who personifies her pet to the point that it might make other people nauseous. I love our little dog. I fought for her tooth and nail three years ago when I spotted her outside of a petstore at an adoption fair. She was this sad little thing, all skinny and mangy (literally), and my boyfriend (who really is my husband but why I call him my boyfriend is a totally different story that I’ll save for another time) looked at me like I had cracked my head when I said we had to take her home (except they told us she was a he). He said, “It looks like Gizmo” which, truth be told, she did. “We have to have her.” I pleaded like a kid fighting for a new toy with his parent. My boyfriend did not relent. In the car, I named her Oscar (truth be told, she also sort of looked like the brindle version of Oscar the Grouch). Boyfriend ignored me. At home, I sulked. Didn’t matter– BF wasn’t there; he had been called into the office. My stomach hurt over the sick little dog (we found out later that her two sisters didn’t survive the illnesses that all three of them had when they were found running around on the side of the road). And then BF came home and said, “let’s go get a dog” and we rushed back to the adoption fair. Except the dog he wanted– a classy looking mix of a boxer and a lab who also had a real grace about her– had been adopted. “Let’s take Oscar,” I pleaded. Lola (renamed after we found out she was a girl. Puppy was so grimy and gross from the mange and other stuff that no one had wanted to pick her up and check her out that closely.) was in a crate, getting loaded into a car to go back to the shelter. He looked her in the eye, unimpressed, when she cocked her head back at him, taking him in as if the choice was her’s and the verdict was still out. That’s all it took. But, still, I am not one to babytalk her, dress her up, or do anything else too crazy with her. She’s a great dog, but I know she’s a dog.
Today it snowed. Lola has never seen snow. And when it came time for this morning’s walk, puppy was not pleased to have this stuff on the ground. As much as a dog can, she walked on her tiptoes, totally creeped out. Periodically, she looked up at BF like, “why did you do this to me?” and for the rest of the day, she refused to go outside (and puppy loves outside. She has this toy that we call brain that entertains her for hours out there. Our old neighbors used to eat their meals on their back porch so they could watch puppy play with brain. It is that amusing.). Inside, puppy moped. And evidently started to feel entitled because look where I found her.
And look what happened when I took a third picture of her. Puppy looked at me like she was so put out, like she was thinking “could you please stop?”
I felt so sorry for her– all depressed over the weather– that I left her there (All you parents out there, this is how it starts, isn’t it? You feel sorry for this– in this case– dog that is under your wing that you give in just that one time and then it landslides) . She did get off the couch at one point, came over to my office window, looked out and– I kid you not– sighed very dramatically. It was like I had a five year old at home. I was already feeling pretty bad when puppy was dealt her final blow. When someone knocked on the door, puppy went running. So happy that there was FINALLY something to do– sniff someone out at the door. Except the person at the door was puppy’s favorite playmate’s owner (some people would say mom). And Mel (Lola’s favorite playmate) was not with her.
Puppy broke down (or as my sister says about her daughter when she loses it, ‘dropped her basket.’). She cried and cried and cried and when my friend left, she ran to the door and pressed her nose against it, waiting. When I was little, I used to run to the door when my older brother and sister would leave to go some place I couldn’t go because I was too young. It would break my heart, and I wrote very dramatic poems that I then sung to the tune of church hymns while I pressed my nose against the door’s window, crying. When I saw puppy with the door against her nose, I couldn’t help but remember little Rosie, and my heart hurt even more for Lola. Mel’s coming to stay the weekend with us tomorrow, and Lola will likely get sick of sharing her bones, food, owners, and even Brain with Mel by Monday. But, until then, she’s milking the sympathy points, and she’s got me hook, line, and sinker.