He moved in with me this past February 27, John Steinbeck’s birthday, in fact. He’d grown up an orphan on the streets of a South American city.  When a government agency found him and rescued him, he had no family and no home.  He was sent to this country with some of his mates and found a place in the Bronx in New York City. He was returned to the adoption agency because he bit. That’s right; he bit several members of the family who’d adopted him. After all, when you’re a 19-pound, light gray and black poodle-mix of some kind, biting’s about the only option you have if you’re afraid, feel threatened, and choose to defend yourself.

Rascal was born in the Dominican Republic on May 27, 2020. He was rescued by a government agency grappling with an over-population of street dogs. Rascal is named after Rascal, a racoon in the 1963 book by Sterling North entitled, “Rascal: A Memoir of a Better Era.” North rescues, raises, and releases Rascal back into the wild. The book takes place in the early 20th Century during World War I.

Over the past nine months I’ve watched Rascal feel safer and safer in the world. He likes to nest in my lap and, at times, his devotion to cleaning both my hand thoroughly gets the best of him. I don’t mind at all. We continue to bond. Yes, he bit me four times in the first couple of months, but each time it was clear the bite was fear-based. Once, when he was curled up in a nap after a few weeks under my (our) roof, I tried to pick him up. He struck, and I understood.

Rascal has found his home. He will never be abandoned. He’s home, and, as we all know, there’s no place like home.