Waiting for the right dog
Boots arrived yesterday.
Actually, he’d arrived 11 weeks ago, one of a trio of litter mates that ended up on the doorstep of an animal shelter east of here. And by arrived I mean he arrived, finally, at home.
Not my home – as I’m not ready for my next dog yet – but at the home of a friend who cared for my elderly Smoothie in his last days. My friend has been looking for a dog ever since, applying at and perusing animal shelters all over, hoping to land on the right match.
It’s a long process that’s fraught with the competing feelings of sympathy and practicality. You want to save every one. At one shelter we visited, we saw a gorgeous male husky; his hair was silver and his eyes silver blue. My friend would have taken him – heck, I would have taken him – except for the fact that huskies need a large fenced yard. That’s a lot of dog.
Boots has some pit bull terrier in him, but probably some boxer, too. As soon as I learned that, my mind went way back to Winston, the boxer pup that came to my family when I was 12. I know boxers.
“Boots is going to be funny,” I told my friend. “Boxers are funny dogs.”
Winston didn’t so much run as bounce. If he didn’t want to come into the house when we called him, he’d stand behind a tree, thinking he was hiding.
“We can still see you,” we’d say, and he’d slink toward the door.
He was loving, but jealous. When I was in my teens and a boyfriend was visiting, Winston would object to us sitting together on the sofa; he’d crawl up and wedge himself between us. I forgave him for that, but not for the time he ate dirt and sticks and then put his head on my lap, slobbering all that goo onto my white graduation dress. Those boxer jowls are gushers.
Winston had a thing for the black Labrador retriever that lived across the street. Most mornings he waited at the edge of the yard, hoping she’d come over to play. When the family moved away, Winston would still wait there, hoping.
Winnie the Pooch died when I was away at graduate school. Our family has had many dogs since then, but I don’t think any has been as comical.
I hear that Boots is funny in the way all puppies are funny, and from the photos, he looks really cute. He’s only been home for a day and he’s already getting the hang of crate training and walking on a leash.
As for pit bull terriers, I hear they are sweet and loyal. From the mix of things, Boots will be a goofy dog that follows my friend everywhere. I’m guessing he will double in size in a couple of months, and that he will be a perfect companion. My friend says he still misses Smoothie.
And so do I. Sometimes I’ll be standing at the stove and think I notice some movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn to say something, and then I remember.
Maybe I’ll find my next dog at a shelter someday soon. But for now, it’s reassuring to know the right dog is out there somewhere; just keep looking.
I hope to go meet Boots one of these days. I’ll rub his belly and twirl those soft, floppy ears and tell him what a good boy he is. Funny and good.