This Is It

Richard and I aren’t traveling as much for work these days, and we’ve recently observed how easily friends with small dogs are able to travel with theirs – even bringing them, unnoticed, into restaurants or hotels, inside a piece of luggage.  And though I think of myself as a “big dog” guy, the idea of a little Scout or Scamp or Weezer I could carry in a shoulder bag when necessary is suddenly very appealing.

Meanwhile, those PetFinder.com email links from our friend keep coming:  Here’s “Jovi”, a sad-eyed, black and tan dachshund-terrier mix – a rescue in Shirley, NY.  He’s cute, but I’m wary of dachshunds because the breed descriptions I’ve read all include the word “stubborn” and because their short legs and long bodies make them especially prone to spinal injuries and other structural problems.

“Mary Jane” is another “doxie” mix, but she’s blonde with a scruffy beard and I return to this email and this image more than a dozen times to study the pup’s adorable face.  I make contact with the foster parent in Tennessee who tells me that the “dachshund” mix is a guess, and that Mary Jane already weighs twelve pounds at twelve weeks and is expected to double in size.  No good.  Sorry, Mary Jane.

But wait – here’s “Bubbles,” listed in Portsmouth, Rhode Island – a rescue dog whose name and photo make me laugh out loud.  He’s small, he looks like fun, and he looks like a real dog.

His description says Bubbles is a long hair Chihuahua mixed with Jack Russel or toy fox terrier.  “Cute as a button, Bubbles is sweet and playful – good with all dogs/cats/kids.”  I click around, dig a bit deeper, and finally find a phone number to call:

“The mailbox is full and cannot accept any messages at this time.  Goodbye.”

I follow the on-screen instructions and complete the intrusive, multi-page questionnaire (“list and describe all pets by name/species/breed; if deceased, provide age at death, cause of death, and supply contact information and a release form for your veterinarian.”).  I email the completed form and go to sleep that night thinking about Bubbles – about what it will be like to have a dog again, and wondering if he will sleep in a crate at the food of our bed, or if he’ll sleep under the covers, like his cousins, Ollie and Dot.

I let a day go by, then a second.  Then I wonder: Why have I not heard back yet?  And what if someone else with no history of deceased pets wants to adopt Bubbles?

I find the “Mutts4Rescue” Facebook page and send a Facebook message.  The reply I receive just moments later instructing me to text Bubbles’ adoption coordinator on her cell phone confirms my suspicion that “old-fashioned” email is fast going the way of the carrier pigeon and smoke signals

With clumsy thumbs I compose a message to Keri, then return to my computer to calculate the route and drive time to Portsmouth, Rhode Island – a four-hour drive from my Hudson Valley home.  When Keri phones me I learn that she – and Bubbles – are not in Rhode Island at all but are in Louisiana.  “The person who posted that listing lives in Rhode Island,” Keri said, as if that explained things.

“So,” I say, “I’ve never adopted long-distance and sight-unseen before; what can you tell me about Bubbles?”

“Well, Bubbles is just a great little dog; he’s a lot of fun, and he gets along great with other dogs, with cats, with children.  He’s not afraid of anything and doesn’t withdraw or retreat – he’s just real sociable and sweet.  He’s also neutered, he’s had all his shots, he’s been crate trained, and his housebreaking is going really well.”

This is sounding better all the time.

“Well, I’d really like to adopt Bubbles,” I say, “So what’s next?  How does this work?”

I’ve really just set this thing in motion, just moved this adoption from something theoretical or possible – or even probable – to inexorable.  I feel something shift inside – the proverbial skipped heartbeat.  Bubbles is going to be my puppy; he’s going to be our dog.

“The drop location for your area is Spring Valley,” Keri says, “and that’s scheduled for October 19.”

I close my eyes and imagine my calendar: Richard and I are working in Atlanta that week.  “And the drop after that?” I ask

“Let’s see: November 2.”

That works.  Keri says she’ll send me an email with the details and by the time our call ends I’m already thinking about dog beds and dog bowls and dog food and dog leashes and dog collars we no longer have.  I reach for the computer and type “dog supplies” into a search window; a moment later, I’ve begun a shopping list.