Twice a month, the city's pound brings eligible dogs and cats to my local park for adoptions. I volunteer as a dog handler, which means I work with one dog for the day. Together, we greet the public, answer questions, and try to land a "forever family" for the dog. This Sunday, my charge was a one-year-old, slightly shell-shocked 18-pound chihuahua mix. He had no name, since he was brought in a week ago as a stray. He started out the morning withdrawn and not making eye contact, looking a bit forlorn:
After several hours of greeting other dogs and people, a full bowl of dog food, and a couple dozen laps around the park, he was all tuckered out:
By the end of the day, Hallelujah! He had a new family to go home to tomorrow! I swear he somehow knew he lucked out, because at last he relaxed totally, snuggled up next to me, and took a nap in the sun with his belly up, a blissed-out, relaxed dude:
Happy new life, little guy!
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