"I don't know what's wrong with him," the voice on my answering machine wailed, "Kobe is terrified of our free range rabbits, he has to be dragged outside. Can you please help?" This was years ago, but I still remember how complex the problem with Kobe was. He was a pound dog, who had been adopted and rejected so many times it should be a world record. A beautiful, long haired, black and white dog, he was a gentle soul, making friends with everyone.

I first met him at our local pound. He had been adopted by a friend of mine. All had been going well, until the fourth week. He became terrified of shoes. All shoes that were not on people's feet became things to growl and snarl at. If someone dropped a shoe in his path, it would be instant clean up time, as fear released both bladder and bowels. He was brought back to the pound.

Another new home. Again all was well until the fourth week. Kobe was found huddled behind a chair, growling at a bookshelf. What was with this dog! First shoes, now a bookshelf? Where was the connection? He ended up back at the pound. This time a great deal of training went into the dog before he was adopted out again. He was returned four weeks later because he was so afraid of the family's old cat that he peed on the spot if the cat walked into the room.

When he was returned again, no one was happy. His keepers began to talk that perhaps the humane thing would be to just put him out of his misery. I had been in and out of the shelter and had grown to love the dog. He liked nothing better than to sit outside on the grass, while I brushed him. I was puzzled and disappointed that people kept returning him. We all wanted to help, we just didn't know what his problem was.

I asked a young couple who just bought a small farm if they would take Kobe. His history was explained in great detail. They fell in love with the sweet natured dog, and agreed to try. All was fine until I recieved the phone call that when Kobe spotted the pet rabbits on the farm, he freaked. He tore through a screen door to get back inside. The couple felt that his quality of life was so poor, they thought he should be put down.

By this time he had been seen by so many vet's, dog trainers, animal specialists, even a psychic who offered her services free. She said he was traumatized by one of his past lives where he had been a fox and hunted by dogs. Well that didn't help much, but at least she tried.

I went out to the farm where Kobe was living to see for myself what on earth was triggering his weird ways. It was exactly the way they had said, Kobe had to be dragged outside to pee. If a bunny rabbit happened to pop out from under a bush, he fought in a frenzy of fear to get back into the house.

None of us wanted to give up. We got together, someone spread a map out and we found that all of his adopted homes were within a ten mile radius, close to a small town. This was years ago, when few dogs were taken to a pound. This pound always opened for adoptions on the first of the month. Kobe was adoped, then freaked out on the fourth week. Could there be something happening in the time frame of four weeks, where he was placed in a new home, then in four weeks he would become terrifed of something?

Bingo!!

One of the vet's had mentioned that Kobe had extremely sharp hearing. We should have listened to him. Every time Kobe would behave in a panic of terror, was the same time that a fire hall in the small town turned their siren on for testing. Every four weeks. Like some children with autisim, who can't handle noise, Kobe had a similar problem. When the siren went off, whatever he saw in front of him, was locked into his mind. Even after the siren went off, Kobe retained the memory of what he had seen, and he couldn't get past that. He would be returned, adopted, in four weeks the siren would wail, Kobe would latch on to something to place his great distress on, and the problem would repeat itslelf, over and over.

The dog trainers took over. Someone was with him when the siren went off. His fears became manageable. He never competely recovered, loud noises, or sounds that humans could not hear would upset him. He learned to live with it. His quality of life improved to where he was a happy, tail wagging, friendly dog. It was a lesson to all of us who had worked with the pound dog, never give up.

I watched Ken, a young man walking with a three legged Dalmatian dog. Ken walked faster than the dog, then would wait impatiently for it to catch up. At one point the dog stopped and hung his head. Ken walked back, picked up the dog and started to walk with his heavy burden. I called out of my van window, offering a ride. I pulled over, slid open the side door, yanked out my emergency dog blankets and made a soft bed. Ken placed the dog on the blankets. I wondered why he didn't say a few words to the dog, or give it a pat or two. On the ride to his home, Ken told me the story behind the dog.

He is a hiker and had wanted to go on a long walk through an area that eventually led to a river. It took several hours before he reached it. He sat on a huge pile of debris, rolled onto the shore from last year's high water. As soon as he sat down he heard a loud whimper. He looked under the pile and spotted the dog. The dog barked joyously at seeing Ken's face. One of his back legs was stuck in between two logs that had rolled, pinning the dog to the spot. Ken managed to pull the dog out, each small tug made the dog cry out with pain, but he never once attempted to bite.

