Possibility

I think it’s something I learned from my parents. Maybe my father did it in the Army–I never talked to him much about his life as a soldier who was responsible for training recruits–but I saw with my own eyes how he did it later with students. He looked with eyes that saw what was there, but he also sized up what could be: possibility. I don’t remember ever hearing him say even once that a kid was hopeless or beyond help or had nothing to make him or her special. Every student had potential.

I saw my mother do it with houses. She could see with a critical eye the flaws in construction or condition, but she also saw how she could “fix it up.” Every house in every town, no matter how humble or how riddled with challenges, had the potential to be home with her care and effort.

When Tom and I saw the house we now live in–the first house we bought and quite frankly, the first house I looked at from a list that Tom had put together with a realtor–the mess the tenant had made didn’t faze me. I was assessing the ceilings, the hardwoods, the built-ins, the original floor tile in the bathroom. Another prospective buyer walked in while we were in the house, took one look at the living room packed full of the renter’s furniture and glassware and clothes, turned on his heel, and walked out. In that moment, I knew I could see what he didn’t: possibility.

I think this is what people in rescue do with animals. Everybody loves a cute, healthy puppy. People’s hearts melt over playful kitties full of mischief. Rescue people see the other side: the dogs and cats with no sparkle in their eyes because life hasn’t done right by them. The timid ones who’ve lived on the streets, who’ve been neglected and abused. The sick ones who’ve been deemed too much trouble, too expensive to treat. Because such a rescuer saw possibility more than fifteen years ago with Margot, a dog the shelter was about to euthanize, our family has known the quirkiest and most complex of dogs and enjoyed her and relished even her moodiest days and her very often foul breath. She has loved us and made us laugh, and we are always so happy that she chose us and we chose her thanks to her rescuers.

Tim and I often visit vets or boarding facilities to take photos of dogs our organization has taken into their program, either because their affiliates in Colorado have asked that the dogs be pulled for later transport, or because BARC and our orgnization together know the dogs will be adoptable. We did that today for a few dogs, including Cash.

I don’t know what breed Cash is. I don’t know his story. I don’t even know his age. But I know he’s a puppy who a lot of people wouldn’t look twice at because he has a (treatable) skin condition. He’s not pretty and fluffy. He didn’t show us a lot of personality. The noises I make to get dogs to look at the camera and perk up their ears had no effect on him. People haven’t done much yet to impress Cash, so he had no reason to impress us. I took a few photos, but they weren’t showing Cash.

Then Tim picked him up and held him close. Tim didn’t care if his skin didn’t look great or if Cash wasn’t interested in revealing the puppy within. He just loved him and talked to him and made him know he’s special. Then he put him on a stool, and what you can see if you look carefully at this picture is something I didn’t even know happened because I was too busy focusing on Cash’s face. You can see a tail wagging. Because in those few minutes, a rescuer made Cash feel special. And over the next few days, so will vets, and vet techs, transporters, and maybe a temporary foster. They’ll all let him know he’s a dog of great possibility. One day his hair will grow back. His eyes will sparkle. His tail will wag, he will romp, he will love a family and be loved in return. He’ll probably forget the bad days.

But I will never forget him.