When my siblings and I were young, dogs, cats and other random species frequently ‘followed’ us home. We lived in small towns or rural areas in those days, and rescuing animals from a shelter was an unknown concept. Still, as hard as my mom argued against adopting many of those animals, she usually had no heart to turn away lost souls—in spite of the fact that she guarded her Great Danes with all the love and pride of a small, but conscientious breeder. Taking animals home, back then, was how ‘rescue’ worked.

A lifetime later, even many smaller towns have shelters and regulations regarding animals, and rescue is the accepted, often preferred method, of acquiring pets.

And a lifetime later, as an adult, I realize that having an endless stream of animals in and out is impractical—impossible, really— and unfair to fur folk and family members alike.

Yet childhood memories die hard. The Great Dane pups my mom raised were the cutest things ever. Huge paws, wrinkled little muzzles, sad eyes and floppy ears. There was a Buick commercial back then advertising some kind of car dubbed a “Mini Brute.” I remember the commercial not because of the car, but because it featured an elephant, picking up those huge feet and putting them down with visible thuds—and that’s what Great Dane puppies look like when they start walking. Plodding, one huge paw at a time. Unstoppable. And grown-up Danes were friendly—they loved us, the other weird animals, our friends—everyone.

As loving as they were, they could also be protective. On one late night drive when my sister and I stopped for gas as she was coming home from college, the attendant reached in for the money. Our Dane at the time, Thor, gently caught his wrist and held it until we convinced him we were safe. After that, Stephanie reached out of the car to pay. The same Dane also came to her rescue when a boy trying to attract her attention jumped on her horse—Thor grabbed his jean clad leg and jerked him off.

The memories of those Danes never left, and at one point, my daughters wanted one—and had their own ‘Thor’ for a number of years. I had grandkids by the time we lost that Thor, and have pictures of almost all of them petting or climbing over Thor, and his love of kids shows in every shot. Danes are good with kids, and other animals, and I love them for it.

Not long ago, my oldest granddaughter told me about a good friend who had Great Dane puppies for sale. She thought she wanted one. I knew I wanted one. I also knew I couldn’t get one.

We had two dogs—a beagle mix and a lab mix. Both had been given to us by friends begging us to take them so they could go to a good home rather than the shelter. We had a cat we’d rescued off the street. We had just moved into a small house, and I had lost my husband, and my mobility. The first time I heard about the puppies, I said no.

But suddenly the original 12 were down to 2. The owner was pleading, my granddaughter said, because his family was moving across town. They had the parents and couldn’t have more dogs in their new home. The price went to almost nothing for a purebred Dane.

After holding out for a few days, my daughter and I agreed to see the puppies. The remaining two were clearly the biggest of the litter and the runt, both brindled, both darling. I agreed to take one, and after much deliberation chose the bigger, Goliath.

Goliath’s paws were the size of dessert plates—huge. He had the mask and clearly defined muzzle that would have delighted my mom. And he was sweet and unafraid, although his brother, much more active, was apprehensive and agitated when we tried to pet him.

So Goliath came home—with the man’s assurance that he was up to date on his vaccinations against distemper and parvo. The owner claimed he had forgotten the card, but would send it to my granddaughter the next day via his daughter—one of my granddaughter’s best friends.

The next day became days. Everyone in the family loved Goliath, with his old soul eyes and loving, calm disposition. And then I realized why I hadn’t been given the vaccination card—for the first and only time in my life I watched a puppy die from parvo, and it just about killed me. I called in medical help as soon as Goliath showed the first sign of illness, but nothing could be done. Before he was interned at the vet’s office, watching him gamely try to get to the door before he had an accident left me in tears. For even the short time we had him, he’d become part of the family. And then he was gone.

Because of being mislead about the vaccinations, and because my granddaughter told me the remaining puppy had been left behind, I wound up agreeing to take Goliath’s brother. This time I demanded the vet’s bill of health up front, and because the puppy hadn’t been vaccinated when he should have, I offered to pay the owner to feed him for two additional weeks, to be sure the parvo vaccination took full affect.

The night Ares came home was chaotic. He looked skeletal, his coat was lifeless, and he was terrified. When he finally realized we were offering food and water, he ate and drank as if he hadn’t had anything for days. My daughter and I slept in the living room, afraid that he was too far gone to make it through the night.

Fortunately, a year and a half later, Ares is up and around. He still runs thin and is over active. We’ve had a vet try to help with his stomach problems and worried with her over his weight. Just recently, he has started leaving food in his dish which I see as positive—he must finally know he’s home and will be fed every day.

And he’s still a Great Dane—in love with his human family, big brother to the lab, beagle, and two cats—including the newly rescued shelter cat who still hates everyone. Ares watches the new cat with concern, unable to understand why she, unlike the others, doesn’t appreciate slobbery kisses or being followed around the house by a doting minion.

Bringing Athena Cat home from an adoption event by the local shelter renewed the debate with myself over how one acquires, or should acquire, animals in this world of so many neglected and unwanted animals and the memories and appreciation for the individual breed traits that make one a Dane lover, or a lab person, or a little yappy dog fan.

Shelters desperately need support, and larger shelters have virtually every breed imaginable. I click on stories of dogs rescued from shelters and usually cry. I donate when I can, and think working at a shelter must be both rewarding and heartbreaking.  But except for the last cat, none of our animals came from a shelter—yet all might have, given the circumstances under which they came to us. If we hadn’t taken in Goliath, we wouldn’t have suffered through an agonizing ordeal—but he wouldn’t have fifteen or twenty people who adored him and loved him for the few days he was here. The beagle, whose siblings were neglected and died, the lab/shepherd mix who was the last of her litter and found a home with us—those were rescues, too.

Pets are part of the family. Rescuing a dog or cat from unknown circumstances can bring the risk of loss— and the joy--of bringing home one more member to love.

(Author’s Note—You can follow the stories of Ares, Hades, Elway, Riley and Athena, our rescued ‘Dog Squad’ at Leslie P Garcia Miscellany on You Tube. https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCInV_weFOmkXtaogR5h5GlwPlus—hear readings from Always the Moon and watch for upcoming news from the writing world!)