David Rosenfelt - Lessons from Tara: Life Advice from the Worlds Most Brilliant Dog

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This book is dedicated to the many wonderful friends we have met here in Maine.

The whole thing, all that my wife, Debbie Myers, and I did and are doing: The decision to get involved in rescue, volunteering in awful Southern California shelters, starting our own foundation, rescuing four thousand dogs, putting in those endless hours, adopting an absolutely ridiculous lifestyle, and becoming certified dog lunatics.

If not for Tara we never would have had a house filled with dogs these last two decades never less than twenty, and a high of forty-two. I wouldnt have included a dog rescue theme in my Andy Carpenter books, and theres no doubt that a lot fewer people would have read them. I certainly would never have lived through, nor written, Dogtripping .

Our house wouldnt always be knee-deep in dog hair, and we wouldnt go through vacuum cleaners every six months. I wouldnt have taken my laser printer in to be fixed, only to have the guy tell me that there was enough hair stuck in it to make a coat. I wouldnt be literally shoveling shit every morning, and I might not have had four back surgeries. We would be using plastic grocery bags to carry groceries, and not for other purposes.

We wouldnt have made a succession of veterinarians wealthy, there wouldnt be a mastiff and four other dogs sleeping in our bed every night, and my car, the one we use for shuttling dogs around, wouldnt be affectionately and accurately dubbed, The Shit-mobile. There wouldnt be a layer of dog hair on every piece of clothing I own.

Debbie Myers and I might have only dated a couple of times, and thus never fallen in love. I never would have become aware of the amazing love and comfort that dogs have to offer, and how worth it it is to deal with the pain of losing one .. and then another and then another. I certainly wouldnt be getting my face licked on a regular basis.

I wouldnt go though a couple hundred pounds of kibble a week, or dispense more medication than the average Rite Aid. It wouldnt take me almost an hour to give out upwards of sixty pills a day. The local PetSmart employees wouldnt spread rose petals in front of me when I arrive at their store, or know exactly what I want without my having to ask for it.

Strangers wouldnt want to visit our house, considering it sort of a canine Disneyland. Our FedEx driver wouldnt tell me that he has other customers in nearby towns who ask him if he knows where we live. People I meet for the first time wouldnt eventually snap their fingers and say, Wait a minute are you that dog guy? In fact, I wouldnt actually be that dog guy.

I wouldnt get up at five thirty every morning to the sound of barking, nor would I cringe every time a doorbell rings in a television commercial. Halloween wouldnt be the most dreaded night of the year. I wouldnt have to navigate a canine minefield to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. And I wouldnt hear more retching noises during the night than youd hear in the average fraternity house after an all-night party. Watch your step would not be words to live by.

I wouldnt have had a chance to get to know dog rescuers all over the country, and if there is a more dedicated, greater group of people anywhere, Id sure like to meet them. I never would have realized that there was a massive subculture of dog lovers that exists anywhere you could go. And I would not have been able to help any of them raise money for their very worthy causes.

There would be less screaming in our house, less vacuuming, less mopping, more sleeping, more relaxing, and much less love.

So Tara changed my life and taught me more than I would have thought possible. Some of it was through her actions, but most of it was through her legacy, and the descendants she left behind. They literally number in the thousands.

The lessons in this book are the ones I learned from Tara and her friends. She never met any of them, but she saved every one of their lives.

And I am forever grateful.

Get your mind out of the gutter; this is not that kind of book.

Tara used to sleep in bed with Debbie and me, but she would always arrive late. Im not sure why; its not like she was returning from a night out clubbing. It was just part of her routine to sleep on the living room couch, then get up and come sauntering into the bedroom at around two in the morning. Shed then climb up and go to sleep. It really wasnt a problem for her, since she didnt have to get up and go to work in the morning.

We had a California king bed, so there was plenty of room, but Tara didnt necessarily see it that way. Rather than look for an available slot, she would lie on top of either Debbies or my legs. It was actually a comforting feeling, and I was always pleased when she chose me, though it was fairly rare that she did.

Fast forward to now, and there are always at least four dogs on the bed, though it can be as many as six. The regulars are Wanda, the mastiff; Jenny, a lab mix; Cheyenne, a Great Pyrenees; and Boomer, Cheyennes sister. And these are not small dogs; they represent a little more than four hundred pounds of dog. We still have a California kingbecause we cant find anything larger.

At four A.M. , so regular that you can set your watch by it, Bernie the Bernese mountain dog starts to bark, softly at first, then louder. While barking, he puts his front paws on the bed, a signal that we are supposed to lift him up.

He could make it up there himself, but somehow seems to consider it beneath his dignity to do so. Debbie and I both pretend not to hear him, until one of us (usually me) gives up and hoists all 120 pounds of him onto the bed.

The act of lifting him is more than just a question of strength and effort. Its also a strategic challenge, because the other dogs sometimes have to be repositioned so as to find a space on which to hoist him. They are all asleep, and would not react well to a Bernese mountain dog landing on them. They are not as tolerant as Debbie and I.

Once Ive successfully added Bernies very large frame to the crowd, Ive got another challenge. Except for Jenny, who shares my pillow, and Cheyenne, who insists on resting her head on a humans upper torso, the rest of them like to sleep near the other end of the bed, blocking off half of it.

That leaves me three choices. One would be to lie in the fetal position, knees up near my chin. That would be fine, unless I wanted to stretch out, or fall asleep, or be able to walk in the morning. The fetal position works fine for fetuses, because they get to stay in one place, and dont have to lift forty-pound bags of kibble.

The second option would be to rest my feet on top of one or more of the dogs, in effect turning them into canine ottomans. That might actually be fairly comfortable, until one of them decided they wanted to get up. If Wanda the mastiff was the one to make that decision, I would immediately feel like I was going into traction, and real traction would soon follow.

The third, Tara-inspired choice, is the perfect option. I burrow my feet under them. They dont seem to mind, Im able to stretch out, and I get that comforting feeling of them lying across my legs. Of course, when its the 175-pound Wanda, or even Bernie, it feels like my legs are propping up South Dakota. But it still works fine, and it is particularly warming on cold Maine winter nights. Wanda has so much padding, I dont even think she notices.