This is a short story I wrote about why and how my family became the third owner of a lovable dog named Max--and how I tend to be the third owner of everything in my life. I hope you enjoy it!
Thanks for reading about my strange history of third-ownership. Please visit me at www.amiedenman.com
Do you have a great story about acquiring a pet? Please share!
I glanced in the rearview mirror
of my twice-passed-down Chevy Suburban. Both boys strained the limits of their
seatbelts with anticipation. As the leader of this mission, I kept my hands on
the wheel and my enthusiasm leashed. We were only on this bumpy road to the
county humane society because of innocence and the power of prayer.
“I think he should be brown,” Joseph said from
the back seat.
I thought brown was a decent dog
color, but as a responsible parent, I had to model open-heartedness. Who knew
what choices would await us with wagging tails?
“Maybe he will be a she,” I
said.
Joseph shrugged, the movement
reflected in my slice of mirror. “That would be okay.”
“We should get a black dog,”
Dave suggested. As the younger brother, he considered it his mission to suggest
an alternative in every situation. He followed this general policy when it came
to selecting cereal, agreeing to a spot on the couch, or negotiating a cartoon
channel.
My son Joseph’s love for dogs
began in the womb. Along with his general sweetness and desire to please, his
love of canines was original equipment. Joseph had also proven himself a
conscientious pet owner. He had maintained a fish tank for several years
without any fish-attrition attributable to his care. Never had he overfed them
or shoved army guys in the tank and risked contamination. Joseph had even taken
a terrible setback and turned it into a teachable moment. When a goldfish died
of whatever naturally kills goldfish, Joseph presided over a solemn funeral.
Afterward, my husband and I listened as Joseph took his younger brother by the
hand and sat down for a serious discussion. “Now Davey,” he had said, “when you
get dead, Mommy and Daddy will flush you down the toilet.” Dave had nodded
seriously at this sage proclamation garnered from the sacred duty of pet
ownership.
The fish were only a band-aid in
the marathon of pet yearning. Joseph wanted a dog. He had a stuffed dog from
nearly every place we’d visited. He named them. Made collars for them. Took their
pictures. Despite Joseph’s petitions, though, my husband Jeff and I had held
the line against getting a dog for years, making all the standard arguments
parents make.
But that changed last weekend
after Sunday mass when the bells tolled their judgment on this long-standing
negotiation. Sweetly taking my hand as we filed out of church, Joseph played a
card no parent could resist.
“Mommy,” he said. “I don’t
believe God hears my prayers.”
Despite the May sunshine, I
stopped cold. How does an eight-year-old come to this conclusion?
I had to ask. “Why do you think
God doesn’t hear your prayers?”
“Because I’ve been praying for a
dog for years and we still don’t have one,” he explained.
Church bells sang out a cheerful
hymn, families crowded into cars to go to lunch, my six-year-old pleaded for a
quick pass at the playground next to the church and school. But I was frozen in
place and time. Looking at my son’s face—without a trace of guile, just pure
wonder at the mysteries of God—I knew my arguments had come to their day of
reckoning.
“We’ll talk to Daddy when we get
home,” I said.
My husband has learned many
things the hard way. His first two marriages dissolved with a painful signature
in a lawyer’s office. As wife number three, I represented the value of a fresh
start. When it came to his heart, I was the third and most responsible owner.
From his earlier experiences, Jeff had gleaned the power of giving a new idea a
chance. And he was also schooled in the merits of remaining judiciously silent.
I presented the compelling
comments from Joseph as I served up macaroni and cheese on lunch plates. Jeff
had not been there in the church parking lot when Joseph questioned the power
of God. He needed to know. And we needed to talk about this without perked-up
prying ears. Before we called the boys in from blowing off church steam in the
backyard, we had to come to parental agreement.
“Okay,” Jeff said with a
one-shoulder shrug. “Just not a big dog.”
“Is that all you have to say
about it?” I asked, hardly believing he would capitulate so quickly and toss me
into the role of judge and jury.
Another shrug. “As long as
someone else takes care of it,” he said.
I glanced out the kitchen window
where the boys were swinging, their long legs driving them higher and higher
until they risked a big fall if they let go. Jeff—also long-legged—set out
napkins and cups as if the whole issue was either decided or out of his hands.
“So we’re going to the humane
society this weekend? And we’re picking out a dog,” I said, trying to maintain
a fragile hold on neutrality but failing. Someone had to commit. It appeared to
be my job. But I still wanted to push him to grab his share of this decision.
“What if the boys fall in love
with a big, ugly, slobbering dog?” I prodded.
My husband studied me for a
moment and then carefully aligned spoons and forks alongside plates. “I think I
have to work Saturday morning. Forgot to tell you. You’ll have to surprise me
when I get home.”
He swung open the back porch
door, creaky on its hinges from a hundred years on the job, and called the boys
in from the yard. Despite its age, our century home had kept a close hold on
its occupants. Passed down from its builder to a daughter, we were only the
third family to set up house within the plastered walls and wavy glass window
panes. In our married life, it was our third residence. The first was a tiny
rental, the second an old Victorian that needed work and quickly became too
small. This house had plenty of room and a fenced in yard. Evidence on the woodwork
in the kitchen and back bathroom told us a large dog had tried to claw his way
out of confinement at some point in the previous century. Not a fan of
confinement, whatever animal I found at the county building would probably have
free rein.
I found the turn-off to the
humane society where a sign by the road pleaded for needed items such as dog
food, cat food and kitty litter. My thoughts flashed to the upturned noses of
our household felines Star and Jelly. Both of them were proof of my mother’s
inability to turn away stray cats. She takes them in from whatever previous
owner abandoned them and then I find myself taking them off her hands. Star and
Jelly had been with us for several years and were accustomed to complete
sovereignty and supremacy. I could only imagine how they would view this
violation of their domain. It was a good thing they were sleeping in a patch of
sunshine on the living room carpet, dreaming of birds just out of reach and blissfully
unaware of the future.
“I’d be okay with a black dog,”
Joseph said, demonstrating his customary compliance as I pulled in the driveway
and maneuvered my Suburban between several cars. “As long as I get to teach him
tricks.”
“Or her,” I added.
I barely had the car in park
when I heard seatbelts slide into their holders and rear doors open. I rode
herd on the boys as they tumbled up the front sidewalk and battled with the
heavy glass door.
The over-heated lobby smelled
like animals and newspapers. Cats in cages vied for our attention either by
sticking a paw through their door or hissing at us.
“Hamsters!” Dave yelled, racing
over to a glass enclosure and gazing with veneration at the cavorting
creatures. The siren song of available animals held him spellbound. I pulled on
the hood of his jacket, dragging him back to the fold and the enterprise at
hand. Joseph looked at his little brother with only mild disapproval,
understanding that his two years of greater age made him more fitted for
staying on task.
As the responsible adult, I made
eye contact with the twenty-something worker at the desk. Maybe I wasn’t
salivating at the idea of getting a dog, but I wanted to convey my worthiness
for the job.
“Our family would like to adopt
a dog,” I said. Dogs barked from a place behind the building. “We’re thinking
of a medium-sized brownish one.”
The girl identified as Janet by
her nametag leaned to the side to check out the human embodiments of excitement
bobbing behind me. I still held part of Dave’s jacket to prevent him from
entering the puppy pen and rolling around with them.
A smile kicked up the corner of
her mouth. “We have plenty of dogs to choose from,” she said. “Come see.”
I let Joseph lead because this
was his grand adventure. Like moments in childhood that stand out like the one
bright star in the sky, I hoped he would always remember the day his prayers
were finally answered and we journeyed to the humane society.
We followed Janet to a door with reinforced
safety glass. This was the portal to dog ownership, opening onto an outdoor
maze of cages. A dozen dog-heads swiveled in our direction as if we were the
nurse finally calling a patient from a long lull in the doctor’s waiting room.
I took a deep breath. Vetting all these dogs could be quite a task.
To my relief, the first cage on
the right offered up a seemingly perfect specimen. The sign said Charlene, age four. Despite being
saddled with an unfortunate dog-name, Charlene was of medium size and several
shades of brown. She passively regarded us. Pleasant, but not pushy. She was
minor commitment on four legs. I liked that.
“Can we pet it?” Dave asked.
“Her,” Joseph said, showing his
greater powers of literacy and perception.
“Why is she here?” I asked. For
the record, I don’t judge people or animals for their past indiscretions. But
I’m curious. I had taken an almost academic approach to mining information from
my husband about his previous marriages, a post-mortem of detached
inquisitiveness.
