Would You Do It Again?

Jim didn't talk about the little dog all night.

He didn't mention her in the morning while we got him ready and raced, as usual, to his physical therapy, ten minutes behind schedule.

The pound was on our route home. We were about to drive by and he still hadn't mentioned the dog. I decided I had given him enough room and hung a right, drove the few blocks to the parking lot and parked in front of the adoption office.

"Well?" I asked.

"What?" He asked.

"Are we getting the dog?"

"I'm still thinking."

"We don't have a lot of thinking room."

We had stopped by reception the night before to let them know we were interested, but needed to talk about it. They had warned us not to take more than 24 hours, the little dog was about out of time.

"If I see her again there is no way I'm leaving her. I don't ever want to hear that sound again," Jim said.

"I agree, so...what are we doing?"

Jim didn't answer, but opened his car door and began to fumble with his seat belt. I took that as a yes. We opted to fill out our paperwork and pay first. Jim was serious, he didn't want to see her until she was ours.

"I'm so glad you're adopting Veronica," the beaming adoption counselor said. "She's the last of the group."

Veronica? Seriously?

"What group?" I asked.

"She was one of four Maltese picked up as strays. From what we can tell they had been dumped out on the road. None of them were strong enough to have run from anywhere. They were just huddled together in the middle of the street."

"Were they all in the same shape?"

"Same shape, same age, same mess. Honey, you should have seen them, that little dog has been here three weeks already, she looks great compared to when she came in."

"Her name is not Veronica," Jim said.

The adoption guy looked at Jim politely, but Jim folded his arms and stared into the distance. Apparently, he held the chatty little man responsible for her horrible name.

She was spayed and there had been some dental work done on her, but because she was so weak, they couldn't do everything that was needed. We were looking at a hefty vet bill right out of the chute. Jim didn't react to the projected expenses, he just kept watching the door to the kennels. I sighed and signed our life away.
"Did you have a name in mind?" The clerk asked. He needed a name for her licence and micro-chip.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll come up with something, just put Veronica down for now," I said.

"Her name is NOT Veronica," Jim said, "it's Snocone."

The credit card cleared, and Snocone was carried out, screaming and shrieking, and if possible, even tinier, dirtier and smellier than I remembered.The volunteer thanked us for adopting her. There were tears in her eyes. My guess was from relief, that dog really stunk. Jim handed me his cane and took her in his arms. She wiggled and yelped and I was sure he was going to drop her.

"Wait here, I'll go get the carrier," I said.

"Snocone is never going in a cage again," he said and began his slow, unsteady way towards the exit.

 I hovered, juggling the cane, the paperwork, my pack, and the complimentary bag of dog food. On our way out the door, three more staff stopped us and thanked us for adopting her. Snocone had a fan club.

The second we stepped outside the crying stopped. By the time I had Jim seat belted in Snocone was fast asleep. As I pulled out of the parking lot Jim was sleeping too. They stayed that way until we got home. The sickly dust bunny was all ours, and for the moment, I was sure I would do it again and again, just to see those contented, sleeping faces.

"