euthanized.

The future Paco, on the other hand, became a regular on the program. Eight weeks after his first appearance on Pet Parade, he still was appearing in the lineup.

One morning, I found myself in my car, driving to Walton County Animal Control in Monroe.

I told myself I was going there simply out of curiosity. The facility was only five minutes from home, and I wanted to find out why that particular dog was still on television after all that time.

And yes, I wanted to see the dog, too. Out of mere curiosity, you understand; I had taken a vow.

I parked and went into the office, still in denial.

“The border collie?” said the technician. “Yeah, he’s a real good dog. We could tell that right away.”

“Keeping him around hasn’t been a problem,” he said. “We aren’t very crowded right now.”

He looked at me knowingly. “We figured somebody would show up sooner or later to adopt him.”

“Oh, I’m not here to adopt him,” I said. “I was just curious.”

“Let’s go see him,” said the technician, and we walked down the hall to the cages.

Amid a canine symphony of barking, I got my first look at the future Paco.

He was a terrible mess, muddy, dirty, and matted, but delirious with joy to see us. When we stopped in front of his cage, he danced in a circle on his hind legs, vocalizing happily with a sound I soon would become familiar with: Paco’s trademark yodeling howl.

The dog was enchanting.

“Let’s talk,” I said to the technician, and we went to his office.

The future Paco, the tech told me, had been found by Animal Control late one afternoon wandering down a dirt road in a remote part of Walton County. The dog  wore a purple nylon collar with no tags. He was friendly and made no attempt to flee.

After the officers picked him up, they spent the rest of the afternoon knocking on doors in the area, trying to find the owner. No luck.

Poor Paco was rail-thin and weighed just 36 pounds. They estimated he was about two years old. He had not been neutered.

“We think he was kennel-raised,” said the technician. “He seems to relate to the other dogs better when they’re on the other side of a fence. Put him in a cage with other dogs, and he gets quiet.”

That was a clue that Paco had socialization issues, but I missed it.

It was too late anyway. Ten minutes later, the papers were signed, $40 exchanged hands, and Paco and I were on our way home.

Mysteriously, Paco was already housebroken. He got into the routine of residential living quickly and effortlessly. He spent his days inside while I was at work, and he never caused the slightest problem.

Naturally, I introduced him to trail-hiking, and he took to that with relish.

As for his underdeveloped social skills, evidence of that surfaced on Day One.

Border collies, as you may know, are famous for their love of chasing Frisbees and tennis balls. For some of them, like my girl Kelly, that love is an obsession, complete with wild, staring eyes and flaring nostrils.

At the time, several of Kelly’s well-chewed tennis balls were still around the house. I left them there on purpose.

I picked up one of the tennis balls and held it aloft for Paco to see. He looked at the ball and back at me.

“Catch it, Paco!” I said and lofted the ball in a gentle arc in front of him.

If that had been Kelly, she would have snagged the ball out of the air with lightning speed, then returned it to me for an encore.

In Paco’s case, the ball bounced off his snout and rolled away. He sat there and looked at me quizzically.

I tossed the tennis ball to him several more times, but the result was the same. He had no interest in the yellow thing whatsoever — had no clue what it was.

In short order, I found other idiosyncrasies in Paco’s behavior that indicated he didn’t have a normal upbringing in his previous life:

He had no idea what a Frisbee was. No surprise there.

He had no knowledge of, or interest in, dog toys of any kind.

He didn’t know that rawhide chewies are for chewing.

And when I gave him his first treat, an Alpo Liver Snap, he didn’t understand that it was something to eat.

It was sad to behold. Poor Paco had led a sheltered life.

But soon, the little guy become better socialized.

He quickly grasped the concept of snacks and treats; that was easy. He mastered the art of munching on rawhide chewies, too.

To facilitate play, I bought him a Kong toy, one of those hollow rubber things. You place treats inside, and the dog rolls it around to dislodge the treats. Paco enjoys that immensely, until the treats are gone. After that, he ignores it.

Today, Paco is about seven years old, give or take, and he is a happy, contented member of the household.

He is a fine roommate and companion. He’s good with kids, and he loves all living creatures — dogs, cats, deer, squirrels, people, even bugs.

Being a dog, he is supremely intuitive; being a border collie, he is extra intelligent. Paco knows my habits and body language well enough to be able to anticipate my moves very accurately. In fact, predicting my actions in advance has become his mission in life.

Although he still ignores most of the dog toys in the house, he occasionally romps around with a rawhide chewy, tossing it in the air like a toy. Play is play, I guess.

As for Kelly’s old tennis balls and Frisbees, I still keep them around the house. And I’ve tried many times to get Paco interested in playing with them. Not a chance.

By the way, Walton County required me to get Paco neutered within 30 days of the adoption. Sorry, little dude. The law is the law.

For a long time, I said that my greatest failing as a parent is the fact that, if my sons eat grits at all, they put sugar on them.

I probably should amend that: I’ve raised a border collie who doesn’t chase tennis balls.

2003 -- Paco at 36 pounds, his coat choppy from dematting.

2004 -- Taking a dip in the Chattooga River.

2006 -- Maddie and Paco at play.

2008 -- A quick cool-down on the trail.

2010 -- Relaxing at home.