Illustration by Jan Igoe
Friends, please read this quietly. There’s a much younger guy in my bed, and we don’t want to wake him. Yes, I know it’s wrong. You don’t have to say it. I’m way too mature (OK, old) to be taken in by another pair of dark, dreamy eyes and a body that begs to be cuddled. “You’ve been down this road before,” my friends remind me. “It never ends well.”
But I can’t help myself. I’m hopelessly addicted to puppies.
This one snuck up on me. I swear, I wasn’t anywhere near a shelter. In fact, I was racing to the hardware store to buy one of those water-sucker-upper things, which no single woman owns prior to a catastrophe. (My vengeful hot-water heater spent its dying moments flooding the house.) But there, blocking the entrance, was an armful of abandoned pups. I’d stumbled onto an adopt-a-thon.
“When these puppies lost their mom, they were just a couple of weeks old,” the rescue lady said. “We’ve been bottle-feeding them around the clock, praying they would make it.”
In the distance, I could hear harps warming up.
The small, logical side of my brain rushed to remind me that fuzzy, 5-week-old puppies always find homes. But the other side—the side I listen to—was screaming that only a heartless beast would walk away from these helpless babies. (You know what happens next.)
Back at home, my other rescues suspected I’d been with another dog—shameless hussy that I am—and began a full-body nose scan. If dogs could hire private investigators to prove infidelity, mine would be first in line.
They were getting their first whiff of the new pup when my neighbor came flying in. “Oh, my goodness. I have to hold him!”
“Hello, gorgeous,” Julie squealed in the highest octave humans can still hear. “Does he have a name? Let me help.”
In a quest to empower her kids, Julie had allowed them to choose names for the family dogs. That’s why Julie has a terrier known as Batman and a large, brown escape artist that goes by Avalanche. Last July, her husband made the 6 p.m. news chasing that dog down the beach. When you yell “Avalanche” on a 95-degree day in Myrtle Beach, people worry that a private hospital may want you back.
“I think I’ll call him Ripley,” I said, to avoid any collaborative effort. “But you can help figure out what he is.”
Animal shelters don’t have the budget for Ancestry.com, so they take a few liberties when guessing the breed of their guests. My last rescue was a lightning-fast, blue-eyed, black-spotted athlete. In the shelter, they diagnosed her as a beagle. According to our veterinarian, she’s probably a blue heeler, cattle dog and whippet mix, but not Snoopy. Whether the shelter speculates that a dog is a Pomeranian or a Great Pyrenees could depend on who is rolling dice behind the adoption area.
It really doesn’t matter, though. No matter what kind of puppy joins your family or how many times you pluck puppy nuggets off your floors, you’ll forget. Their hypodermic-needle nails may gash your arms, and razor teeth may shred your sandals, but you’ll forget that, too. Just like childbirth, you’ll forget. And someday, you’ll want another puppy.
They’re cheaper than water heaters. And the floods are smaller.
JAN A. IGOE is still making up for a dog-less childhood. She avoids shelters, adoption fairs and Yorkie ads on Craigslist. You can reach her at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop.