My dog Mindy is of undetermined age between 10 and 12. She’s got messed up hips, arthritis and, apparently, a birth defect. The doc says, “Probably a puppy mill puppy once upon a time.” She was rescued by my friend after I saw her in an adoption event in San Diego in front of a Petco and called him. “I just found your dog!”
“I want to pick out my own dog.”
“Yeah, but you should go see her.”
He did. She was Jabba the Dog. She’d been left in a backyard with bags of dogfood. The victim of divorce, her owner (the wife) had just left her behind with the husband who didn’t know how or didn’t have time to deal with an Australian shepherd. She lived with my friend for several years and then came to live with me when he rescued a golden retriever and his landlady said, “No more dogs.”
That was fine with me. I always loved Mindy. She’s got an angelic face that makes people happy and her only bad habit is eating poop, which is enough of a bad habit for anyone…
Back in the day, when I came home from work, Mindy would dance and jump by the front door. She’ll also do this if a meal is on the way. I always sang the refrain from a House of Pain song to her and she connected that with something good. Here’s the song.