Ken carried the exhausted dog in his arms, back out to the main road where they were picked up. They drove straight to the vet's. The doctor shook his head, there was no way to save the smashed leg, he said the dog might not even make it through the operation. Ken was asked if he was paying the bill for the dog? At this point, Ken told me he just wanted to walk away. He had worked hard to save up enough money for a second hand truck. The vet bill would wipe that out.

He decided he couldn't spend the money on a dog he didn't want or need. The Dalmatian would be put down. The vet left to get the needle that would end the dog's life. The animal lay on the table, he looked into the eyes of the man who had carried him for miles. Reaching out a trembling paw, he placed it gently on Ken's hand. On the spur of the moment, Ken decided to use his savings to save the dog.

The operation went well, but the dog didn't recover as planned. Infection set in, requiring more work and medication. By this time Ken's savings and hopes for a truck were long gone. He was now facing an extra bill as the dog was not getting better. He could walk well on his three legs, however his spirit seemed to have been broken.

When I picked them up, Ken's face was hard with anger. I asked him if he was mad because he wanted that truck, now as the owner of a dog it, was costing him dearly? He admitted he was fed up with the dog. He wanted it to get better so he could get rid of it. He had found no one wanted a three legged dog. He hadn't even named the dog.

I pulled my van right over, and stopped. Ken looked at me and I couldn't help but cry. "Don't you see?" I asked. "That dog needs more than medicine, or your money spent on him, he need love, he needs for you to want him, for you to be truly happy that he is in your life." I drove the van back onto the road. "Ken, for crying out loud, you haven't even given the dog a name!" Perhaps it wasn't my place to say anything. Ken sat deep in thought for the remainder of the drive to his home.

When I pulled into his driveway Ken helped the dog out. I watched as he knelt down, took the dogs head in his hands, and in a voice thick with tears he said, "I'm sorry old boy, I just wasn't thinking how 'you' felt." The dog's tail began to wag slowly. "Let's start over, okay Buster?" He pulled the dog to him for a hug. "I guess we better get you feeling good about life so we can go on short hikes together." Ken smiled at me, "I think he just got named."

When I drove away Ken never noticed. He was too busy with Buster. That dog was whipping the air with his wagging tail and washing Ken's face, giving him doggie kisses. The promise of love and a life time commitment. I had a good feeling that Ken and Buster had jsut started down a wonderful road of friendship. Both were winners!

Stormy suggested that it was time for another picture of Boo, so I said I was happy to oblige. I feel like a proud mother always ready to pull out baby pictures and tell cute stories about what my child has done lately. I think they're cute anyway!

Here he is:

Isn't he cute??? Well, I think so. He's up on the grooming table, wondering what the heck is going on. I had him up on the table so I could take some pictures to send to Mari, Sarah's owner (Blue's mom). She and I co-own Blue, but she lives in California and she has to rely on me to send her pictures of him right now. I don't take nearly enough pictures.

Blue's old enough for us to get some idea of how he will look when he's grown, so I was trying to both take the picture and pose him on the table, all by myself. It wasn't working too well! I would click the button on the camera (which I had set up on a tripod), then race back to Blue on the table and try to wrestle him into a show pose. He was really good about it, but we had less than 10 seconds to get into a pose, so our pictures were pretty comical. I think Mari got some idea of what he will look like later on, but those pictures are always going to be funny.

Blue didn't mind too much: he was getting cookies on the table for being so good. Meanwhile, I had Pearl closed off in one of the bedrooms so she wouldn't try to "help" us. She goes nuts about the grooming table. If you just get out a brush or move something on the table she can't stand still. She practically jumps in your arms trying to get brushed or get on the table. She has a fit about it. She's so weird. It's like her favorite thing on earth. She even goes all strange when I brush my own hair. She tries to jump up on me when I have my hair brush in my hand. Very strange girl! She gets so excited she quivers about it!

Even though Pearl was safely out of the way, I still had Taylor…and Beau…and Emma…and even Charlsie trying to help us. In some of the pictures you can see their heads sticking up trying to see the top of the grooming table and get Blue's cookies. LOL That's the way it is here. I can't do anything without all the dogs getting involved. One big happy family.

Wow. It feels good to be back at work. Please keep in mind that Dr. Alfonso is still working on adding the free membership site. It will be the perfect place for people to honor their dogs. Or a dog may have had something to do with you having a spiritual experience that changed your life. This just isn't for dogs who have saved a human's life, but all dogs to gave something meaningful to their owner. Perhaps a puppy, a lost or stray dog, a dog who needed your help and you ended up feeling blessed because of your involvement. It will be a chance for people to support each other, while giving recognition to phenomenal dogs. You can contact Dr. Alfonso at support@cooldoghalloffame.com.

