Puppy Love
The four tiny Chihuahua puppies were whirlwinds of frantic energy moving across the carpeted sunroom floor. The two smallest and darkest, male and female littermates, wandered among the watching humans with evident irritation at the intrusion. The male, which could have passed for an absurdly small Doberman, barked and snapped at onlookers’ extended fingers. The copper-colored female sniffed with curiosity but growled at every sudden move, protective and untrusting.
Across the room two males from a different litter were less eager to engage us. One of them, his white fur attractively tinted with grey and brown blotches, confidently explored the room’s furniture, repeatedly crossing beneath and behind the sofa. The other, white and tan, was clearly the shyest of the group. He sought refuge in the farthest corner and watched the action with apparent anxiety. When approached with an outstretched hand, he sniffed cautiously and offered a tentative lick.
Ten minutes later, Sharon and I sat on a bench outside, trying to decide what to do. We had agreed that we would adopt two of the puppies. I know now that in the ensuing years, the two we chose would become true members of our family, and our affection for them would shape our relationship and our lives. I know now that their health and happiness is necessary to my own sense of stability and well-being, and that a large part of my perspective on life arises from loving these innocent little companions. But sitting on that bench more than four years ago, we had to decide: Which two?
Sharon favored the two smallest. She identified strongly with the female’s protectiveness, and worried that no other owner would be patient with their surliness. She believed that in a loving home those two would blossom. They needed us. But I wanted the two slightly larger male pups. I identified strongly with the anxious one’s shyness, and appreciated their gentleness. I imagined that we had somehow inspired their friendliness; that their willingness to lick our hands meant we would bond with them easily.
As I sit here typing this today, it is impossible to envision our decision on the bench having gone a different way. I wonder sometimes about the two dogs we left behind, and hope they found loving homes. But I know my family was completed by our choice.
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| Penny, September 2006 |
Protective little Penny remains skittish around strangers, but she has grown to trust us, and treasures the comfort of Sharon’s lap. She is ridiculously intelligent, always spotting the nuances in situations, anticipating both danger and opportunities to snack. She can melt your heart with her imploring gaze; Sharon says she has me wrapped around her little paw. Penny still snarls when she’s disturbed, especially while sleeping, but she takes care of us all, leaping to check on us when there is trouble; we half-jokingly call her “Nurse Puppy.”
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| Bucky, September 2006 |
Anxious Bucky grew from the pup that hid in the corner into a cheerful, eager playmate and explorer. His shyness still comes out in the form of tail-wagging tentativeness around strangers (human or canine), but when he feels safe, he is an affection-seeking missile, leaping onto laps and thrusting his head forward for kisses. His energy and charisma make him the one every visitor ends up wanting to take home. Unlike me, Bucky rarely has any problem identifying and asking for exactly what he wants or expressing his every feeling, and I treasure him partly as a model of emotional health.
I love these dogs for being exactly themselves: so very different from me and Sharon (and each other), and so very much like us. And I’m grateful that Sharon and I listened closely to each other and our hearts, on that bench perched on the edge of forever.
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| Penny and Bucky, January 2011 |
Posted: January 30, 2011, 6:22 PM