An Addition to the Family

It was inevitable, and I knew it weeks ago.

About the time that an exchange between the people living in this house went:

Him:  “I just found us the cutest puppy.  Someone brought them to the cafeteria to show them off.”

Me:  “And where are you and your dog going to be sleeping from now on?”

We don’t need a dog. We had Bull, who was my faithful companion for over 20 years and who I still mourn, although he’s been gone almost 5 years now.  He was perfect, moving only when absolutely necessary and demanding little from life other than dry blankies at night and a ride up and down the stairs, since his arthritis prevented him from climbing them during the last few years.

Besides, his (the other who lives here, not Bull's) predisposition is for larger animals.  I like those that, in the event of a Hurricane Katrina-type disaster, can be shoved in my backpack during the evacuation.

Our lives now do not make a dog convenient.  We travel. We’re busy with work and the myriad of other things that have to be done just to live, and mostly, I don’t want to have to start over with house breaking and chewed up shoes and furniture and all that other stuff that goes along with it.

So it was inevitable that we would eventually get a dog.

As so often happens, fate stepped in and offered an alternative at dinner yesterday. It seems that our friend in the apartment on the 2nd floor of our house has wanted a dog for a while. He tried a cat a few years ago, had terrible allergic reactions and it was a complete fiasco, so I’d not been overly enthusiastic in the past when he brought up the topic of a dog before. 

Especially when those he was favoring tended to be the size of a Shetland pony.

In a one bedroom, second story apartment.

He's retired and lonely, though, and has all the time in the world and love to give to a new puppy so when it was mentioned at dinner last night I knew I was outnumbered. A dog was coming to live in this house whether I liked it or not.

I was dispatched to the nearby convenience store to get cookies and an “I Wanna”, the local rag where people sell all kinds of stuff from tractor parts to dining room china to the aforementioned Shetland pony.

The cookies were just because, what the hell, this was happening and I wanted a cookie and there are absolutely no treats in this house anywhere.

We all have a different drug of choice.

Recognizing that this process was much like the making of laws and sausage, I then went to the track to walk. When I returned an hour later, the choices had been narrowed down to two – a Boston Terrier and a Pug.

Anyone who grew up in the Oklahoma City area during the 1960’s and 70’s knows that ALL Boston Terriers are identical to those of Ho Ho the Clown, who hosted a local children’s program for eons, and they are named “Miss Jane”, regardless of actual gender and live in a D-O-G house.

It wasn't called a dog house because she didn't know she was not human, and that might offend her gentle nature.  Apparently she couldn't spell, either.

Those non-negotiables turned out to be irrelevant, though, since Mr. E preferred the Pug, having had one years before when he lived in Colombia.  (South America, not South Carolina).

This puppy had two other things going for him – first, he had a hernia that meant he was “damaged goods” in the retail world and thus found himself on the bargain table and 75% off.

The sucker in me went for the underdog (literally) here, and felt sorry for this little puppy that might be put down because of a relatively minor physical defect.

The other was that we could see him immediately, delayed gratification not being an issue.

So we bundled up in the car and drove two counties away to look at a puppy – as if there was ever any doubt about whether he’d be coming home with us.

He was playful, animated and immediately loveable. I knew I’d lost when we saw him.  I didn't mind when he started tugging on my shoelaces and then started licking me when I picked him up.

I was OK with the decision, because it gave those of us who live together the excitement of a new dog, the benefits of having a puppy to play with and, like uncles, the ability to give the little buggers back when they’re fussy or stinky or just a pain in the butt.

Besides, he’s adorable. He’s been named Andres’ (Andrew) by his “daddy”, although Uncle Larry has dubbed him “Spud”.

I’ve always claimed the eternal right of uncles everywhere to give our sibling’s children nicknames that will haunt them through college and beyond. 

Just ask Sparky, Skip or Skooter.  Their parents tried to fight it at first, but some battles can't be won.

So about 9:30 last night, money changed hands. Papers were signed, and we have a new baby in the house.

We don’t know if his daddy was up all night with him, or how many times he had to go potty or cried or anything like that. Those more unpleasant aspects of primary caregiving fall to the parent.

We’ll be showing up this afternoon, though, to make sure that he’s all revved up so he won’t sleep tonight, just as Uncles are supposed to do.

And we’ll make sure that Spud is registered at Petsmart for anyone wanting to hold a shower.