I had an experience that I seldom talk about. I'm afraid no one will believe me, or they'll think I'm nuts!

I was about eight years old. The people who lived next door to us had an old dog who slept all day in the hot sun. The poor thing had arthritis so bad, he could barely move. His owners sometimes carried him up and down the stairs. Some days he needed help to get up onto all four feet.

They were having problems with their septic tank. The men had taken the lid off. To me, it looked like a round piece of cement. I was going to jump on it to play with my new skipping rope. My knees were bent, ready to jump when the old dog was suddenly standing in front of me. He refused to move. I went to shove him out of the way, but he leaned on my legs pushing me backwards. I was getting a bit annoyed. Until I happened to look at the "grey cement pad." It had bubbles coming up to the surface. It wasn't cement. If I had jumped I would have gone right to the bottom.

Being a child I still had a sense of horror at what nearly happened. I wound my hand into the long fur of the old dog. He led me back to his sunny spot where we both sat down. It was then I realized that there was no way he could have walked unassisted, from the house to the septic tank, far out in the field. When we walked back, he showed no signs of arthritis. How had he managed to get in front of me when I thought of jumping, from where he was?

I stayed with him for a long time. He put a paw on my leg, gazing up at me. His eyes were so warm, so wise and I could feel the love. Something changed in me that day. Even now I can't explain it. I believe that angels come in all forms. That crippled old dog had somehow been granted enough strength to reach me, then prevent me from what would have been my death.

We moved to the city a few weeks after that. I heard from a friend that the old dog had passed away in his sleep. My parents thought I was a bit strange when I cried over the news. I begged them to take me out to where he was buried. They must have been fed up with all the bawling I was doing, so they drove me out. I knelt by his grave, placing a bouquet of dandylions on the mound of earth. I thought to myself, I didn't even know his name. While I was there, I patted his grave, and thanked him for what he had done for me. A sense of peace filled me. Even as a child, I realized this was something special.

I like to believe that he was indeed a protector, and I think he watches over me to this day. I never did learn his name.

Dusty was a dog who belonged to no one. He was the town stray and intended to keep it that way. He didn't want any one person or family call his own. Built rather low to the ground, wiry grey hair with powerful back legs, he could outrun most kids or dogs in the town. He was well fed. People put out dishes of food and water regularly. In bad weather he would ask to come inside and no one refused. After the weather cleared, he asked out.

It was on a long weekend that someone wondered, where Dusty was. The word went around, no one had seen him, his food dishes were untouched. He wasn't in any home, porch or garage. He seemed to have disappeared. Folks who liked the little guy kept searching. He had to be somewhere.

When a thunder storm pounded across the skies, Dusty went for cover. Not finding anyone to let him in, he came across an open doorway, slipped inside, found a nice warm spot then promptly curled up to wait out the storm. He fell asleep. When he woke, it was dark. All the doors were locked. He found a bag of dry old doughnuts in a garbage can, plus the lid was up on the toilet. Perfect. Food, water, and shelter.

As the days went by Dusty found a lot to play with. There was room to run as well. He had a good nose and that led him to a cupboard that he flipped open with one paw. Jackpot! Cookies, crackers, a dish of candy, even some sandwiches.

By this time Dusty needed a bathroom call. From days long past he had a hazy memory of using newspaper to pee on. Well there was a lot of that here. He had scattered pieces all over. He chose a thick one near the door, and used that while he was locked in.

By the time he began to get a wee bit lonely, the town was mourning the loss of their little stray dog. When it was time for school to go back in, business's to open, hearts were heavy. No one had found the friendly little loner.

However when the key turned in the door, Dusty was asleep in his spot far from the front door. He woke when he heard someone screaming, so he trotted out ot investigate. No one saw him. They were too busy looking at the wreckage. Books were everywhere. The children't area was a shambles. Newspapers were scattered throughout, plus the tiny kitchen had been looted. Someone found Dusty's bathroom spot. The people were shocked. The soiled paper was fifteen years old and had been on display.

Dusty had sought refuge in the town library. He had been locked inside for four long days. The head librarian was fit to be tied, when someone found a heap of rather smelly grey things. Dead mice, lot's of them. Dusty had been one busy dog.

He was forgiven for soiling the newspaper. Mice had been a huge problem for the library. It was agreed that the small dog would be locked inside now and then, to make use of his excellent mice catching talent. The next time a thunderstorm blew in, Dusty headed for the library. He wasn't just any old stray dog anymore, he was a dog with a mission. He would be fed, watered, even a bed provided. It was a fair trade. He would be allowed to wander at will in the town. It was all and more than he could ever have hoped for.