We're stepping out of chronological order here as far as canine adoptions, but it's well warranted in this case.
Rascal joined our clan of beasts last April; a ravaged, bone-rack of a mutt rescued by the SPCA from an abusive owner. He wasn't exactly a likely candidate for adoption, given his proneness to hissing and baring his fangs in the presence of visitors and prospective new parents while tucked away in his kennel. But at least he was out of the grip of the jerk who'd mistreated him.
Enter Kurtis. While doing the part-time-volunteer thing at the SPCA, he managed to build a mutual trust with Rascal, and quickly became the only human that the pup didn't want to rip apart. As the weeks marched on, it became clear that this dog was not going to warm up to anyone else; so instead of subjecting him to being bounced from facility to facility in the region, Kurtis agreed to foster him.
If there had been any doubt up to this point as far as our bleeding-heart-idiot status, certainly by now all such doubts should be put to rest.
To briefly fill in our readers on dogs number 1 through 3, Kristy the yellow Lab and Scarlet the Shepherd mix were the two that I'd adopted from Much Love Animal Rescue in L.A. shortly before I crossed the border. They had "separation anxiety" issues, the worst of which, thankfully, had played themselves out before the move. Iron is the police dog Shepherd that was part of the package deal I'd unwittingly inherited when marrying Kurtis (just kidding, honey). Their stories can (and likely will) fill many posts; but for the moment, suffice it to say that these three have a tight pack and don't suffer newcomers gladly.
How to reconcile a pack of spoiled, territorial house dogs with a precocious canine genius who loves the great outdoors? Easy enough. Build him a house and outdoor compound and let him play watchdog and vent his all his pent-up doggie aggressions at unsuspecting passersby and occupational-hazard-laden meter readers.
After a shared and closely supervised day together in the backyard, where dogs 1 through 4 sniffed, played, marked territory and occasionally ended up getting sprayed by the business end of a garden hose when unseemly humping crept into the equation; they were officially used to each other and had reached at least a level of mutual tolerance.
The food bowls were another story. Neither Kristy nor Rascal were willing to share the contents of said bowls, so mealtime was a segregated affair. It was nothing personal -- Kristy hates sharing anything with anyone.
Next installment: Meet Dog #4, Part 2: What's with all the sanitary behaviour advised in the heading, and why is Rascal a genius?