Famous Last Words

After I lost my beloved Sally last September everyone asked, "Are you going to get another dog?"  My response was always, "No."  First off, it would just be too hard replacing the perfect dog.  And I wanted to travel, stay overnight if I went out of town, not rush home from whatever I was doing because the dog needed letting out.  And then my answer changed to, "Not right away.  Maybe in a couple of years."  But I'd be out walking, see someone with their dog, and my heart would hurt.  I started approaching strangers like a drug addict looking for her next fix -- "Can I pet your dog?"  Within the past couple of months my answer changed yet again.  "In the fall, maybe...maybe I'll get another dog in the fall."  It was just too hard not having a dog.

My plan for a next dog was always to adopt an older one.  A dog who needed a place to live out his last few years. Maybe a family moved and couldn't take Fido...maybe the owners were elderly or died...maybe I'd start looking in the fall.

And then a friend from the neighbourhood knocked on my door.  His elderly next-door-neighbours were experiencing health problems and needed to move. They could no longer care for their dog. Would I be interested in adopting him?  My first reaction was, 'no, uh-uh, no way.'  But I agreed to think about it.  The thinking took all of about two minutes after I closed the door.  I mean I knew the dog, sort of.  He would run out to say hello when I'd walk by with Sally.  He was a big brute --  a Giant Schnauzer / Standard Poodle mix -- but seemed oh, so gentle.  After all, he walked so nicely with the old gentleman who owned him.

So the next day I called.  Yes, I'd adopt him, IF his current foster home could keep him until after my trip in April/May.  Turns out she could.  At first.  And then she couldn't.  The owner's son was preparing to have the dog kennelled. For three months.  I talked it over with the kid and she was on board, willing to take on his care while I was away.  Except for the week she'd be away. And then he would have to be kennelled.

And suddenly we were dog owners once again.  Unlike a puppy you get to shape and mold from scratch, this guy is 7 years old.  Pretty set in his ways. So we're getting to know each other.  And comparisons are inevitable.  But what's this?  While drying Sally off after a walk in the rain was akin to trying to towel off a greased pig, this guy leans into it like it's a full body massage. Where Sally would run and hide as soon as the brush came out, I now have a dog who will stand stock still and let me brush every inch of him, including legs and feet.  She squirmed to get out of your arms; he tries to crawl onto your lap every chance he gets, despite being triple her size.  He only half fits.  This guy retreats to his sleeping pad as soon as you tell him to "go lie down."  He won't go down the hall to the bedrooms, leaving at least one area of the house dog hair free.  He curls up in his open kennel cage as soon as we leave the house.

I admit there are moments when I think, 'what have I done?'  The kid admits she's had moments when she thinks, 'Mom, what have you done?'  But now that I've figured out what was causing a little aggression problem, stress levels have diminished.   Just don't hold him by the collar when greeting people or other dogs because he then seems to perceive them as a threat.  Such a relief to sort that one out.  

But if it's tough for us, what about him? We're his third home with two foster stays in between.  Since he's arrived I've taken him to the groomer to clip his overly long nails, to have the waxy hair clumps pulled from his ears.  He's been poked and prodded at the vet for a long overdue checkup.  His food has changed, his house has changed, the people around him have changed.  And still he greets us every morning and every time we leave and return with a lip curling smile and a wag of his stumpy little tail.

No, he's no Sally.  I can't ask or expect him to be.  His name is Indy.

And he's my dog.

Book Reviews:  OMG! You have to read The Guest Room by Chris Bohjalian. Could not put it down.  And the whole time I was reading it I kept thinking how happy I was not to be the people in this story.  I've only read a few of Bohjalian's books. Clearly I need to correct that oversight.

I love short stories.  I love reading them and I love writing them.  For me the key to a great short story is the ending.  I love when I get to the end of a short story and the final line makes me go, 'WOW!'  So I spread the joy of reading Stephen King's most recent collection of short stories in between other books. Read a book, read a few shorts.  The Bazaar of Bad Dreams is further enhanced by an introductory post of when / how the piece was written.  There are some gems in this collection.  Except the poetry. Sorry, not a fan.  But don't skip the intro -- some of his best writing is always found in the intro.  Constant Readers know that.