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My Dog Murphy
A most unusual adoption arrangement

One summer, hoping to be a role model for my kids, I volunteered at a local animal shelter as an assistant helper—in essence, a pooper-scooper.

Starting at 6 am, I bagged poop and hosed down dog cages. I remained on poop patrol until my shift ended at 11 am.

During the training orientation, I was instructed not to feed the dogs, as this task fell to the full-time senior staff.

I abided by these rules until a Monday morning in early July when I met Murphy. His 96-year-old owner Lila had passed away, and Murphy was found sitting beside her on the bathroom floor, head on her shoulder.

When Lila’s body was transferred to a stretcher, Murphy climbed aboard. Unable to reach next of kin, a kind EM T brought him to the shelter.

He looked exactly like a Labrador in every way, except he was a color they don’t usually come in: pure white.

My morning routine at the shelter always began with a cacophony of barks, growls, yips and yaps—your basic pandemonium. This particular morning was no exception. My canine friends acknowledged my arrival with a standing ovation.

Our newest guest didn’t budge.

I introduced myself to him. The rest of the crowd went wild. Murphy didn’t move.

I knew conventional wisdom says to let sleeping dogs lie.

The only problem was, I didn’t think Murphy was actually sleeping. I thought that, at best, he was ignoring me and at worst, he was really depressed.

That’s the moment I decided to break the “no feeding” rule. Grabbing a dog biscuit off the shelf, I placed it by Murphy’s nose.

He wouldn’t touch it. I pretended to leave the room.

He devoured it. I repeated this routine at least five more times. On the sixth go-around, I decided to stay. Murphy decided he’d eat.

More than three weeks passed before Murphy decided to take part in the standing-ovation segment of the morning.

After that, he was first off his feet and after that, I was hopelessly in love.

The end of summer was now approaching, time for the shelter’s annual “Adopt a Furry Friend” campaign. I made posters and greeted many of the prospective adoptive families. The event was a huge success!

Fifteen dogs were in need of homes.

Fourteen were adopted.

No one chose Murphy, and I couldn’t understand why until the shelter director explained.

“All the other dogs play the part. They work hard at making themselves appear adoptable. They allow themselves to be petted, they lick hands and faces, give out their paws and play with the kids. Murphy mopes. That is, with everyone but you.”

We lived in a condo with a no-pets policy. It did not seem fair. Murphy and I belonged together.

I knew that. The shelter director knew that. So we made an arrangement. I would be allowed to “adopt” Murphy. The only caveat: he would sleep at the shelter. I would provide love, nurturing, food and exercise. The shelter would provide, well, shelter.

And so Murphy and I began our unorthodox partnership. Every morning after I put the kids on the bus and before I left for work, I’d head out to feed Murphy breakfast, take him for a run and cuddle with him on a chair in the employee break room.

Dog treats and toys became staples on my weekly shopping list. Every afternoon, once the kids finished their homework, Murphy and I played Frisbee in the exercise yard and then stretched out on the lawn for a hug-fest before I left.

It took time, but I taught him how to keep a biscuit steady on his nose and not move until I said “Okay, buddy, chew!” He never cheated. Not even once.

Sometimes, on the very best of summer days, we walked to the park down the block and ran through the sprinklers together. He chased birds and ducks and geese and squirrels and little kids in wagons. I chased him.

Our love affair lasted nearly two years.

Murphy passed away quietly in his sleep. I was just one block away when it happened. I placed a biscuit by his nose. Murphy was the only pet I was ever privileged to have.

Some would argue I really wasn’t his owner because he didn’t live with me.

I would argue back that he did indeed live with me, in the most important place of all: my heart.

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This article first appeared in The Bark,
Issue 78: Summer 2014

Photo by Dan Connolly

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