Dog Day Afternoon

If you can picture Ted Nugent with shortish, Krusty-the-Clown hair, you've got a vision of the guy I was seated across at a worn picnic table in the middle of Florida farm land.
Let's call him Ted, and say we're at his Own Private Idaho animal sanctuary. I'm not sure how accurate it is for him to call his flea-infested place a sanctuary, since the animals are probably looking around scratching themselves and wondering "what fresh Hell is this?" but nevermind.
The puppy I was there to meet was as cute as his picture, which I'd found on Petfinder. A real mutt, with leanings toward Beagle and either Terrier or Springer Spaniel. He seemed a pretty mellow dog for being 14 weeks old, but I guess that's understandable, considering he'd been picked up from the pound and brought here. Cast off.
I'd arrived with a check made out to the (cough) sanctuary, and upon seeing the dog and determining that he was not a Pit Bull, I was ready to take him home.
Two of the boys were with me: Wyatt and Cooper, and boy was I glad to have Wyatt along, because I really trust his judgment. Wyatt had not cared for Boo Bear the Pit Bull, and he was right: Boo Bear wasn't a wise choice for us.
But he liked this dog, and so we all agreed on the go-ahead. "Do you like him?" I asked the boys.
Unanimous yes vote.
Ted was telling me that his wife had given the pup a flea bath that morning.
"Does he have fleas?" I asked.
He picked up the dog and looked at its belly.
"Yep," he announced. "He's got a couple."
After having me sign some papers that the dog would always be returned to him if for any reason in the future we could not keep it, and lecturing me on some of the finer points of dog care, Ted gave the dog a tablet that is supposed to kill fleas. And soon we were all on our way home.
Home.
This little dog surely seemed to have gotten off to a rough start in life. The story -- and there's always a story with a rescue dog, whether it's bullshit or not -- is that he was an "owner surrender" because the owner, a breeder (riiight) did not want him because he was not a purebred. The breeder's dog had escaped and gotten impregnated by who-knows-what (Terrier, Springer Spaniel, not Pit Bull). Alright, I guess that's possible if the mother was a Beagle, because they do tend to wander, but we'll never know. Ted said this puppy was picked up from a high-kill pound inland, and that's about all I knew yesterday.
When I got home, I took him directly into the shower. He was so stinky, there's no way I would have not given him a bath. I lathered him up, and quickly discovered that he was covered with fleas. They looked like brown sesame seeds, and it was like they just kept appearing. I went through at least three lather-rinse-repeat cycles, and just kept cleaning the poor dog and watching the fleas go down the drain. He was such a good sport. I mean, it's not really pleasant for any dog to get a shower, but he didn't complain or fight me. He's got a nice, gentle disposition. It occurred to me that maybe the showering-bonding with me scared the crap out of him and he was afraid to move, but no, no, he continued to be nice to me and all the family members & neighbors he met later that afternoon.
This morning, I would also learn that he had hookworms and tapeworms. Let me tell you that this is something you never want to see, ever. The horror! The horror! Had I thought of it, I should have pounded a big glass of Scotch after picking up that poop.
I took him to the vet and got him a serious dose of de-worming medication; flea medication (go Frontline!); and had his nails trimmed. The flea pill Ted had given him was, according to the vet, more like a preventative, and we needed the hard chemicals.
After our OCD sanitation program, we went home, went for a walk, ate, and played outside by the pool. He didn't swim with us, and that's fine -- I think he had enough to absorb (both physically and mentally).

He's a good little dog, and everybody likes him. He follows me around and is learning how to "sit" for a treat.
We don't have a name for him yet, but we're all working on it. I look at his fuzzy face and think, "How could anyone not want you?" but I guess that his misfortune was my good fortune, because I really think he's going to be one of those dogs that you never forget.