Zorro is and isn't my dog.
I mean, he does live in a house with my husband and I, we pay for his food and medicine, and we feed him every day. I take him for walks, buy him special treats, and even hold the flashlight while my EMS-trained husband cleans the crud out of his hound-ears. So, he is my dog, but he's not really my dog.
Zorro is and is not my dog in the same way that Heath never was but always will be my horse.
I used to work on a big farm that raised Standardbred racehorses. I first met Heath when he was about 6 months old. He was out in a 50 acre pasture with his mom and several other mares and foals.
After he was weaned, he lived in that first stall off the main aisle, and I was one of the first to brush him, teach him to lead, and pick up his feet. He was very shy, hard to catch, and had a fear of hay being thrown into his stall. I watched him play in the paddock, studied his build and gait, and even memorized the number freeze-branded on his neck. I wanted to be able to recognize him later, and like him, most Standardbreds are tall and bay, so he didn't exactly stand out in the pasture.
The next year, Heath was one of the six yearlings in the string I prepped for sale. For six weeks, I groomed him daily, fed him his breakfast and dinner, cleaned his stall, and walked him countless laps around the infield barn. Horses, especially young ones, are afraid of a lot of things, but Heath trusted me. We overcame fears and learned new things together. I loved him to pieces, and he knew that I was his person.
I cared for him, trained him, and loved him, but I didn't own him. And, with a pedigree like his, and his great potential as a racehorse, I knew I could probably never afford him.
When sale day arrived, I groomed him, bathed him, shined him up like a penny, and dressed him in his brand new leather halter. I pulled him out of his stall time after time as the perspective buyers filed through the barn aisle. They looked him over, studied his build and gait, and read the numbers next to his parents and siblings names in the sale catalog. They wanted to predict what success he could have on the race track.
He sold for 26,000 dollars.
The next day I said goodbye and drove home. I cried the whole way.
Heath will always be my horse.
I've followed Heath's racing records for the past 10 years. He's changed hands several times, but none of his owners know that he's my horse. But, I know that Zorro is not my dog.
At least he's not only my dog.
He belongs to Alex and Jenn and Dawn and Katie and Erin and everyone else at Wishbone. He belongs to everyone who came to say goodbye to him the day we signed the adoption papers; the people who's names I can't remember and who's faces I'll never recognize because respect for a deadly virus covered our faces.
He belongs to all the volunteers who ever walked him and all the patrons who ever entered the shelter and greeted him during his days as the office dog. Zorro belongs to the hundreds and thousands of people who saw his pictures on Facebook and asked how he was doing and if he'd been adopted yet. The adopters and fosters who tried but couldn't keep him still have a piece of him, too.
I will never know all the lives he's touched or how many people have loved him, but I know he'll never really be my dog.
I know that having Zorro is a privilege. Of all the people who have entered his life, I'm the one who gets to snuggle with him on the couch and watch CSI reruns. I'm the one who wakes him up in the morning by waving his ham-wrapped thyroid pill in front of his nose. I get to see his tail wag when I take the leash off the hook, listen to him howl when I leave for work, and hear him bark when I get back home. I love him more and more every day.
Because Zorro is my dog. But, as much as he is my dog, he isn't. I'll never forget that.
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