Mom on the Run: Sometimes a dog's past is better left unsaid

It's a regular activity in my house now, guessing Jack's background. We know he was skeletal when animal control picked him up, we have the photograph with protruding hip bones, easily visible ribs.

Wherever he was, whoever had him, he didn't eat regularly.

We know he had very little experience with stairs. After less than a week with us and a lot of prac-tice he goes up and down like a pro now … except for the uncarpeted and poorly lit basement stairs, where he slips and slides and scrambles to get back up.

And we know he hasn't been walked much on a leash. He doesn't pull, he goes out to the far end of the line and walks without tugging or yanking, but he doesn't stay on the sidewalk, he wanders off the curb and into the street, and he goes the wrong way around mail-boxes and bushes every time, making me stretch and lunge to switch the leash around.

The rest, we're guessing. "I think he was chained up most of his life," Joyce, Jack's foster mother told me when we first met. "Much is new to him."

That would explain a lot, I think as I watch our new dog. Jack's got big calluses on his elbows, typical from spending a lot of time on cement. And as a bored, starving dog, did he chew his chain? That would explain his sad, ground-down teeth.

"I think he was probably chained in a front yard," I say to my kids after taking Jack on a walk. "He stops and stares at every car that goes by," I explain. "My guess is that cars coming and going provided his only entertainment and opportunity for interaction."

"Jack spent a lot of time alone," my husband comments one evening. "He hates to be without people."

Sure enough, he asks to go outside, but he'll only stay if someone goes with him, and he follows us around all the time. If the one person in a room leaves, Jack goes too. He watches us constantly, all of us, not missing a thing, leaping up regularly to shadow any trip to the kitchen, watching out the front door when someone goes to fetch the mail, nudging the closed bathroom door to try to come in with us. He's a big dog, of uncertain age with a graying muzzle and high energy, and he won't let us out of his sight.

And we've been through this before. We generally adopt needy adult dogs, and it's been three years since we did it last, but we know to keep the food coming, to treat worms and infected ears, to expect an insatiable need for attention. And we know not to discuss how and why. We understand there are people who treat their dogs badly, who abandon and neglect them, who withhold food, training, medical attention. We know there are people who physically abuse their dogs, beat and kick them. But we don't talk about that, don't picture it, don't dwell. Instead we enjoy the sweet dog who was rejected, who comes to us grateful and loving, asking only for food and a soft bed and endless petting.

Tonight my husband and I watch Jack, stretched on the red dog bed beneath the TV.

One by one he's brought in all the dog toys, carried them in from the basket in the dining room, and arrayed them around his cushion. He's got his new favorite wedged between his paws: Winnie the Pooh, a baby toy whose jar of hunny pulls away, vibrates, and reels back into the bear. Over and over Jack pulls the jar, stretches out the string. He's just had his third meal of the day, his second walk, and he's surrounded by his new family. He's inside, warm and comfortable and happy.

"This is the life, isn't it, Jack?" my husband murmurs, and Jack looks up, meets his gaze, and I know he agrees.

Lianne Wilkens lives with her family in Manassas. She can be reached at liannewilkens@hotmail.com.