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How I Found Addie
Addie

At our local humane society, most dogs seem to fall into one of two equally pitiable categories: those who sit cowering in the back corners of their cages, and those who lunge at the chain link with a fierceness infused with fear. But Addie was different; she was sitting dead center in her cage, just watching. Before I came there as a client, I’d been an employee of this particular humane society, and so I was granted the privileges of the initiated, like the right to unclasp cages and visit up close and personal with any dog I liked.

I’d considered a handful of dogs by that point—taken them out on leashes to the lawn in front of the shelter, thrown tennis balls in the gravel-filled run. Each time, I tried to convince myself that I was feeling something akin to what I’d felt toward the dog I’d grown up with, because all of these dogs so obviously needed to make their way to permanent loving homes. But something inside told me to wait, told me to trust that I would know when I met The One.

The tag on the cage informed me that Addie was a Lab and Rottweiler mix, about six months old. To look at her quickly, there is nothing to suggest she’s anything more than a purebred Lab, but if you know what to look for, the Rottweiler is unmistakable. It’s in her short muzzle, her muscular build and the deep, loud bark she uses so infrequently that each time I hear it, I’m taken by surprise, amazed at the volume contained within such a normally quiet creature.

But it’s also in other things, things I wouldn’t realize were traits of the breed until I got to know more Rottweilers over the years and discovered that they are known for their docile manner. That they like to sit or stand on your feet, or curl up on your lap as though a fraction of their true size. That they are as loyal and true as any dog could be.

When I entered Addie’s cage, she barely moved, just calmly followed me with her big brown eyes. I sat down next to her, looking out in the same direction as she was, toward the whitewashed cinder- block wall of the shelter. And here is the moment that seems almost unbelievably sweet, even to those who aren’t “dog people,” even to me when I think about it after all these years. As we sat, serenely staring out at nothing, Addie leaned her head toward me until it came to rest in the curve between my shoulder and my neck. And there it stayed. In that moment, it was clear to both of us that we’d found our home.

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This article first appeared in The Bark,
Issue 58: Feb/Mar 2010
Emily Freeman is a writer of fiction and nonfiction; she lives in Minneapolis with her husband and two dogs.

Nathaniel Freeman

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