From experience, rescues make great pets

The annual Rescues on the Runway event to benefit the Humane Educational Society is Saturday and, while it is sold out, reading about it made me realize that of the pets I’ve had over the years, the best have been rescues.

That’s not to say the two English bulldogs didn’t have their moments or that the lab mix I got from a friend wasn’t the craziest, most troubled animal I’ve ever known. When Elvis wasn’t jumping through the glass garage windows six feet off the ground, he was playing the piano to block out the sound of thunder. I’m not making either of those up.

I once woke from a deep sleep to the sound of piano clanging and found him beating the keys with his front paws.

The best pet by far I ever had was Snoopy, a mutt. I still have the check for $2 that my father wrote to the Humane Society in 1970 for him. I was about 7 when we got him, and that dog went everywhere I did for the next decade or more. We roamed all over Brainerd, which I realize wouldn’t fly in today’s world, but when we went into the Red Food Store or the M&J, he’d sit by the door and wait.

He survived being hit by at least three cars, being bitten by a snake, being doused by a skunk (he didn’t “survive” the dousing so much as he survived my mother, who was not at all pleased with the odor he brought home) and a near plummet off o Wilder Tower at the Chickamauga Battlefield.

We went there for a hike and pi c ni c one weekend and because he went wherever we did, Barry Courter Snoopy followed us into the tower. At some point, the windows are at step level and, well, he thought it was an exit. My mother managed to grab him by the foot and pull him back in.

While he survived the near fall physically, it gave him nightmares for the rest of his life. I know because he slept at the foot of my bed and would whimper and get the Jimmy legs every so often.

At one point not too long ago, our yard became a breeding ground for neighborhood cats. Trust me, it wasn’t like I was putting out candles and blaring Barry White; they just showed up. We went from one blind bulldog and no cats to one bulldog and three cats in about six months.

We had to finally put the bulldog down a few years ago and a short time later, the yard became a killing field thanks to a couple of pit bulls that were allowed to run free. Now, the lone survivor is an indoor cat who will go no farther than the front porch, and that is only if I’m there, too, and the front door remains open as her escape route.

Rescues are not only loving, they are survivalists.