Dutch Came To Us. Mud Went Home.

Right, this one’s about Dutch.

Well, he was Dutch when he came to us. He’s Mud now. We’ll get to that.

This is about a dog who very nearly lost his life at nine months old, despite having done absolutely fuck all wrong.

And before anyone gets upset about what I’m about to say, I suggest you make yourself a cuppa. Because I’m not going to dress this up to make it sound nicer.

A Dutch Shepherd Mix as a First Dog. What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Dutch was bought at eight weeks old by people who thought getting a Dutch Shepherd mix as their first dog was a good idea.

It wasn’t.

He went to the vets for his first vaccinations, then again for his second set. And after that?

He didn’t leave the house.

He was shut away in a crate that was far too small for him, with no proper interaction or socialisation.

The next time Dutch left that house was at nine months old, when his owners took him to a different vet, miles away from where they lived, to have him put to sleep because they didn’t know what else to do with him.

Nine. Fucking. Months.

He hadn’t done a single thing wrong. He was a young dog who’d been bought by people completely unprepared for what they were taking on, then shut away when they couldn’t cope.

And I’ll say it: they had no business getting a dog like Dutch. Or any dog, for that matter.

Yes, I said it.

What are you going to do, call HR and report me?

Thankfully, the Vets Picked Up the Phone

The vets reached out to us, and Dutch came to me.

Now, imagine being a nine-month-old dog who’s spent most of his life shut away, with barely any experience of people or the outside world. Then suddenly everything changes.

Dutch was extremely reactive to people when he arrived.

Which, considering what he’d been through, wasn’t exactly a fucking mystery.

But it turns out the way to this lad’s heart was a sly sausage and a ball.

Not that I was bribing him, obviously.

I was conducting highly professional behavioural work with processed meat.

There’s a difference.

Slowly, Dutch started coming round. He began to realise that not every person was something to worry about and that life could involve a bit more than staring at the inside of a crate.

He met other dogs.

He learned to play.

He learned he was safe.

And he had someone who loved him unconditionally, even on the difficult days.

He stayed with me for a good few months, and watching him start to enjoy being a dog was something I’ll never forget.

Off to Foster. Nice and Straightforward, Obviously.

Dutch eventually moved to a longer-term foster home.

And when I say longer-term, that was the plan. He’d have somewhere settled while we found the right forever home for him.

No rushing. No chucking him at the first person who liked his face.

Because, let’s be honest, he’s a fucking handsome dog. That was never going to be the issue.

He needed someone who understood him, knew what they were taking on and could give him the life he’d missed out on.

So Dutch was in foster, and we carried on looking.

Then me and Rach went to bootcamp at Yorkshire Canine Academy with another dog.

And my phone went.

Enter Toni. And the Fastest Instagram Investigation Known to Man.

I got a message asking whether Dutch was still looking for a home.

Naturally, me and Rach looked at each other.

Then we did what any responsible rescue trustees would do.

We stalked Instagram.

Very professional. Thorough background investigation. MI5 could learn a thing or two.

We noticed Toni was a mutual friend, so we shouted her over.

“Toni! Who’s this?”

“Oh yeah, that’s Sam. One of our trainers from South Coast.”

And before we’d even finished the conversation, Toni was on the fucking phone to him.

Honestly, I think the whole thing took about thirty seconds.

So, Who’s Sam Then?

On paper, Sam sounded like exactly the sort of person we’d been hoping would come along for Dutch.

A dog trainer.

An outdoorsy kind of bloke.

Already had another dog who, by the way, we would absolutely dog-sit in a heartbeat.

Right. Sounds like our type of guy.

Now, I know this all sounds rushed. One minute we’re at bootcamp, the next Toni’s on the phone and we’re discussing Dutch moving to the South Coast.

But Sam went through all his checks, and we made sure he was right for Dutch.

And the more we spoke, the more it felt like this could actually be it.

Not just someone willing to take Dutch on.

Someone who genuinely wanted Dutch, understood what he needed and could give him a proper life.

So Sam went and collected him from his foster home.

And off Dutch went to his new dad and sister.

End of story.

Lovely.

Job done.

WRONG.

Obviously, We Had to Go and Check on Him

As if we were ever going to hand Dutch over and then leave Sam in peace.

We’ve already been to visit.

And I can confirm that Dutch has absolutely hit the jackpot.

Although, to be fair, so has Sam. Because Dutch is one of the best dogs you’ll ever meet, and I won’t be taking questions on that.

He’s living his absolute best life with his dad and sister. He’s got someone who understands him, things to do, places to go and a family who adore him.

Everything he should have had from the beginning.

When I found out he was going, I cried like a baby.

Then I cried some more.

Which is really fucking inconvenient when you’re trying to be pleased that a dog has found his forever home.

I was pleased. Of course I was.

I just also wanted to keep him in my pocket forever, which is apparently not a sensible long-term plan for a Dutch Shepherd mix.

Sorry About Your Beer, Sam

I genuinely cannot thank Sam enough for taking Dutch on.

Although I do feel I should apologise for a couple of things.

Firstly, I don’t think the poor bloke has managed to drink a full beer since Dutch arrived.

Secondly, he now has a bunch of women constantly pestering him for updates and photos.

“Have you got any pictures?”

“How’s Dutch?”

“What’s he doing?”

“Can we see him?”

Sam, mate, I’m afraid this is your life now.

You didn’t just adopt a dog. You acquired the CWF group chat as extended family.

No refunds.

Dutch Came to Us. Mud Went Home.

We named him Dutch.

But his name is now Mud.

You have to say it in a Scottish accent. It’s important.

And Mud sticks.

So does this boy.

He’ll forever be stuck to our hearts, no matter how far away he lives or how many photos we bully Sam into sending us.

Dutch came to us as a puppy who’d been shut away and taken to a vet to be put to sleep at nine months old.

Mud is now living his absolute best life with his dad and sister.

Same dog. Completely different life.

He was never a bad dog.

He was a dog who needed someone to give him a fucking chance.

And now he’s got a family who see what we saw in him.

Sam, thank you. For loving him, understanding him and giving our boy the life he deserves.

And Mud, my handsome boy, I’m so bloody proud of you.

Now go and let your dad finish his beer, you absolute pest.