forehead of a golden and the large, drooping ears of a basset.
A dog as adorably funny-looking as Seymour should have been in and out of SuperMutt in a week; he should already be living happily-ever-after with his bighearted forever family. He isnât even one of those dogs that are so ugly that theyâre cuteâa specific aesthetic that Iâve learned appeals tremendously to the dog rescue community. Seymour isnât ugly-cute; heâs cute cute. And no wonder! Heâs a mix of two of the countryâs most popular breeds. He should be a slam dunk; an easy case; an adoptionsuccess story. Instead, heâs been lingering in the SuperMutt system for months, bouncing from foster family to foster family.
The problem is that he is always pulling out of his collar on walks and darting away into traffic. Not a smart move for a city dog. And now this train issue. As I study his photograph, I realize that it all shows in his expression. Seymourâs eyes, while soft brown and shaped like a golden retrieverâs, hold neither a goldenâs friendly confidence nor a bassetâs droll charm. The look in his eyes, unfortunately, is straight-up neurotic. And whoever took that photo snapped it at a moment when Seymourâs eyes were so wide open that you could see crescents of white around his golden brown irises, lending him a particularly nutty look. Everyone can see his vibrating nerves right there in his expression before they even hear the stories from the various foster families between which heâs been shuttled.
But he is lovably neurotic! Canât they see this, too? Neurotic, but sweet . The sweetness in his eyes is obvious. An eagerness and an ache.
Owen Wilson, I think.
Iâd take him myself if I could. Of course I would. Iâm a dog person and I know that eventually Iâll get another one, but I donât want to rush it. And even if I believed there was room in my heart for a new dog right nowâwhich I donâtâIâd still know that Iâm the wrong companion for a dog like Seymour. How could a person in my state teach him to let go of his anxiety? How could I assure him he was safe, his future secure? Weâd probably end up hiding behind the couch together.
I briefly consider asking Lourdes if sheâd take him in. They have plenty of room for another dog, and Giselle, with herbuoyant good cheer, would surely be a good influence on a timid dog like Seymour. But if I speak to Lourdes, I know sheâll just try to convince me to adopt him myself.
I write back to Sybil, letting her know that Iâll update Seymourâs status to âurgent,â bump him to the top of the âadoptableâ list, and add âno trainsâ to his description.
As Iâm clicking through the SuperMutt website, I remember an article I read recently about a rescue organization that increased interest in its animals by naming them after celebrities. Figuring it canât hurt, I decide to go through all of the SuperMutt dogsâ pages and add celebrity doppelgängers to their descriptions.
I study a photograph of a tawny pug-beagle mix with toothpick legs and a long pink tongue hanging out of the side of her mouth. Aka: Miley Cyrus, I write at the top of her description.
A pale brown American pit-bull terrierâLabrador with hazel eyes, a strong jaw, and a chiseled physique : Channing Tatum .
A glossy-coated shar-peiâshepherd leveling a flat, unamused gaze at something just beyond the camera : Silver Medal Gymnast McKayla Maroney.
And sweet, fretful Seymour : Owen Wilson .
What else can I do?
S EVERAL NAPS LATER , Giselle snores so loudly that she wakes herself up. She stands and stretches her front legs in front of her, butt in the air, tail wagging. Iâm sprawled on the couch, reading a book. She ambles over to me and unceremoniously shoves her long snout under my hand.
âTime to go out?â I ask, dreading the thought. The sun
A dog as adorably funny-looking as Seymour should have been in and out of SuperMutt in a week; he should already be living happily-ever-after with his bighearted forever family. He isnât even one of those dogs that are so ugly that theyâre cuteâa specific aesthetic that Iâve learned appeals tremendously to the dog rescue community. Seymour isnât ugly-cute; heâs cute cute. And no wonder! Heâs a mix of two of the countryâs most popular breeds. He should be a slam dunk; an easy case; an adoptionsuccess story. Instead, heâs been lingering in the SuperMutt system for months, bouncing from foster family to foster family.
The problem is that he is always pulling out of his collar on walks and darting away into traffic. Not a smart move for a city dog. And now this train issue. As I study his photograph, I realize that it all shows in his expression. Seymourâs eyes, while soft brown and shaped like a golden retrieverâs, hold neither a goldenâs friendly confidence nor a bassetâs droll charm. The look in his eyes, unfortunately, is straight-up neurotic. And whoever took that photo snapped it at a moment when Seymourâs eyes were so wide open that you could see crescents of white around his golden brown irises, lending him a particularly nutty look. Everyone can see his vibrating nerves right there in his expression before they even hear the stories from the various foster families between which heâs been shuttled.
But he is lovably neurotic! Canât they see this, too? Neurotic, but sweet . The sweetness in his eyes is obvious. An eagerness and an ache.
Owen Wilson, I think.
Iâd take him myself if I could. Of course I would. Iâm a dog person and I know that eventually Iâll get another one, but I donât want to rush it. And even if I believed there was room in my heart for a new dog right nowâwhich I donâtâIâd still know that Iâm the wrong companion for a dog like Seymour. How could a person in my state teach him to let go of his anxiety? How could I assure him he was safe, his future secure? Weâd probably end up hiding behind the couch together.
I briefly consider asking Lourdes if sheâd take him in. They have plenty of room for another dog, and Giselle, with herbuoyant good cheer, would surely be a good influence on a timid dog like Seymour. But if I speak to Lourdes, I know sheâll just try to convince me to adopt him myself.
I write back to Sybil, letting her know that Iâll update Seymourâs status to âurgent,â bump him to the top of the âadoptableâ list, and add âno trainsâ to his description.
As Iâm clicking through the SuperMutt website, I remember an article I read recently about a rescue organization that increased interest in its animals by naming them after celebrities. Figuring it canât hurt, I decide to go through all of the SuperMutt dogsâ pages and add celebrity doppelgängers to their descriptions.
I study a photograph of a tawny pug-beagle mix with toothpick legs and a long pink tongue hanging out of the side of her mouth. Aka: Miley Cyrus, I write at the top of her description.
A pale brown American pit-bull terrierâLabrador with hazel eyes, a strong jaw, and a chiseled physique : Channing Tatum .
A glossy-coated shar-peiâshepherd leveling a flat, unamused gaze at something just beyond the camera : Silver Medal Gymnast McKayla Maroney.
And sweet, fretful Seymour : Owen Wilson .
What else can I do?
S EVERAL NAPS LATER , Giselle snores so loudly that she wakes herself up. She stands and stretches her front legs in front of her, butt in the air, tail wagging. Iâm sprawled on the couch, reading a book. She ambles over to me and unceremoniously shoves her long snout under my hand.
âTime to go out?â I ask, dreading the thought. The sun
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