Discovering Kermit

My little brown and black scruffy dog is tearing around the yard, chasing a ball with sheer abandon. His mouth is open wide and his pink tongue lolls out; I believe that if he were a kid, he'd be giggling. I know, big deal - my dog is playing, but Kermit is not your average dog. For him, this is a big deal.

Not ready for the world

Before he came to me, I don't know if Kermit had a name or anything to distinguish him from the 170 other dogs he lived with in rural Nebraska. But from his extreme fear of humans and of everyday things in my home, I don't believe anyone thought he was special. In May of this year, Kermit was removed from a dog breeder's farm by the state Department of Agriculture, and taken to Nebraska Humane Society in Omaha. The shelter quickly saw that Kermit, like several of the other confiscated dogs, was not ready for the world just yet. And so, he came to stay with me.

When he first got here, Kermit was like a little, scruffy wild animal; he had none of the usual canine blind enthusiasm for humans, walks or treats, but instead would bolt into the nearest corner or out of the room whenever I came near. Thank goodness he was fitted with a harness, to which I always keep a leash attached. He drags it around to the great enjoyment of my cats, and without it I'd never be able to approach him or get him in and out of the house.

The first few weeks were sheer terror almost all the time for Kermit. After coming from life in a cage, he didn't know anything about the world except that it was scary. So we fell into a routine where I'd take him out of his crate first thing in the morning, walk him, and then he'd go to my dog-friendly office with Angel, my laid-back mutt from Mississippi. There he'd wedge himself under my desk until we went home. I'd peek at him every few minutes, and he'd stare back at me from under his caramel-colored mop.

In the evening I'd hand-feed Kermit goodies - anything I could get him to take: canned cat food, cheese, tuna, deli turkey. Feeding Kermit involved crouching low nearby, taking a scoop of cat food in my fingers and slowly stretching my hand out, eyes averted. Sometimes his little nose would twitch and he'd eat a handful, even licking my fingers; other times he would stare at the wall, disappearing into some other place far away from this person pushing food at him. While he stared at the wall, I kneeled in front of him, waiting. Come on little man, you can do it...

New friends

And so life went on like this, until one day some internal switch flipped and Kermit decided that my Border Collie mix, Mats (pronounced "Motts" like the applesauce) was his greatest hero, protector and friend. Now Kermit is Mats' little shadow. He runs in and out the door behind Mats; he eats with Mats, steals my socks like Mats and jumps onto my bed with Mats - even when I'm in it. Since this breakthrough, Kermit has started coming on walks with the whole family, and he plays in the yard with the rest of us. He knows his name. Every now and then I think he forgets to worry, forgets to be afraid.

I've started petting Kermit and picking him up, though he hasn't started to like it yet. Maybe he never will. But still, a few times a day I reel him in by his leash and gently pet his shoulder, moving on to a gentle ear scratch. He always freezes in response, but never nips in defense. After a few seconds, I feel his tense little body relax and he leans just the slightest bit into the rubbing. I know moments later, he'll skitter away in a blur of black and tan, his little nails clicking staccato on the tile.

But the happy moments, when Kermit plays with a toy, takes a treat, or cuddles up in his bed are what tell me he's almost ready, and I'll have to let him go. That's the hardest part of fostering - watching a dog settle into my home, and then sending him away to someone else's. With five of my own dogs, two cats and the many other animals out there that need foster homes, I can do it; I can let Kermit go to a permanent home where maybe some day the treats, toys, walks and good ear scratches will replace the memory of his life before. I hope that even when he dreams, toes and ears twitching as he sleeps, that he'll dream of the good stuff.

Kelli Ohrtman works at Best Friends Animal Sanctuary and is a freelance writer from Minneapolis.

Visit the Star Tribune Pet Central blog at www.startribune.com/petcentral.