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Do dogs know they are being rescued?

I know they know, or I wouldn't do what I do to save them.

I am guarded by a 128 lb male Gotti/Ridgeline pit. I saved him from death, so he is so loyal to me I could tell him we were gonna drink the Kool aid today, and he would drink his first so I wouldn't be afraid to chug mine. The day I discovered this gorgeous guy had been abandoned at a foreclosure, I knew he was probably still going to die, but I opened my car door and looked into his sad blue eyes and said “bighead, if you wanna be my boy, I'm here. Get over here and load up, but funny business or reckless eyeballing me will get you fishooked and sat down right back where we started. You wanna load up Mr Foreheadliketyra?” He was in the passenger seat like he teleported. He knew what transpired at that very moment, and he still sees that fearless halfwit every time he looks at me.

I got a call one night from a vet tech I work with locally to foster. A load of pit pups are in a ditch off 301. We're in rainy season, the water is 3 ft high in the ditch, and a Gator had been filmed chilling there a few days earlier. These pups don't have sight yet, and I'm told 2 have already drowned. Immediately I grab my keys, my go bag and some towels and I head to the door. Bighead meets me there, and I have to get my emotions in check because he's scared. He has to be thinking I'm running out on him too. Nope, load up. Let's go grab these babies before some reptile gets warm enough to get hungry.

He and I spend hours in a thunderstorm next to a 6 lane stretch of industrial traffic. He never bats an eye. He can hear these babies crying, and he leads me to 5 live puppies. Then he looked at me like he regrets to inform me that shit is about to kick me in the chest and I spot 2 babies that obviously don't hurt anymore, they're facedown in the water that has puddled around a drain grate. I can't just leave them, waterhead, it ain't right, I tell him. He moved slightly to the left so I could wrap them in a towel and he whined quietly as I opened the trunk and laid them down to ride in their funeral procession.

Now I have a big box of blind babies I put on the backseat, but bigsoftassbaby decided he wanted to backseat drive too. Hmm, whatever stepdad much? Unamused, he starts sniffing babies loudly. Exhaling like a damned walrus with sinusitis. Breathing weird hot air all over these stepchildren. Oh, I see. You're not just beauty, you're rocking a big brain as well. You do your freakshow Lamaze, I'll drive.

From that day, not 3 months after he met the crazy broad that bakes him organic dog biscuits and insists he is going to be a good, good boy and get better, he became my partner in crime. He also became a big dude. Like, outweighs me by 20 lbs big, pulls me around the house sliding my socks on tile floor big, people that know I have big ass pits don't wanna meet him big. Head like a stop sign. Heart of the same dimensions.

I explain to him that night as we're trying to bottle feed some little bats that it's not always easy. Sometimes, the calls are scary, the dogs aren't free to leave. Sometimes they need a hero, and since I'm clearly not sporting a cape, he could rock a spandex bodysuit and I would never tell a soul. He is a giantnogginned picture of class, just accepting my level of stupidity as “eccentric”, and pretending I don't need mental work in the form of a fright sensor replacement. A real Southern gentleman wouldn't be so crass as to suggest it.

This was 2012. Since then, I have really attempted to best my own record for Is This Bitch Really Walking Back With 3 Pits On Tow Chains? and This Bitch Is On A Mission To Be Shot At Every Month This Year. Guess what superforehead does…yep. He has decided a Southern gentleman must also know how to mop up the floor with any lowbred sack of shit radiating ill will toward his woman. If I tell him we're going in and getting a dog, he isn't stopping until we reach that distressed dog. Then we calm that distressed dog. Then we leave whatever hellhole we're not leaving a good review for with said distressed dog. Plain and simple. Because, despite you tweeked out douchebags insisting this dog likes having 1 eyeball and 3 broken ribs, I feel like I could be being mislead. Stopsignmug is no sucker for sob stories. He knows a liar when one is cooking meth in front of him and he will plainly chew your fucking face from your neck if you don't step aside while I escort my new friend to the bubble Caprice like right now.

This is the proof I never needed that rescue dogs know you saved them. He knew he had a job to do. He is a rescue dog who rescues dogs, and if you ask me about a spandex bodysuit, I don't know shit.

That's a gentleman.

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