We had a short stint volunteering for the Boulder Humane Society. Our duties mostly encompassed walking the dogs. One day a very young litter was dropped at the Society’s doorstep and they needed a volunteer to house them until they were old enough to adopt. We stepped up.
We did not know what we were in for.
These critters were cute, but lordy, were they a handful. At first they just crapped all over our kitchen floor, then ran thru it, leaving paw prints behind. At least they were small enough that we could wash them under the kitchen tap with one hand.
We had to learn how to feed them. We tried putting all their food in one bowl. They politely waited for each other (as my Dad would say) “like one hog waits for another”. It was a frenzied scrum that left the weak for dead. By leaving the food out in a long line on the floor, it was impossible for the big ones to block out the small ones.
Our own dog Emma lacked any faint trace of motherly love. She hated them, probably would have killed them all if given half a chance. They thought she was their mother. Some of the probably needed therapy later.
We hawked these dogs to all our friends and unloaded the lot of them, keeping the gold colored one and naming her Tori, after Tori Amos.
