If you’ve been following along for a while, you’ve already met Outlaw Josey Tails, the Lollipop Guild, and a few of the other four-legged characters who regularly steal the spotlight around here.
But every crazy dog lady has an origin story. Mine started long before any of them. One of my earliest memories involves a little black poodle mix biting me in the face when I was three years old.
I remember the dog, the shock, and I definitely remember the hospital. I remember sitting in the exam room with my mom when I spotted a needle and a pair of scissors. I probably didn’t know what they were for, but I knew one thing for certain—I wanted absolutely nothing to do with either of them.
Whatever was about to happen looked like a terrible idea.
The next thing I remember is my mom, a couple of nurses, and even a policeman trying to hold down one kicking, screaming three-year-old while the doctor stitched up my cheek.
I was not going down without a fight. But, the adults won. I got the stitches. You’d think getting bitten in the face by a dog and then wrestling with the local medical community would have made me afraid of dogs.
It did not.
My first puppy was a little black-and-white fluff ball named Bridget. She was some kind of Shih Tzu mix, and I adored her. One day she ran out the door and into the street. Before anyone could stop her, she was hit by a milk truck. I was young, but I remember the heartbreak. It was one of my first lessons that loving animals means opening your heart, knowing someday it will get broken.
It didn’t stop me then, and it hasn’t stopped me since. If life has taught me anything, it’s that I’ve never met an animal I didn’t eventually try to bring home.
I was constantly rescuing something—wild baby rabbits, baby birds that had fallen from their nests, stray cats, toads, turtles, and just about anything else that looked like it needed help. If it was furry, feathered, shelled, hopping, orphaned, lost, or simply looked like it needed someone to take care of it, I never really asked permission.
I just decided, “I’m gonna be your mama now.”
I’m pretty sure my parents never knew what—or who—was coming through the front door next. Of course, I didn’t just drag home wild animals. We had plenty of our own.
One day, when I was about seven years old, my dad came home from work carrying a big cardboard box. He set it down in the yard and called my sisters and me outside: “Come take a look.”
Inside was the cutest little chocolate Lab puppy you ever saw. We named her Cocoa, and I was completely obsessed. I remember lifting her out of the box, only to fall right over because she was so excited. She covered my face with puppy kisses before I could even get back up.
One Saturday morning my parents were sleeping in while I was supposed to be quietly watching cartoons. Cocoa was locked out on the front porch, and I desperately wanted to play with her. The hook on the front door was too high for me to reach, so I came up with what seemed like a brilliant solution.
Behind the couch was a window. I climbed onto the back of the sofa, unlocked the window, pushed it open, and crawled outside. Success. For about three seconds. The window slammed shut. Cocoa started barking, and suddenly my parents were very much awake. Let’s just say my escape-and-entry operation did not end with the praise I felt it deserved.
Cats found me, too.
At one point, I brought home an orange cat we named Tabby. He stayed with us for a couple of years before disappearing, which is something farm-town and small-town kids know can happen with outdoor cats.
Not long after that, a friend and I found a stray calico cat. Somehow we convinced my mom to let us keep her under the porch. What none of us knew was that our stray cat was pregnant.
A few weeks later she gave birth to three kittens. My friend kept one, my sisters and I were allowed to keep one—a beautiful black, white, and brown kitty we named Callie—and the mama cat and the remaining kitten went to live on a friend’s farm.
Callie stayed with us for twenty years, which is pretty remarkable considering her story began under our porch with a stray mama cat and a couple of kids who simply wanted to help. That’s just how life was where I grew up.
My dad always had hunting dogs. My grandma had chickens, geese, and rabbits, and every spring she’d start a new flock of chicks. I thought holding those fuzzy little peepers was about the best thing in the world.
Oh…and then there was Francis.
Though he wasn’t my pet, he was kind of the town pet. Francis lived in a small pasture near the boat harbor on the edge of town. In a bigger town, he might have just been a donkey. In our town, he was a celebrity.
Kids would hang out car windows with treats for him, and Francis knew exactly what was going on. But he had rules. You couldn’t just hand him a snack. First you had to say, “Smile, Francis!”
And that donkey would flash the biggest, cheesiest grin you’d ever seen before collecting his payment. I visited him often and frequently considered climbing the fence and hopping on his back. It’s probably a good thing I never did, because that might have led to another trip to the hospital.
When I was fourteen, things got really interesting. Our Brittany Spaniel, Sammie, had thirteen puppies. One sadly was stillborn.
The puppies stayed in our basement, and my sisters and I thought hauling them outside every day was about the greatest job in the world.
We’d carry them up from the basement two at a time, and once all were outside, it was like a little dog-clown circus. Puppies running everywhere. Sisters laughing so hard we could barely breathe.
Getting them back inside was like playing Whac-A-Mole. We’d scoop one up, another would make a run for it. Catch that one, and two more would head in opposite directions. I don’t remember how long it took, but I do remember laughing until my stomach hurt.
One by one they all went to their forever homes. All except one. We kept Digger. My sisters and I had fun dressing him and Sammie up in people clothes. They were both amazing pets and hunting dogs. Before my dad got Sammie she had hunted with a falcon. But with or without the falcon she had a nose for pheasants.
Her pup Digger, became an even better hunting dog. He was the kind of hunting dog whose name still comes up in hunting stories. Around home, he was a legend.
Eventually I grew up and left home. The first apartment my husband and I had didn’t allow cats or dogs. So, I found the next best thing—a miniature lop-eared bunny I named Snickers.
He was litter trained, so I’d let him zoom around the house before he’d eventually hop onto the couch beside me to watch television. His favorite snacks were pizza crust and Doritos. My questionable eating habits rubbed off on my pets.
Eventually we had kids, and that’s when things really got out of hand. Along the way there were dogs, hermit crabs, parakeets, hamsters, lizards, ducks, fish, cats, and, of course…more dogs. You’ll get to meet some of them down the road.
You know…maybe I never became a crazy dog lady. Maybe I always was.
The puppy that broke my heart. The chocolate Lab I was willing to crawl out a window for. The hunting dogs. Sammie’s puppies. A few kitties along the way. And one “crazy wabbit.”
Maybe it just took fifty-some years to accumulate enough evidence. Or maybe that little three-year-old never learned her lesson. Good thing she didn’t.
Every one of those animals left paw prints on my heart. Some stayed for a season. Some stayed for years. Every single one helped shape the person I am today.
Well, Outlaw Josey Tails and the Lollipop Guild are waiting for their walk, and if you’ve learned anything about me by now, you know I’ve got so many tails…I mean, tales…to tell.
Anyway—Off We Go. 
Every crazy dog lady (or guy) has an origin story.
What was the first animal that stole your heart? Tell me about them in the comments.
© Erica Shoemaker | Anyway—Off We Go
