On Tuesday night, we learned that our neighbor had returned his 11-month-old “Dalmatian” to the animal shelter, frustrated with the dog’s behavior. There were two shelters he could have gone to, but when I called on Wednesday, both denied having him. That evening, I spoke with the neighbor, who gave me the dog’s original adoption paperwork, but he had thrown out the receipt with the updated information I needed to show he approved me taking the dog. By Thursday, the shelter admitted the dog was there but wouldn’t allow me to see him until the next day.
Why was I interested in my neighbor’s dog? The previous Friday morning, he showed up wet from the rain, sniffing around my garbage. When I stepped onto the porch, he looked up, ran over, and did a perfect “sit” at my feet, nose in the air. He wore a collar but had no tags. Reeking of something foul, I leashed him with my dog’s porch leash and went inside to make a sign, hoping his owner would see it. As I fed my dogs, there was a pounding at the door. The spotted dog had broken his collar to follow me, pounding the screen door with his paws. I had to leave for work, but since it was Good Friday, my husband was home. I woke him up, asked him to bathe the dog, and told him we needed to find his owner.
The dog spent the day with my husband and our two dogs, playing in the yard. That evening, we put up signs around the neighborhood. A neighbor directed me to the dog’s home, where the owner complained about how destructive he was—rolling in poop, escaping his tie-out, and making messes indoors. When I returned the dog, the owner yelled at him, calling him “Spots,” and the poor dog cowered miserably. Later, I brought over dog training videos and offered to let the dog visit us on my days off, but we heard nothing until Tuesday. That night, the owner returned the videos and told my husband he had taken Spots back to the shelter after yet another messy incident.
This meant the dog was now looking for his third home at just 11 months old. He had been great with us, playing well with our dogs. He especially bonded with our smaller dog, Toby, who often struggled with our larger dog, Megan, during play. Determined to help him, I decided to get him out of the shelter and find him a better-suited home if needed.
On Friday, I called the shelter, and they allowed me to see the dog with the old paperwork. After an odd delay—waiting for him to “prove” he could tolerate a cage by pooping in one—they finally let me visit at 3 PM. In the meeting room, when the spotted dog saw me, he squealed, ran up, and hugged me, burying his face in my neck. It was clear he remembered me. When I called, “Spots, come!” he ignored me, but when I said, “Casey, come!” he turned, ran over, and sat perfectly at my feet. That was the name I had briefly used for him a week earlier, and he had claimed it as his own.
Casey joined our family that day. He was with us for 9 years before passing away from a brain tumor at age 9. He was a smart, loving dog who got into mischief and brought endless joy to our lives. He and Toby, our Beagle-Retriever mix, were especially close, often howling together in the evenings. When Casey passed, Toby never howled again—it had been a shared ritual between them. Casey’s time with us, though too short, left an unforgettable mark on our hearts.