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About a month ago I rescued a dog.

I had wanted a pet for some time, but refused to pay some “adoption” center $250 to pry into my personal life.The money, I was told, was a donation, though the “donation” was mandatory and that was the minimum “donation” allowed in order to adopt the pet. Some charged extra for vaccinations and other services.

I had originally contacted a few of these places – shelters that complain of unwanted pets they can’t find homes for. I was told I had to fill out an application, which was fine until I saw some of the questions and requirements that seemed, to me, a bit too much when one considers that it is they, who want to avoid seeing an animal put down.

Was my yard fenced? Did I rent or own? How many square feet of property did I own? How many square feet was my home? Would the animal be allowed to run free in the yard? Did I have any children? What are their ages? Would someone be with the animal all the time? How many hours would the animal be alone? How many other animals did I own, their breed, and how long I owned them? How much money did I make? Who is my veterinarian? Why did I want the animal? My age? My gender? My marital status?

One shelter wanted to inspect my home. Screw them.

It’s easier to import a Russian wife, than it is to adopt a pet. I put off getting a pet for years, but did put the word out to many friends and co-workers, that should they hear of an animal needing a home, I might be interested.

After years of waiting, I finally got offered a dog that not only needed a good home, but was a breed that I had been wanting.

Maverick is a Yellow Labrador Retriever. He is the English variety. Stocky, squared, and heavy versus the American (Western) breed of Lab that is taller and slimmer. Labs are among the breeds that are, above all, good with children and loyal to their owners.

I was informed about Maverick through a mother of one of the children I transport to school. The mother had a friend, whose grandmother (a breeder of Yellow Labs) had Alzheimer’s. The disease had progressed to a point that the old woman could no longer care for the animals.

Maverick was the last of them. He was the oldest of the dogs, at about 1 1/2 years old, and because he was no longer a cute little puppy, his 95 pounds and undisciplined playfulness probably made some shy away from having him romping through a home.

I took a 90 minute drive past Scranton to meet Maverick. He was tied to a tree outside the home, but to make it clear, he wasn’t mistreated. He was fed and watered, but his breed is the type that needs a lot of human interaction and not being allowed in the home had made him desperate for attention. He was untied and immediately romped around the outside of the house where he was located.

I still had to interact with him, so I called his name. There was always the possibility we wouldn’t like each other.

When I called, he took the 40 feet of distance between us to build up speed and jump onto my chest, nearly knocking me over.

About 30 seconds of licking my face and my petting him followed, with his tail wagging ferociously.

I moved toward my vehicle. My intention was to get a length of rope I had brought with me, so that I might take him for a short walk. When I opened the back hatch of my Jeep, he immediately jumped in and sat on his haunches, looking at me, as if to say, “I’m ready, let’s go.” He obviously made up his mind about me.

That first night in my home I lost a pair of socks and a boot to him. Training was obviously needed, but to his credit, he is a smart dog. He now only chews on the toys he is provided. His habit of jumping on people is almost completely broken, with more of a standing posture than a “jump,” when he does break his command of, “Off.” He no longer tries to pull me on our walks. “Heel” was among the first commands he had to learn, more for my fear of a dislocated shoulder, than his safety. He has since learned to sit, lay down, and roll over. If not too excited around other people, he’ll even “stay” and “beg.”

I’m still working on him going to the fridge to get me a beer.

The amount of treats used as rewards during training has been considerable, but it’s a small price to pay for him. He’s a good dog and I don’t have any complaints, other than having to brave the cold during his walks. Picking up his poop confuses him, but he must think it pleases me to do so. He provides me the pleasure frequently.

Which brings me to the guilt of responsible pet ownership – spaying and neutering. I can’t complain about other people not preventing unwanted litters and the ever increasing stray or feral cat population in West Easton, if I don’t walk the walk with my own pet.

I had already brought Maverick up to date on shots and vaccinations, along with a wellness visit to the veterinarian, but since I had no intention of breeding him, his “giblets” had to be removed.

That was done on Tuesday morning and, as a guy, I really felt guilty about it. Most men choose to have theirs taken from them and held in a purse. Maverick never had a choice.

Though, I did see it as an opportunity.

When I picked up my now ball-less Maverick on Tuesday afternoon from the vet, I showed him pictures of those on the West Easton Council, that voted to raise our taxes 2.2 mill, plus spend the $165K they saved from not having a contract for local police services. Add to that a budget that proposes $60K for a Borough Manager and no accountability of carry-over monies, it was an easy transference of anger.

“Bad Councilperson,” I repeated, as each picture was held next to his balls in a jar. “Bad Councilperson.”

With each growl and flash of teeth as the pictures passed, I knew he understood.

UPDATE: More than a few people have asked me if the cajones in the jar are really Maverick’s. Of course not, but two small potatoes dropped into watered-down cranberry juice looks convincing, doesn’t it?