The Search for Puppy Love

Finding Your Dog

A little more than a year ago our dog passed away. She was the kind of affectionate and loyal dog that makes you want one in the first place. She was a solid companion for all her eleven years. As my kids moved away and we were settling into a new life in Massachusetts, she tore both ACLs. You know how that story goes.

A vet and close cousin warned me from far away. “She’ll be gone in six months from something different.”

I got her the surgery anyway and was devastated that he was right. Sadly, we only get them for a little bit. And her little bit included traipsing through the woods, fence playing with her buddy next door, and wandering parks and beaches with the adoration of her family, including two boys to get into trouble with.

I don’t like an empty house. Kid and dog free, the echoes are an undue burden on my sturdy, though fragile, psyche. How else does a person cry, if not into the welcoming neck of an adoring dog?

After two months without her, we began our search for our next loyal companion. They’d need to be large enough to snuggle with. Beyond that, looks were irrelevant to me. I scoured the Internet for rescues near my new home in the northeast. Apparently, we spay so well up here that there are very few rescues to be had.

We decided to go back to the same shelter that had rescued that great dog, and 22 years ago, the one before that. We left early for Long Island. The golden light guided us as we drove. 

I smiled remembering that the first dog happened because the shelter was near an unusually crowded Ikea. We enjoyed some Swedish meatballs, but abandoned our cart to a painfully long line—neither act a rarity for us.

“Hey, I think that shelter is up here,” I said. “Let’s just look.”

It was a first glimpse of the naïveté that’s dogged me my whole life. Yes, pun intended. As if I could walk away from wet noses or blatant need without trying to respond.

“Let’s get two,” I said to my husband now, the memory of our previous dog still fresh, as we waited in traffic. Sometimes in the last 25 years, I found myself acting like a 1950s housewife deferring to his wants. Mostly, I give in because he worries about things I don’t understand or care about. Like oil changes. And insurance. But I’d wanted two dogs for a very long time. 

“They’ll pee on the lawn. And the new carpet.” He shook his head, firmly. “Two is a lot of dogs.”

“It’s ok,” I offered like the put upon old lady I’ve become. “The lonely puppy will have that huge yard. I guess you’ll walk him everyday for stimulation?”

I studiously avoided the puppy room and concentrated instead on the perimeter lined with cages holding a bit older, but nonetheless sad and needy dogs. I wanted to take each one, but two would be fine. And maybe they would be mature enough not to eat the furniture?

“I’ll be happy to take any out if you want to meet—” a volunteer said, approaching us.

“If you have a bonded pair, we’ll take them,” I blurted out, stunning my husband. “We have a big yard. An empty nest. We’ll take them.”

Quickly, she said to my husband’s shocked face, “You can’t take two at once. Come back in six months and we’ll find a good fit. A dog is a huge commitment.”

My husband spotted one checking us out in the corner. She was big and white, speckled like a Pollock painting with a giant black ink spot on her back, like someone laid down a saturated paintbrush and forgot about it. I loved her instantly. In the same way, we’d let our other animals choose, she did too, her wet nose pushing into my hand. 

I never keep their “prison names” which range from something common usage, to a hurricane scroll. It said Mabel on the cage. Or Mildred. The week before I’d written a story about my long lived relationships to bagels. I thought it was a great name. I petted Bagel’s smiling face. Her warm, wooden eyes melted me. I grabbed the form and went at the paperwork. 

Adopting at North Shore Animal League is rightfully a full day affair. They check your references. They make you wait. You have to be sure. We knew the drill and took off for lunch.

“It’s a shame they wouldn’t let us take another one,” my husband offered.

I saw through him. He was plotting a way not to come back for the second one this winter. No worries, I told myself. My focus was laser sharp. 

As he was putting on his seatbelt to head back, the phone rang. It was them. I panicked a little. Maybe the next door neighbor didn’t like us as much as I’d hoped? I should have given them a different number.

“Hello?”

The voice came out over the speaker. “We never do this, but you chose a dog who was rescued from a 6 x 6 foot horde. We’re not sure how long she’d been there. She’d had a litter of puppies.”

“How?” I interrupted. “She’s only eight months.”

“At six months they go into heat,” she explained. “Are you still interested in two? It stayed with me that you’d asked for a pair. She was rescued with a sister and they seek each other out whenever—”

“Done!” I said. “We’ll take them!”

For a moment, my husband looked like he might object. Instead his face softened and laughter filled the car in light of his fortuitous defeat.

When we got back, they explained that Bagel’s sister, a pup I named, Lox, was weary and nervous. It was good that we had no young kids at home. I needed to be prepared for a shy, neurotic puppy. I laughed. Like everyone worth loving isn’t a bit of a shy, neurotic puppy.

Loxie leaned into my leg when we met, her very pedestrian ordinariness so much a part of her charm. I’ve come across dogs that look like her in all different sizes. A ragtag mutt that looks like it has on a tux with puffy tan eyebrows. It was love between us, and better yet, between them. As they brought them both into the getting-to-know-you area, I knew I’d been right. They were nose to ass instantly.

Two hours after that, Loxie and Bagel sat yin-yang in the backseat of our minivan, ready to make the long drive home. 

There have been times in my life when I’ve fallen short of who I hoped to be. There are ways I’d wished I’d done something differently. But as I watch the two of them rip through the way-too-large-for-two-old-farts’ yard, and share meals they know will be plentiful, then settle down to either sleep on top of each other, or us, I use it as proof that I’m a decent human being after all.

It turned out that Bagel was the neurotic mess, and Lox is more like a therapy dog. Bagel circles around people until she feels comfortable. Or they offer food. She’s a hard earned pet, but well worth the patience.

They must have taken a firm divide and conquer approach in order to survive.

At the dog park it is Bagel who approaches the other pups. Once Loxie sees that the coast is clear, she jumps in. Loxie takes the lead on people. And she is a love. Together they are fully actualized, like most of the best marriages I’ve known—including my own. Now, I can’t imagine them apart. 

We are coming up on a year since they chose us. The power of love and positive feedback have helped them overcome so much. There is still a way to go. Bagel plays shark around people she doesn’t know, a few times less, but enough to make you dizzy. They both cower before sticks of any kind, from golf clubs to old folks with canes. 

We are all a work in progress. My husband never talks about how two dogs are too many. Instead, as they marked their territory, he happily surrendered the lawn. In the basement, we switched to press and peel floors—a small sacrifice, indeed. 

They managed to find us and stay together no matter how horrid their starts were. A well shaped pack is a rare gift from the universe—one I’m thrilled to hold onto.