“The old lady who owned her went
into a nursing home,” Janet said.
Poor Charlene. Adrift.
“Let’s give her a chance,” I
suggested.
Janet opened the cage and
snapped on a leash. “You can take her out on the grass over there.” She pointed
to a patch of sunny green space.
Joseph took the leash handle
with the majesty and solemnity of a knight accepting a quest. We all followed
Charlene to the turf. She led like she’d been down this road before.
Cooperative and polite, she submitted to petting and even responded to a
command to sit.
I gauged the reaction of the
boys. Their faces were flat, as if they’d been offered buttered toast at a
breakfast buffet. Their expressions were the equivalent of an emotional shrug.
We tried out another dog. This
one was small, yappy, and had a face that suggested he was looking for trouble.
I was afraid the boys would consider this one pancakes and sausage and declare
an immediate and incontestable winner.
“Why is he here?” I asked.
Janet focused on a spot on the
concrete floor. “He had a misunderstanding with the mailman,” she mumbled. She
brought her eyes up to meet mine. “But he likes kids.”
I wondered if he liked to eat
kids, perhaps for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. My vote went from maybe to no way. But I wasn’t the only member of the electorate.
Dave’s eyes were alight. He was
intoxicated by the noise and energy of the vibrating little creature. But Joseph’s
brow wrinkled and he handed me the leash, relinquishing his claim on the
contender. I let out the breath I’d been holding as Janet nudged Snapper back
into his cage.
“Any other dogs that might be
kid-friendly?” I asked.
Janet frowned at her clipboard. She
paged through several sheets while the boys and I stood patiently at her side.
Joseph’s eyes showed determination, looking around the area like he was seeking
a philosopher’s stone or the secrets of alchemy. He was not going home without
a dog.
There had to be almost ten more
animals who could answer Joseph’s prayers. I mustered my optimism and glanced
over Janet’s shoulder at a previously unnoticed cage.
A large yellow Labrador raised
his head, his soulful brown eyes maintaining contact with mine as if he could
discern my role as decider. He occupied the cage just to the left of the door.
We had passed right by him on our way to Charlene. His nose twitched, sniffing
the air and carefully breaching the chain-link fence.
“How about that one?” I asked. I
shoulder-turned both boys to face a new contestant. Joseph put out a hand and a
long pink tongue slid through the cage and swiped every finger with dog love.
Dave approached the dog, standing just behind his brother but raising his chin
bravely.
When Joseph tore his eyes from
the animal and turned them on me, I swear heavenly angels sang out his joy and
answered prayers. His eyes shone, his smooth cheeks looked like he’d run inside
from playing in the snow. His slobbery hands were clasped in front of his small
body.
I took a closer look, stepping
around Janet and her clipboard. Candidate number three was not a medium-sized
dog. He had to weigh a hundred pounds. He was not a demure brown. His fur was
golden and flew out like indiscriminate rays of sunshine when he stood up and
shook to show his enthusiasm.
“What can you tell us about
Max?” I asked, reading his name from the tag wired to the cage.
Janet looked doubtful. “Max came
to us when he was only a year old.” She lowered her voice as if she was
revealing the family secret. “He was a fence jumper,” she whispered.
Apparently I was supposed to
think that was a great personal failure on his part. I tried to look
appropriately solemn.
“He’s four years old now,” she
continued. “Just dropped off by a family this week. They got divorced and sold
their house.” Her tone implied there was a lot less shame in this reason for
being brought in.
“Can we try him out?” my older
son asked, radiating eagerness.
She opened the cage and helped
Joseph snap on the leash. Max licked both boys, thoroughly enchanting them.
They walked ahead of us with Max between them. On the small green lawn, he
rolled over and reveled in having his belly rubbed. He sat when commanded. He
dutifully chased and retrieved the ball Joseph had secreted in his coat pocket.
The dog regarded my sons with pure love and wonder, much like the expression
Joseph had turned on me when we left church and he revealed his awe at the
mysteries of God.
Max came over to me, sat at my
feet, and presented himself as a worthy suppliant. I scratched his ears and
accepted his slobbery thanks. Janet stood tactfully aside, watching the trial
but reserving judgment.
