If my children were in charge around here, we would have adopted a dog a year ago, just after our beloved Scottish terrier passed away. They missed the noise, busyness and companionship that comes with a family dog.
I, on the other hand, wasn't sure that I could ever take in another pup. Margie had been our fuzzy friend for more than a decade, a rescue dog who stood sentry at the front door and enjoyed an occasional sprint down the street.
She was loyal and proud, snuggly and protective. I nursed her through two years of chronic illness before she died, and I couldn't imagine going through that pain again. Why set myself up for an eventual broken heart?
Katie and Cooper, eternal optimists, were subtly relentless. They shared stories about their friends' dogs. They fawned over dogs in the neighborhood. They accepted dog-sitting jobs with fervent devotion.
I refused to budge. Until I spied Sandy.
I fell in love with Sandy this summer, when her shelter intake photo was posted online. My defenses dissolved each time I stole glances of her on my cellphone. A few days later, the kids and I met her at a foster home, and an hour after that she was perched in Cooper's lap for the drive to her new home.
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| Sandy |
We are smitten with this scruffy whirlwind of fluff.
Sandy is a terrier of unknown origin. She's blonde and white with a short snout, floppy ears and a significant underbite. She pounces on stuffed animals with a vengeance yet never chews them. She runs laps in the backyard like an Olympic champion. She has reflexes like a cat. She stretches her 15-pound body across the back door when she senses that one of her people are leaving.
She thinks she's the boss of us.
There have been some adjustments. We are resuming daily walks (when summer heat allows). We have learned to hide athletic shoes, as Sandy has an affinity for laces. We're trying to figure out what makes her bark — though it's not often, it's loud, and her triggers are a complete mystery.
When we return home from work and school, she can't decide which need is greater — to devour kibble or to demand nonstop belly rubs. When someone sits on the sofa, she's there in a flash, prepared to receive ear scratches.
She's not a puppy, but she's young enough and new enough to our home that she requires attention that actually forces me to slow down and take a break. She stays up late with whichever child has more homework. She wags her tail whenever we say hello or even glance in her direction.
Sandy is as good for us as we are for her.
This pup is a wiggly reminder that there is joy found in overcoming fear of the unknown. We don't know how many years we'll have with Sandy, but right now we're enjoying each new day. (Of course, that's the only way she knows how to live. Dogs were born to live in the moment.)
I don't regret waiting to find a pet for our little family — my caution led us to the perfect dog for us — yet I'm thankful that Katie and Cooper were persistent. Some decisions are best made with childlike faith, from the heart.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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| Katie, Cooper & Sandy |
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