What am I?

What am I? No, it’s not an existential question. It’s a question I get all the time. As in, “He’s sooooo cute! What is he?”

I assume it’s obvious I’m of the canine persuasion. So they must be asking about my breed.

First of all, it’s kind of personal question, right? It’s not exactly politically correct to question another’s parentage. But what the hay? We’re among intimates here on ScoutAbout.dog. DNA testing is all the rage, not that I’m going to go that far here, but I will share what I know with you, my dear reader,  and explain the sad facts of why I don’t know more.

You see, I’m a rescue dog. I was shuttled from family to family — four, count ‘em four times in three years — before I got scooped up into my forever home. (What a happy day that was!)  I never knew my parents and my paper trail is a little bit spotty, with various veterinary records rather poorly redacting prior owners’ names and addresses. (“Redacting” is word I learned watching the news this spring!) 

One document identified me as Pomeranian, which, as you can see, is not even close. Others have labeled me “Terrier” — itself a catch-all for many breeds — as well as “Havanese,” “Mixed Breed,” and “Terrier-Havanese Mix.” (Click on the photo to see the breeds)

I took a look at Google images, and frankly, West Highland Terriers looks kind of like cousins. The Jack Russell Terrier’s color pattern and stocky body type look a little bit like mine. Neither are a perfect match.

Here’s a photo of a Havanese I grabbed from the web. It’s almost like looking in the mirror, right? The Havanese is a Cuban circus dog, bred for the aptitude to perform clever tricks. I love to do tricks. I can balance a treat on my nose, roll over, beg, spin, dance, and jump through Her legs. Just sayin’... I am pretty good at tricks. But I am about 30 percent bigger than a Havanese, and more barrel-chested.

So what am I? Wavanese? Javanese? Tavanese? Herrier?

In the end, what does it matter?

I’m pretty happy just being Scout.

Toothless

Some readers (fans?) have noticed that my smile is a little different from other dogs, and there’s a reason for that: I’m missing like 12 teeth!

I don’t really know how it happened; Mom took me to the vet one day and the next thing I remember, they were gone! Mom wasn’t too happy about it, but I think the lady in the white coat said it was necessary… Honestly I was a little mopey after it first happened. It’s hard to learn how to eat and chew again when you’re a few teeth short. Jack joked for a little bit that we should change my name to Fang, but I don’t think I could handle another name change… But even though it was embarrassing, I practiced and practiced, and now it feels like normal!

Don’t think I’m all bark and no bite either, my teeth are just as good as anyone else’s. I still love to play tug of war, and I can still defend myself, it’s just a little different than it used to be. Change like that can be scary, but I promise, with hard work, you can get through it!

What's in a Name?

For a few weeks there, I had no name.

“Here, Boy,” She’d say. “Good Boy.”  

It wasn’t always so. My first family called me Amelio. But then, for reasons I can’t understand, they gave me away. Sure, I messed in the house a little and chewed a shoe or two. I was just a puppy, after all. Talk about no second chances. Before I knew it, I was out.

My second family named me Blaze because I could run like wildfire. I had to. The kids stuck their fingers in my eyes and when I growled my objection, the father whacked me on the snout. It wasn't long until they gave me away, too.

I was kind of scruffy back then….

By the time I was three I’d had two names and three homes and had landed in the custody of Doggie Protective Services. And so I waited in foster care, trotted out at weekend pet fairs, hoping someone nice might come along to rescue me. Competition was steep. There were a lot of rescue dogs to choose from. And by now I had a reputation. No men, no kids were the warnings attached to my adoption papers. I watched as other dogs were adopted, strutting away to their forever homes.

And then one day, She came along. She talked to my foster mom, walked me around the parking lot, sized me up. I really liked her.

 “I’ll take Blaze,” She said.

 “No men in the home?” the boss lady asked. “No children?”

 “No problem,” She said. She looked kind of sad.

The first few weeks at Her house, I had no name.

“Sit, Boy,” She’d say. “Stay, Boy. Good boy.”

Who was Boy?

The house was big and empty. There were a lot of rooms that we never seemed to go in, filled with the faint smells of other people. I slept in a kennel next to Her bed. We walked the block five times a day. She taught me tricks. Sometimes, She cried.

            “Hey, Boy,” She’d greet me in the morning. “Mommy always comes back,” She said whenever she left the house.

And so it went, until one day, snuggling on the sofa watching Her favorite TV show, she cooed, “Hey, Boy, aren’t we lucky we found each other? It sure took you a long time to scout out a good home.”

She looked at me for a moment; something just clicked.

"What do you think about 'Scout'? She smiled and held me close.

That’s how a rescue dog from three homes with two name got his forever name, Scout. As I rested my head on Her cozy lap, I wondered, “Who really rescued whom?”