Lark, Rescue Dog Extraordinaire

One year ago today, our family grew by leaps and bounds and licks and wags. Lark, half beagle, half corgi, joined our family. He didn’t bark for a full two months, and for the first several weeks we had to carry him up the stairs every night. Upon entering our house he slipped across our hardwood floors like a slow motion Road Runner cartoon. He slept in his crate at the foot of our bed. Now a year later, he lies curled up smack in the center of our bed. Mac Daddy sleeps along one side, while I sleep along the other. Lark forms the middle rung to a capital letter H between us. He steals the covers and burrows in, stealing all the body heat he can. He doesn’t rest unless his head is pressed snuggly into the crook of my knees or his paws folded along the small of Mac Daddy’s back with his chin propped solemnly atop. At some point in the night he sniffs around, spreading his allegiances among us. You’ll find Lark curled in a ball on Deal’s beanbag chair, sprawled across the plaid quilt at the foot of his bed, or spooning with Bird, whose room is always a tish colder than the rest of the house.

Lark has the appetite of a typical beagle. I swear he’s part goat. He prefers crayons, LEGO bricks, and Playmobil swords, much to Deal’s dismay. Lark would live off a diet of stuffed animals if he could. He doesn’t wreck them in teeth baring violence or suckle them in affectionate licks. Instead, Lark simply chews those stuffed critters until he can suck out the stuffing like marrow stewed in red wine and broth. Deal has lost several stuffed animal bits and pieces to the jaws of Lark, rendering me a stuffed animal plastic surgeon. I always did want to be a doctor, so mission accomplished, right? I’ve reconstructed doggy ears, fashioned eyes out of felt, darned holes with thread that doesn’t quite match, and shopped around for fake fur in just the right shade of chestnut. Somehow Lark knows to stay away from Deal’s special teddy bear named Beary. Deal has had him since he was six months old, his first Christmas gift. Deal doesn’t sleep a night without this bear, the same one who accompanied him in his backpack on the first day of kindergarten and flies tightly in his arms on every trip. Yes, Lark’s sixth sense is good enough to know that Beary is off limits.

Lark does not sit or stay or come or catch. He runs at Olympic speed and has an affinity for sticks that are longer than him. He is timid around other dogs, yet humps big dogs in a futile attempt to establish dominance. He squats to pee and is the poopingest dog I have ever known. Lark runs in a trot that looks a little wonky and off kilter, but his flopping ears that look like ponytails will make you chuckle aloud. Those ears feel like silken velvet. He’s an easy going gentle pup who makes a great pillow or armrest. He could use some training and manners, but for now we’re just happy that he rings the bell when he has to go out.

We don’t know much about Lark’s past. We know that he’s about two years old now and that he was found in a park as a stray. He came with a turquoise blue leash and matching collar with polar bears embroidered in a row. He has deep chocolate brown eyes that will melt the snarkiest curmudgeon out there. The cock of his head and silken long ears will make you swoon. Strangers stop us to tell us how cute he is, and he’s the most popular kid on the playground. Lark has a gentle, loving nature beneath his wild yapping that is exacerbated by ringing doorbells, UPS trucks, Nerf dart guns, and kids who wrestle in hysterics. Lark is a creature who needs to physically touch us and be underfoot, perhaps a sign of insecurity from his past. We’ll never know.

I often scratch his belly and under his collar and wonder what stars lined up to bring him to us. We adopted him from the Wake County SPCA the weekend after Thanksgiving. The staff had named him, and we had big plans to rechristen him (Archie if I had my way). And then as we bantered and bickered in the car, we realized that he was already aptly named, for we got him on a lark. And so it stuck. One year later we can’t remember what life was like without a perpetual shedding caramel colored pup clickety clacking across the hardwood floors. Sometimes I catch him looking at my opposable thumbs with intense envy once in a while. I just know he’s drooling over all the chow he could scarf down if only he could open the pantry door.

One year later, we love this puppy dog more than we did one year ago. Adoption. Rescue. Call it what you will. All I know is that we saved a sweet pup and love him unconditionally. We don’t expect him to hunt or prance or preen or show or fetch or breed. We just want to shower him with love, which is what a pet is for.