Dog wimps out during search for new home

I’m so disappointed in my dog Sheba. Right when I needed her to be her normal self, she wimped out on me.

Now before any of you PETA types get all worked up and write nasty letters, let me assure you that Sheba and I have a loving relationship. Problem is she loves me too much sometimes.

I have to skirt around her to feed her because the first thing she wants to do is wrestle. If I don’t wrestle, she stands on her hind feet and tries to knock me down.

If I square up with her, she puts her paws on my breast and pushes. If I turn away, she puts he paws on my shoulder blades and pushes. I swear she smiles when she does it.

And if she can’t get me that way, she wraps her front paws around my ankles and tries to trip me. As a last resort, she clamps onto my shoe with her mouth and goes for the takedown.

So now you’re probably wondering what’s wrong with me. Everybody wants that kind of dog.

Well what’s wrong me is that I’ve aged, illnesses have limited my strength and mobility. On top of all that, I’ve shrunk to about 5-2, while Sheba is nearing 5-0 and growing.

So I decided it’s best to find her a new home while she’s still about one year old. She’d be great with a young family, maybe a farm family.

Last Wednesday, I learned finding a home is not easy. I took her to the humane society in Yakima.

“Oh how pretty, oh how sweet,” about five people said.

She didn’t jump on anybody. She didn’t push anybody. She didn’t clamp down on anyone’s shoe. The perfect lady. Surely they’d take her.

Then the door slammed. There was no space for her while staff arranged an adoption.

So I put Sheba in the car and drove 90 miles in the opposite direction to the Benton-Franklin Humane Society.

About a dozen people fell in love with her. It’s easy to do. She has the countenance of Chow and the beautiful face of a Husky. She’s tan, practically blonde, with white accents in all the right places.

You should have heard the comments. For a moment there, she was the Westminster Dog Show winner.

Then she was too nice. Right when I needed her to be spry and spirited, she crapped out. A wimp, a coward, a lot like General George Patton’s dog.

A handler took her into the pound to check her teeth and general health. She came back five minutes later, handed me the leash and said: “Sorry, she’s too anxious to be with the other dogs. She was nervous and fearful.”

What? The dog that knocks the snot out of me and knows the single leg and double leg takedowns?

I looked down at Sheba, but she wouldn’t look up at me. Until we got into the car.

I looked in the mirror, and I swear she was smiling.

I should have given her to the fellow in Kennewick who asked if he could walk her. He really wanted her.

But the Humane Society bureaucrat said: “No, you can’t do that. We have to take her in first and place her on a three-day hold.”

The man walked away disappointed. Then the handler came back and slammed the door on the three-day hold.

I normally would not use my own newspaper to try to find Sheba a home, but this is a special circumstance. She really is beautiful. She really is nice. And now I know she can act.

She needs a better master than me. Or maybe I need a better master than her

If you’re interested at all, my phone number and email address appear in this paper every week.