about the characteristics of different dog breeds before things went from merely bizarre to almost unbelievable.
A countdown had begun, our unidentified dog set to arrive in under a week. Mum was at work when a gaggle of breathless kids converged on her kindergarten classroom, grabbing her by the hand and insisting she come with them. There, with her head firmly wedged between the metal railings that formed a perimeter fence around the front of the school property, was a forlorn and defeated black puppy, restrained as effectively as a prisoner in a medieval stock.
This should have been the point at which Mum passed the buck, yielding to colleagues who were forthright doggy types, but shestepped up, gently coaxing the poor dog’s head free, picking her up, and carrying her into the school.
Her kids did exactly what I would have done at their ages, they embraced the rescue mission and their role as saviors, doting on the frightened dog, fetching her water, raiding their lunch boxes for bits of sandwich.
“Is she a Labrador, Mrs. Trout?”
“She looks that way to me,” said Mum, though later I found her short on alternative suggestions of breeds for dogs that were black. In her defense, she did pick up on a critical inconsistency. “But this tiny white spot on her chest, this doesn’t look right.” The puppy had no collar and no form of identification, and none of the children in her class had ever seen it before.
The dog-resistant Mum I knew took the reins, driving the puppy over to the nearest police station and depositing her with an unsympathetic sergeant. Standard protocol dictated that the abandoned bitch would be transferred to a local dog pound. There she would be assigned to death row, her sentence commuted for just seven days, after which time, if she remained unclaimed, she would be put to sleep.
By the end of the afternoon, another woman entirely placed a phone call to my father. This woman may have looked and sounded like my mother, but she had to have been abducted by dog-friendly aliens, her brain fried, and the circuitry completely rewired.
“Duncan, do you think we could have another dog?”
I wonder if my father questioned who was on the other end of the line, whether he dropped the handset, and how long it took him to regain control of his vocal cords.
“But … we’re already committed to a dog.”
“I know, I know,” said Mum, “but I want you to see her.”
This they did, visiting the pound together after work. At theback of a damp and chilly concrete cell sat a tiny black puppy. It wasn’t the gentle whimpering that got to Dad as he picked her up. It was far more subtle. In her eyes, worse than dejection, more cutting, was a look of resignation, hopelessness, and acceptance of her lot.
Dad turned to Mum, cradling the puppy in his hands.
“We must have her,” he said, with a familiar, fierce determination that always bordered on tears.
Mum nodded, the smallest upturn at the corner of her lips all she would concede. Skillfully my mother had engineered an encounter between her sensitive husband and a dog in need knowing full well how it would play out. By leaving the final word with my father, she was now able to step back, divorced from the consequences, all the while ensuring, to my delight, that “her will be done.”
Only then were Fiona and I apprised of this new development.
“But Mum,” whined Fiona, “think about all that lovely crap covering the backyard, and two sets of sharp puppy teeth trashing your new furniture, not just one.”
I braced for my real Mum to wake up, to snap out of it, but she shooed the notion away as though it were ridiculous, saying, “By this time tomorrow, she’ll have been claimed, and your father’s notion of two dogs will be forgotten.”
I glanced at my dad, who seemed more than happy to take the fall. Fiona, on the other hand, huffed her disapproval and went off to tease her hair, or listen to Duran Duran or hunt for her
A countdown had begun, our unidentified dog set to arrive in under a week. Mum was at work when a gaggle of breathless kids converged on her kindergarten classroom, grabbing her by the hand and insisting she come with them. There, with her head firmly wedged between the metal railings that formed a perimeter fence around the front of the school property, was a forlorn and defeated black puppy, restrained as effectively as a prisoner in a medieval stock.
This should have been the point at which Mum passed the buck, yielding to colleagues who were forthright doggy types, but shestepped up, gently coaxing the poor dog’s head free, picking her up, and carrying her into the school.
Her kids did exactly what I would have done at their ages, they embraced the rescue mission and their role as saviors, doting on the frightened dog, fetching her water, raiding their lunch boxes for bits of sandwich.
“Is she a Labrador, Mrs. Trout?”
“She looks that way to me,” said Mum, though later I found her short on alternative suggestions of breeds for dogs that were black. In her defense, she did pick up on a critical inconsistency. “But this tiny white spot on her chest, this doesn’t look right.” The puppy had no collar and no form of identification, and none of the children in her class had ever seen it before.
The dog-resistant Mum I knew took the reins, driving the puppy over to the nearest police station and depositing her with an unsympathetic sergeant. Standard protocol dictated that the abandoned bitch would be transferred to a local dog pound. There she would be assigned to death row, her sentence commuted for just seven days, after which time, if she remained unclaimed, she would be put to sleep.
By the end of the afternoon, another woman entirely placed a phone call to my father. This woman may have looked and sounded like my mother, but she had to have been abducted by dog-friendly aliens, her brain fried, and the circuitry completely rewired.
“Duncan, do you think we could have another dog?”
I wonder if my father questioned who was on the other end of the line, whether he dropped the handset, and how long it took him to regain control of his vocal cords.
“But … we’re already committed to a dog.”
“I know, I know,” said Mum, “but I want you to see her.”
This they did, visiting the pound together after work. At theback of a damp and chilly concrete cell sat a tiny black puppy. It wasn’t the gentle whimpering that got to Dad as he picked her up. It was far more subtle. In her eyes, worse than dejection, more cutting, was a look of resignation, hopelessness, and acceptance of her lot.
Dad turned to Mum, cradling the puppy in his hands.
“We must have her,” he said, with a familiar, fierce determination that always bordered on tears.
Mum nodded, the smallest upturn at the corner of her lips all she would concede. Skillfully my mother had engineered an encounter between her sensitive husband and a dog in need knowing full well how it would play out. By leaving the final word with my father, she was now able to step back, divorced from the consequences, all the while ensuring, to my delight, that “her will be done.”
Only then were Fiona and I apprised of this new development.
“But Mum,” whined Fiona, “think about all that lovely crap covering the backyard, and two sets of sharp puppy teeth trashing your new furniture, not just one.”
I braced for my real Mum to wake up, to snap out of it, but she shooed the notion away as though it were ridiculous, saying, “By this time tomorrow, she’ll have been claimed, and your father’s notion of two dogs will be forgotten.”
I glanced at my dad, who seemed more than happy to take the fall. Fiona, on the other hand, huffed her disapproval and went off to tease her hair, or listen to Duran Duran or hunt for her
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