I was scared of him from the word go.
Hercules was huge, as in HUGE. Tall, broad-chested, with legs like tree trunks, and a thick body of rippling muscle.
Whenever anyone would stop by his cage in the shelter, he’d get up from his bed and slowly walk toward the door.
And then he would stare. A cold, hard, unwavering stare that made the hair rise on the back of my neck.
His story wasn’t pretty. Dumped not once, but twice at the shelter, his neck was torn up from pulling at the chains that had kept him tied to a fence in his backyard. Several of his teeth were broken from trying uselessly to chew through the thick metal links.
Nice, huh?
And that’s how he lived. For years. Never knowing kindness, never experiencing the joys of running free, never getting a break from bitter cold, sweltering heat, snow or rain.
That was Hercules’ life. Was it really any wonder that he would stand glaring at you in his cage and ask, “So what hell are you going to put me through now?”
He’d had enough, and it showed.
Still … as a volunteer at the shelter, I knew Hercules was a dog who needed to walk as much as any dog there. Probably more.
My heart went out to him. No living creature should have to endure what he’d endured. And yet, I had to keep myself safe.
So I began tossing him treats every time I’d walk by his cage — and not just any treats. I went to the deli and bought roast beef just for Hercules.
Every time I’d pass by him, I’d throw him a small piece of meat and then keep on moving. But I’d watch him from the corner of my eye.
He’d rise slowly from his bed (he was only four years old, yet he moved like an old man) and walk over to the roast beef lying on the floor. He’d sniff it, look around as if checking to make sure it wasn’t a trap, and then gobble it down.
After days of doing this, I decided it was time for the next step: I stood sideways at his cage door, so that I wasn’t presenting a challenge by facing him, and held the roast beef between my fingers through the bars.
Was I entirely comfortable with this? No. Was I aware I could lose a hand in the process? Yes.
I’m truly not a risk taker — I play the odds. And I didn’t think that would happen.
It didn’t. He walked over to me — or rather, he walked over to the roast beef — and carefully took it in his mouth, avoiding any contact with my fingers.
Hmmm, interesting.
From this, I progressed to facing him and feeding him. No problem. Was I imagining it, or was he looking a little less guarded, moving a little less stiffly toward me?
A few days later, I decided it was time.
Loaded with roast beef and a harness (he couldn’t wear collars because of the damage to his neck and throat from the chains), I slowly opened his cage door and, without looking at him, stepped inside.
It felt like being inside the lion’s den. What would happen now?
I stood still in my sideways position and held out my hand. Oh so gently, Hercules took the roast beef from my fingers. I left my hand there and felt his tongue lick my fingers and then nuzzle my hand, searching for more food.
I gave him more, and began to slowly turn around so I could face him.
We stayed like that for a while and then I tried my boldest move of all: I threw some roast beef on the floor of his cage near the door, while I moved to the back and sat on his bed.
After he gobbled up the roast beef, Hercules turned around.
He gave me that stare I’d seen so many times, yet it didn’t seem hard or cold at that moment.
“You’re sitting on my bed,” he said.
“Yeah. Is that OK?” I asked.
“I guess we’ll find out,” he said.
Nothing like a pit bull with a sense of humor.
I sat without moving, watching him lick the floor where the roast beef had been and then … then he walked over to me.
What now? I wondered, forcing myself to breathe naturally.
He stepped in between my legs, sat down slowly and with a big sigh, rested his chin on my right thigh.
I was lost.
My eyes filled with tears for everything this magnificent dog had gone through, as I gently stroked his head, his eyes, his ears, and then moved my hands easily down his back and massaged him.
He melted, and I melted.
“How can you forgive people for what they’ve done to you?” I asked him after a while.
“I take them as I find them,” Hercules replied.
In the days that followed, I walked him many times. As opposed to the younger more energetic dogs, Hercules liked walking to a grassy hill where we’d sit down, and he’d rest his head in my lap.
After about a month, I entered the shelter one day and as usual, went straight to his cage. It was empty and my heart stopped. His name card had been removed from the door.
There were only a few possibilities about what this meant — and they weren’t good.
“Did you hear the great news?!” A volunteer was tapping me on the shoulder and smiling. “Hercules went home yesterday! A wonderful couple had visited with him a few times, and they adopted him yesterday!”
I couldn’t stop the tears from coming, but I also couldn’t helping thinking: I never got to say good-bye to you!
But I did. A week later, the couple stopped by with Hercules to visit. He stood proudly beside them, wearing a shiny new harness.
I knelt down beside him, stroking that wonderful head, and asked them how he was doing.
“Oh, we just love him! We take him everywhere with us,” said the woman, beaming at him. “It took him a day or two to get used to the doggie door that lets him out into the yard, but he’s comfortable with that now.”
I thought of the years Hercules had spent chained outside in all kinds of weather with nothing to look forward to but the next miserable day.
“Where does he sleep?” I asked her.
“At the foot of our bed,” said the man. “It’s a little crowded, but we don’t mind.”
At a shelter, there are a lot of rough days. But some days are perfect.
Just. Perfect.
*Please note: The above photo is not of Hercules.
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