Daily Dose of Cute

Zelda, aka Zelly Belly.
The first time I ran my hand down Zelda's back, sitting in the family room at the Humane Society, I thought there was something wrong with her back. Her backbone was protruding so far between her shoulder blades that it seemed like a spinal injury or deformity. But it was hunger.

She'd been a stray, for an unknown amount of time. It may have been being on her own that rendered her down to jutting bones, or it may have been neglect.

Her back has meat on it again, care of a rigorous program of delicious treats, and, despite the hunger she suffered not so very long ago, she is not a greedy eater. She eats until she is full, and leaves the rest.

Other signs of how Zelda was failed, however, are not so easily fixed.

She is fearful. To touch her paws is so terrify her. To put a brush to her skin turns her face into a mask of uncertainty. The sound of a clicker sends her to the far end of the house, her back to the wall. She snarls and snaps at unfamiliar dogs who try to dominate her at the dog park: A bite to the neck will send Dudley sauntering away; a bite to the neck triggers Zelda, turning her into a defensive brawler. It's just enough to make sure she's safe, and just enough to make other dog owners cast a long eye at the people with the terrible dog.

So she's not a dog park dog. Not yet. She doesn't understand yet that she's not on her own anymore—that we've got her back, that we won't take her to a place where she'll be hurt. No: It's not that she doesn't understand. It's that she isn't convinced she can trust that we won't hurt her. Because somebody else did.

Maybe they were consciously unkind, physically cruel. Maybe they just failed to socialize her, not just with lots of other dogs (including the bullies, so she could learn to ignore them), but with the habits of being a dog in a home. So much of the world, so many parts of a dog's life—the grooming, the walking on a leash—are a mystery to her.

But she is learning. She is taking in, slowly but surely, the concept of being cared for. Sometimes, she'll let me hold her paw for a moment, almost forgetting, just for the briefest of instants, that she's afraid of it. Last night, she let me brush her for a good minute before she slunk away.


The last time we were at the vet, an elderly woman told Zelda: "You got small ears!"
In the month that we've had her, her features have seemed to soften. Part of that is being regularly fed. Part of it is that the tension is draining out of her face. She's starting to relax.

She's such a happy wee thing: Her tail wags constantly, and she loves to LEAP! onto your lap and snuggle in beside you for some power-cuddling. She is completely enamored of Dudley and the cats, play-bowing at anyone who will give her the slightest attention. She loves people, and most other dogs, who can send her into a tizzy of gleeful spins. I want nothing more for her than to have, eventually, a solid confidence to match that effervescent happiness.

The other night, Iain came home from walking her and Dudley, and the blood had drained out of his face. She'd backed out of her collar and ran after the neighbor's cat. Iain ran after her, Dudley in tow, but she is so fast—and virtually invisible at night. "I was so scared," he said. "I didn't know how I was going to tell you I lost her."

But then, after only an interminable minute, she came bounding back to him, and sat at his feet, looking up at him and waiting for her collar to be put back on. "She came back to me," he said.

I hugged her, and told her she is a good girl.