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Columnist Discovers Rescued Pet Has A Few Peeves

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By D'ANN LAWRENCE WHITE | The Tampa Tribune

Published: January 30, 2008

Valrico - Valrico - I was on pins and needles the entire day, expecting a SWAT team of Hillsborough County Animal Services officers to bust through my front door at any moment.

The front page of that Sunday's Tampa Tribune Metro section warned that the county wasn't going to tolerate this kind of behavior.

Actually, what the Jan. 6 story said was that Animal Services needed to make up for budget cuts, so we could expect officers to issue more dog-bite citations.

I glanced over at the 7-pound Yorkshire terrier comfortably ensconced on the family room couch, looking as if he didn't have a care in the world.

Then I pictured him being hauled away in paw-cuffs, standing before the court in a little orange jumpsuit and seeing the judge lower his mallet and declaring, "death penalty."

I saw myself erupting from the back of the courtroom, pleading, "It's not fair. I already spared him from that fate once!"

It was Nov. 3, 2007, the day of the Pet Adoption Expo at the Florida State Fairgrounds. Pet rescue and adoption groups from throughout the Bay area come together at such expos in the hopes of finding responsible owners for animals that need good homes.

I had been at a fundraiser earlier for PAWS of Hillsborough County, another pet rescue group. Pet owners had gathered at Winthrop Town Centre in Riverview with their pups, competing for best wag, best smile and best kiss. It wasn't about the prizes, though. Dog lovers simply love to show off their pooches and socialize with other dog lovers, turning strangers into instant friends.

Watching the scene, my heart ached as it had since April, when my beloved 5-year-old Yorkshire terrier, Cookie, died in my arms, a victim of pet food contamination. But this time I didn't ignore the ache. Without saying a word to my son or husband, I headed to the fairgrounds to, you know, just look at the dogs for adoption.

Although I'm an advocate of animal shelters, I normally avoid events like this because I imagine every dog and cat pleading with me to take him or her home.

As a family, we had decided to hold off on getting another dog. Cookie's death was a big blow to us all.

Nevertheless, I found myself standing in front of the Lost Angels Animal Rescue's booth at the fairgrounds special events center, staring at a cage with an adorable Yorkshire terrier inside, tears running down my cheeks.

"Would you like to hold him?" a woman named Carol asked. She was the dog's foster mother. I nodded yes. The dog's name was Abner, she said.

He could have been Cookie's twin, except he was bigger, a toy size rather than a teacup. And while Cookie was on the timid side, Abner squirmed in my arms, eager to check out everything that was going on around him.

"Are you interested in adopting him?" Carol asked. I held my breath, wondering what my son and husband would think. Then I nodded again, unable to speak. She asked me to fill out an application and then told me the co-founder of Lost Angels, Kelly Wilson, would need to interview me. Several people had already applied to adopt Abner, but when I told Wilson Cookie's story through another flood of tears, she said she felt he was meant to go home with me.

Wilson had rescued Abner from the Hillsborough County Animal Services' shelter. He was scheduled to be euthanized. His fur was long and matted when Wilson spotted him curled up in his cage, looking fed-up, forlorn and, frankly, unlovable.

But Wilson said once she put a leash on him and brought him out of the cage, he was transformed. His eyes lit up and he walked with a spring in his step. When professionally groomed, his pedigree was apparent. The Yorkie, which vets estimate to be 4 to 7 years old, strutted like he was in the Westminster Kennel Club dog show.

As if he already knew the score, Abner effortlessly hopped into my SUV, eager to set off on a new adventure. He rushed into his new home and promptly began exploring while my son, Ian, whose mouth had dropped open, watched the newcomer. Spotting the 12-year-old boy, Abner rushed to greet him in the way dogs do best - with a vigorous face-licking.

Though he could never replace Cookie, Abner instantly filled a hole in our lives. However, as far as my son was concerned, Abner was no fit name for a Yorkshire terrier. My son thought for awhile and then announced that the dog's name would be Oliver.

Perfect, I thought. Oliver, as in Charles Dickens' "Oliver Twist" about an orphan boy in London in the 1830s. I thought it especially clever since Yorkshire terriers originated in England, and I liked that my son was using a literary reference.

Fat chance. My son, who dreams of becoming an Air Force pilot and whose favorite TV network is the Military Channel, named the dog after Col. Oliver North, host of FOX Television's "War Stories with Oliver North."

It could have been worse, I suppose. Ian also is a fan of the military accomplishments of the 34th U.S. president. We might have been destined to a dog's life of commanding, "Sit, Eisenhower, sit," and "Stay, Eisenhower, stay."

Oliver turned out to be a fitting name.

He was a perfect gentleman from the outset. He never had an accident in the house, he never begged for food and he greeted everyone who visited with a friendly wag.

"He's perfect," my husband, Michael, declared.

Little did we know he was on his best behavior, worming his way into our hearts before showing his true colors.

Oliver is a bully.

They may be cute, but Yorkies originally were bred in England during the 19th century to hunt rats and other vermin, fearlessly pursuing their prey through sewer pipes, burrows and tunnels. Over the years, that fighting instinct was bred out of most Yorkies. Not Oliver.

He'll climb trees to snatch an anole - you know, one of those Florida lizards. I had no idea armadillos could scream until Oliver spotted one in our yard and took chase. Squirrels no longer dare step foot on our pool screen.

So I guess it was inevitable. We had our front door open a moment too long one day, and Oliver shot out like a rocket, heading straight toward a couple walking their Jack Russell terrier. Before anyone could react, Oliver mowed down the other dog, flipped it over and pinned it to the ground in a move that would have made Brandon High School wrestling Coach Russ Cozart proud.

He then proceeded to alternately pummel and nip the poor terrier while dodging our attempts to retrieve him.

Although we apologized profusely, it was obvious from their cursing that the couple was angry - thus my concern over the Animal Services SWAT team.

"You don't know anything about this dog's history," said my contrary father-in-law. "He could have been bred for dog fighting. He could be a killer."

I pictured Oliver wearing a black leather, steel-studded collar, snarling and drooling as he stared down a pit bull across a dog-fighting ring.

"We should start calling him Mohammed Ollie," Ian suggested.

So that's how Oliver became Ollie.

But in my Pollyanna way, I'll continue to think of him as a Lost Angel - even when Animal Services comes knocking at my door trying to make up its budget shortfall.

Columnist D'Ann Lawrence White can be reached at (813) 657-4524 or dlwhite@tampatrib.com.

Columnist D'Ann Lawrence White can be reached at (813) 657-4524 or dlwhite@tampatrib.com.

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