Life is for the living: A Walk Down Memory Lane

Was looking through my old photo album, and guess what I found?

My Ugly Duckling.

Yup, thats my boy, in all his furless glory.

Me feels the pangs of nostalgia, so this post shall be dedicated to my boy and his journey with me and my family, thus far. If you're not a dog lover, this is your cue to leave.

7 January 2002 was the turning point of my life. I received a call from a local dog rescue organisation asking me for help.

"Just for one night," the person said. "I just need a place for the dog to stay for a night."

I couldn't turn down a dog in need.

But my parents (actually, only my dad) would flare for sure. There was no way he would give a big smile and welcome the dog with open arms.

So I did the next best thing. I told my mum. And ONLY my mum.

"Just a night lah," I told her, to stop her hysterical screams. It worked. A dog can't do much damage in a night.... can he?

I went home just in time to meet the fosterer who would be passing me the dog. And I saw the dog soon enough. He was totally wild with a crazed look in his eyes. It was as if he never saw the great outdoors before and could not get enough of it, even if it meant choking himself half to death on his collar.

My first thought? This is one fucking crazy dog.

I invited the fosterer and the half-choked-to-death crazy dog to my place. I had a partial motive behind it of course. If my dad would flare up when he came home, he would not do it in front of a guest and stranger. It would at least buy some time, for the dog and me.

My sister's eyebrows nearly got lost in her hair when she saw who was at the door. Not that I blame her of course.

"I tell you ar, he very naughty one this dog," said the fosterer when we were at my place. "Don't be afraid to be fierce to him." She then proceeded to roll up newspaper to whack the floor while shouting at the dog who very cleverly went to hide behind me.

Apparently the fosterer could not keep him anymore. Somehow I guessed that she probably didn't like his boistrous character much as he kinda freaked out another of her foster dog who was really timid. (A friend later adopted this other dog so they still see each other again. Such fate. Hah!)

"What are you naming him?" my sis asked, as she came over to me, keeping a safe distance from the dog.

"His name is Waggy," smiled the fosterer. "His tail keeps wagging you see. Another thing special about him is the marks around his eyes. Very nice!"

Nope, that won't do. Names like Waggy And Marks Around Eyes just don't cut it for me.

I looked into the dog's eyes and decided immediately. "His name is Alex."

And the dog liked it too. He took to the name almost immediately.

Dad, to his credit, didn't yell (too much) at me. Guess by the time the fosterer left, his anger had more or less subsided (smart me!) and after all, my mum kept assuring him that it was just a single night that the dog would be with us.

And of course, a night dragged on to a week, and from weeks to months and then to years. Soon, the dog somehow etched himself permanently into the family potrait.

The world should ban shows like Lassie. It subconsciously imprints the all-perfect dog into people's minds, making all other dogs seem less than perfect. And that was my boy, I learnt soon enough. He was wild and uncontrollable. His walks consisted of dragging you around the parks and he hated dogs and would not think twice about wiping out the whole dog community if given a chance. It didn't take me long to understand why the fosterer didn't seem to like him much. He was crazy. Period.

But beneath it all, he had a good heart (to humans). He accepted us shortly and warmly and thankfully had no signs of physical human abuse. I made dog-loving friends and told them Alex's problems. They readily helped me out and supported me emotionally and mentally throughout the training journey. It was tedious, it was hell. But it worked and soon, Alex didn't pull on the leash anymore though his friendliness towards dogs took much longer to achieve.

When Alex came, he didn't know what were toys. This saddened me alot, somewhat. I've seen how pet dogs enter extreme ecstatic mode when playing with their toys and here I was, with a dog who had no fucking idea that he was to chase the ball when thrown, play with the squeaky plushie nor bite the fucking bone.

I remember I started introducing Alex to toys by means of paper balls. I would sit in the study room and ball up old papers to throw at to catch. When he did, he was praised like mad. Alex may seem dense to many but I know he's really quite smart, if he sees the need to activate his brain cells. He caught on quickly enough and we would be playing paper balls in the study while I pretended to be revising my homework.

Yet, something was lacking in our paper ball chasing. Alex would catch a paper ball in his mouth, drop it then walk over to me to be praised and petted. It somehow didn't feel like he was throughly enjoying the game in the right sense, more like something he had to do in order for me to pet him. It just didn't feel right, and it was then that I felt it was time to accept this fact, no matter how sad I see it to be.

Then came the fateful day where both of us were taking our usual stroll in the park. Alex paused and gazed at a lonely discarded tennis ball on the ground. Before I knew it, he rushed over to it to pick it up in his mouth. He dropped it, and when it bounced away, he would chase after it to grab it in his mouth before letting it bounce away again. He was happy, I could see it in his eyes. And so was I. My boy finally learnt how to play.

Of course after this incident, he has a thousand and one toys (and counting) lying at his paws.

There are so many stories to tell about my boy, some which made me mad, others which made me laugh, all which made me love him so.

Before I end off this chapter of new beginnings, I'll let some of the old pictures of Alex's journey have their say. And when you reach home today, pray tell and show your pets how much you love them. Because time flies too fast, too soon.