A Street Dog Trusts Again

Dudley can't do tricks, but he will sit for us now and then. He doesn't trust easily, and sometimes he growls at us. He hoards toys. He never wants to walk straight.

But times when he rolls over on his back, showing his belly, his eyes say "I trust you" and he gets the belly rub he wants, I know he belongs here.

Dudley, a cocker spaniel mix who is probably about 10, may not be most people's dream dog, but he's changed my life.

Heavily matted, weighing 17 pounds, with two cherry eyes, Dudley was found wandering in downtown Los Angeles. His body was about to give out from smog, dirty water, and lack of food. Once he got to the shelter, the reprieve didn't last long - the shelter scheduled him to be put to sleep because no one was adopting him.

Rita, a cocker and kitten rescuer from Marina del Rey, Calif., saw past the cherry eyes and matted fur. She took him that day, and soon he found refuge at a foster home.

And four months later, he was home.

I saw his picture on the Internet and felt an immediate connection. I simply had to give him a forever home. I started communicating with Rita, met Dudley, and soon he was ours.

It has not been easy. Our cocker spaniel, Pepper (now 7), had been with us since he was a tiny puppy who hid in T-shirts and could fit in two hands. Pepper welcomed Dudley as his "doggy bubby," but sometimes Dudley ignores him. Other times, Dudley gives him a quick kiss or cuddles Pepper, and the gentle dog is grinning for hours.

Pepper is delicate and always sweet; Dudley is rough and tough. But I love them both.

When Dudley acts up, I remember what he came from. What it must have been like for him, to be in a horrible place, alone, hungry, and at the mercy of bums and drug addicts on L.A.'s Skid Row. Over six years after getting out of there, he still cringes when he sees bums or hears certain words or languages. We can't get near his flapping, crooked, foot long tail which sometimes accidentally hits a trailing Pepper in his face. Dudley eats like it could be his last meal, and drinks water like a pig.

He can't do tricks. But he squeals when someone he loves comes in, and gives kisses. He even tries to talk.

When he jumps on the bed at night, he cuddles me tight like he's scared I might send him away. And I tell him, "Uncle Dud'ey, you never have to worry again."

When he sighs, goes to sleep, and snores loudly, I thank Rita in my mind for saving him. He may not be purebred, he may be grumpy half the time, he has a loud mouth, but he's my best friend. I know if my family, including Pepper, was in danger, he'd do anything to protect us.

His story and rescue reminds me how powerful one caring person is.

Someone needed to love Dudley. He didn't deserve to die (no animal does) and certainly could not go away without knowing true happiness.