How One of Our Newest Volunteers Found Muttville From Across The Seas

Our new volunteer, Holly, discovered Muttville online while she was still in her home country of England. She barely arrived in San Francisco when she excitedly came knocking on our door to join our cause to help senior dogs.

Her inspiration? Read Holly’s story:

Dogs. I know I am preaching to the converted when I say that a house is not a home without one but it is true.

I am currently without a hound, having recently immigrated to the United States to get married. Although I still have part shares in a red German Shepherd, a greedy Lurcher, a three-legged Collie and a clinically insane Terrier cross, they have all remained with their rightful owners in the UK. Having never gone longer than a month without a waggy tailed mutt of some description, I am finding it hugely disorientating. But it won’t last forever. Indeed, I started the search for a waif and stray I could call my own back in Blighty, cup of tea in hand. It was not long before I stumbled across Muttville and set my heart on rehoming one of their worthy pooches.

Muttville won me over with their commitment to the over-looked and under-loved. They are motivated by a truth self-evident to all of us who have ever truly known a dog; that their faculty for love and devotion does not diminish with age. They know that to have an older dog is not to be inconvenienced; it is to be honored with the companionship of a wise and furry ally. They know that an old dog can be taught new tricks.

It is for all of these reasons that I now have Muttville’s number on speed dial, ready for the day I am able to take one of their hounds home. It is also why I have started to volunteer my time to the organization. But there is one other doggie shaped motivator, and if I can, I would like to tell you about her.

When I decided to immigrate to the States, it was not the fine British weather that made me think twice about coming. It wasn’t the impending national obsession with an ill-fitting wedding ring. It wasn’t even my family, beloved as they are. No, it was a mentally deficient German Shepherd named Rufi.

Rufi was our family mutt. She was a great galloping mess of black and ginger fur that would wail like a lost child in a supermarket when she greeted you. She liked to ‘play stick’, but only if it meant she could tear up a living sapling or covertly knock your feet from under you running past with a six-foot log hanging from her chops. She was Queen Bee to all doggy disciples who happened to cross her path, keeping all lesser hounds in line with a bark and a swish of her magnificent corkscrew tail. She was mouthy and silly and embarrassingly aloof to all that were not in her ‘pack’. More than all that though, she was the doggy love of my life.

Rufi bound into my world when I was 14. She came to us as a puppy after the sad loss of a gentle German Shepherd rescue named Bruno, and a Collie cross with velvet ears named Bear. She was a family remedy, brought into our home to heal old wounds. It was a task she took to with great enthusiasm from the get go.

She was my Dad’s dog really, but my little brother and I loved her as much as you could ever love any dog. We would play ball with her and take her out on our bikes, treating her to sneaky cheese and scrambled egg when we arrived home. She was unashamedly spoilt. In fact, after her first Christmas with us that she refused to ever eat her expensive Eukanuba biscuits again because she had been given too much salmon and honey roast ham over the festive period. She was the furry epicenter of our world, and as we got older and that world started to unravel, she was the one thing that remained constant.

Over the coming years my parents got divorced, we moved from our family home and I left for University. I would come back every few weeks or so to visit my then boyfriend and family, but more than anything to visit Rufi. I would walk for hours with her trotting along beside me, nose to the ground and donkey ears to the sky. Finding myself in the middle of the forest alone with her was to find myself at home. When I began contemplating a move to America it was that feeling, and the fur-faced reason behind it of course, that I knew would be the hardest to leave. I didn’t realize I would never get the chance to find out.

Our loving loon of a Fox was taken from us quickly at the age of 10. She had a form of blood cancer that crept up and took her within a day. Just 24 hours before she had been bounding around the woods so excitably a passer by had asked my Dad if she was an over-sized pup. I was visiting my partner in California at the time. She died two days before I was due home. My Dad didn’t tell me as he could not bring himself to do it over the phone, and he didn’t want me to be upset on the plane. It was the worst home coming news of my life.

I sometimes think how Rufi would have faired if she had been unfortunate enough to end up without a home. The last few years of her life were no different from those of her youth; she would still leap over fences and chase balls for hours on end given the chance. To many however, she would have been an undesirable senior, with her snooty nature making her awkward to rehome. She may well have ended up needing rescuing by an organization like Muttville; capable of seeing how devoted a companion she could be, despite her faults.

So I guess that is the real reason I came a ‘knocking at Muttville’s door; to honor a daft old fur bag with a big black nose called Rufi, and all the love she gave me. I know my girl will be waiting for me someplace, someday, but until that time comes I think she would like it if I helped out a few lost Fido’s in need of a pat and a place to call home. Well, actually she would probably sulk, but I’m sure she would understand!

mariem3 | 06.01.11