Since Liberty had died 11 years ago, I had been bereft. If you've ever lost a beloved pet or your dearest friend, you know what I'm talking about. However, I have a daughter who is severely disabled, and the risk was more for the safety of the dog--sibling rivalry between the two. So, in spite of my deepest wish, I had refrained from Dogdom and mourned. Alas...
(My daughter is entitled to nursing care 24/7--she'll be 30 on December 17th, by the way... Mazel Tov.)
One day last February--the first, to be exact--her nurse arrived and walked into the house carrying a small, growling, snarling package with her thumb and forefinger muzzled tightly around its nose. How reassuring. She said her family didn't want "this dog" any more, and Here. "It will be good for you," she resolutely chortled.
The nurse, herself, was gone in six weeks, but that's another story. In the meantime, she left me with "this dog." Ostensibly, the beast was supposed to be for my daughter. Thing is, she detested the last dog, almost to the point of death, and her response to this new creature, half the size of the previous, was exactly the same: Instant jealousy and loathing. Thus, were it to remain, I knew that the beast would become mine--to have and to hold, until death do us part. Which seemed immanent, just between us...
The creature was pink. I can't explain it. But he was indeed pink. Bald as a billiard, shaved to the skin and pink, with blotches of grey here and there. The size of a swollen chihuahua, the thing had a "gay" tail that came up and curled around, sporting some wilted long hairs as it curved--kind of like a worn brush that had cleaned too many bottles. The ears were hanging limply, forlorn, and short. Everything was chopped to the bone remember, although the existing fur on the ears was longer--sort of wavy and rather spanielesque. Not an eyelash, not a whisker, save the scraggly tail and leftover ears. B.a.l.d. Shaved. Denuded. It was ghastly.
He had giant brown eyes that bulged, prompting me to wonder at once about Graves Disease. His nose, which was sort of a dappled brown and pink--like a dollop of chocolate mousse with raspberry filling--went halfway up his puss. Snout? Beak? Snoot? Nose? I call it a puss. But there it was. About 2" of leathery dotted skin, climbing up his blonde puss.
I know, I told you he was pink. That's true. But he had a sort of um, golden glow. I guess you'd call him a strawberry blonde. Pink with blonde tinges. And feet. Buckets of feet.
The hound was built funny. It's as if originally, the back and the front housing weren't for the same critter. The front was about two sizes smaller than the rump, which was about one length too long. So, when he sat, the little fellow had his tail and all four feet dangling right up front, as though all told, he probably had about eight or ten of them, and only the four front ones were showing. Augh. In my best fantasy of wishing with all my heart for the day when I could once again have a dog, it never occurred to me to get a bald strawberry blonde, with a minimum of eight paws and a dark snoot that went half way up his puss. Depending on your psychological bent, he was either ridiculous or hideous. Between us, I chose the latter.
The thing shook, I might add. Nerves? Cold? Who knows. He just sat there, on my plum-colored corduroy sofa, and shivered. However, as he did, I noted that he was carefully casing the joint. Clearly, the front door was his biggest priority--as in OUT. He eyed that, eyed the deep spruce green velvet chair nearer the door than the couch, measured his distances, and took a leap from couch to chair. Better. Much better. There, on top of the chair, the creature perched. Like a lemur on a leafy limb, high up in the deep jungle. Bulbous eyes searching, darting, watching. Every single thing.
I approached him, looked him in the eyes (about 3.5 feet lower than my own), and said, "Listen, Bub, here's the way it is: In this house, we don't bite, lunge, or snap. Nor do we pee or poop inside. The yard is yours; the house is mine. That's the way it is around here. Like it or lump it. You want to stay? Those are the rules. No? Then pack yourself a lunch, and head for the Dog Pound--it's that way." (The nurse swallowed hard, shifted from one foot to the other, then meekly disappeared into the kitchen.)
I pointed toward the East, the beast glanced his head and looked out the window. He turned back around and gave me a good going-over, as I towered over all those feet stuffed into his mighty 9.6 pounds of baggy skin. He considered for a moment, then lowered himself so that his nose fit between his paws. It appeared that he had decided to abide by the House rules, and make himself at home.
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