“So,” I said, wiping my hand on
my jeans, “if we took Max home, we would be his third owner?”
Janet nodded apologetically,
appearing to believe this was a check in the con column for the dog. If she only knew my history of being third
in line.
I looked at the boys’ faces,
other-worldly joy and uncommon agreement written on their expressions.
“We’ll take him,” I said.
Max waited next to the desk
while we completed the paperwork outlining our fitness for and commitment to
dog ownership. He hopped onto the back seat of the Suburban between the boys.
Halfway home, I felt a warm weight on my shoulder as Max rested his chin on me
and licked my ear.
“Do you think Daddy will be mad
that we got a used dog?” Dave asked.
In the mirror, I saw Joseph lean
forward and pet Max protectively like he would challenge anyone who questioned
the product of years of prayer.
The subject of their Dad’s
previous two marriages had never come up, but I had a feeling they would
understand when we told them someday.
“I think Daddy will see that Max
is the perfect dog for us,” I said as Max happily sighed his agreement on my
shoulder.
Thanks for reading about my strange history of third-ownership. Please visit me at www.amiedenman.com
Do you have a great story about acquiring a pet? Please share!
I loved your story! I hope Joseph, Dave, and Max all co-habit happily, not to mention Jelly and Star.
ReplyDeleteWow! I have tears in my eyes and that doesn't happen often. Thank you for sharing this touching story, Amie.
ReplyDeleteThanks! Max has been with us for eight years now, and he is so loyal and loved.
ReplyDeleteThanks! Max has been with us for eight years now, and he is so loyal and loved.
ReplyDeleteI see Max is just like my dog - a big pup who thinks he's a lap dog! Love that picture. What a sweet story, thank you for sharing and starting my morning off on such a nice note!
ReplyDeleteAmie, talk about heartwarming! What a wonderful story. I loved every line. Max found his own lucky number three in the Denman family. And all three of your boys are as handsome as can be.
ReplyDeleteOh, Amie, I'm all teary now. What a lovely story. I've acquired most of my pets at least second hand. And have loved every one. So glad Max got his third chance. Beautiful family.
ReplyDeleteAmie, what a great story. I could just hear your son asking if daddy would be okay with you all getting a "used" dog. And I'm so glad you all have Max. His photo with the boys tells it all--the perfect match.
ReplyDeleteWhat a wonderful story. Truly touching. "When it came to his heart, I was the third and most responsible owner." Such a great line!
ReplyDeleteI've been the keeper of his heart for more than 25 years now!
DeleteThat's great Amie!
DeleteAmie, I am your slave. Love your story, love your style, love your heart!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Muriel! It's a totally true story from the heart.
DeleteI'm with Kate James! I rarely get tears, either, but your story is so touching. I found my kitty at the shelter three years ago. Took her home and fell in love almost instantly. Then found out she had FIP which is supposed to be fatal...but no one told Suzy. The vet said if she survives two years, she will outgrow it. She's three now and shows no signs of the disease.
ReplyDeleteWhat a sweet story. I'm so glad your family and Max found each other, and your son's prayers were answered.
ReplyDeleteLove your story!!!
ReplyDeleteSuch a sweet and heartfelt story, Amie. I'm so happy you shared it with us.
ReplyDeleteWe got a kitty( Tater) from the humane society about three years ago and found out he was a surrender kitty and he's the third kitty that we added to our home. He just had that take me home look and reached out to us with his paw. He was a year old and so we weren't sure how he was treated. He hid for awhile but he wanted to be petted so bad so we found out he loves kitty treats so allot of kitty treats later and he's starting to more comfortable around us and be so loving. Every now and then he panics when he thinks he's cornered but I've told my boys and my husband just talk to him and walk on by and he doesn't disappear like he used to but will hang around. We have a min-dachshund that was terrified of at first but now are great buddies and the kitty will even get the dog now and then. Thank you for your great story! Jenny
ReplyDeleteI'm glad Tater has a great home!
DeleteMe too!
DeleteThis belongs in Dog Stories for the Christian Soul. I'm sniffling. And I have a 6 months old German shepherd/husky girl when I went looking for a mid-size aussie. Tonight she graduated obedience school, but it was lip service. I'm thinking it will take a few more beginner classes before she really deserves to graduate. She's got focus issues.
ReplyDeleteGish, I love her.