No shit, there I was at Target. I could probably start a lot of stories this
way, but the rest of them wouldn’t be worth telling. It was a warm summer evening; August 17, 2012
to be exact. My cousin had something to
return and I had nothing to do. We went
in, returned the something, and then wandered, as you do in Target. Because you “need” things: a new bathing
suit, a $5.00 DVD, a pack of thank you cards you’ll forget to send. Forty five minutes later, we stepped out into the night
with full bags and empty wallets. As
soon as the glass doors slid open, my left ear heard my cousin say, “Do not
look over there,” while my right ear heard a stranger ask, “Do you like
puppies?” Of course, I immediately turned
to my right and saw slightly ragged couple, the woman holding a scruffy
Yorkshire Terrier who was furiously licking her face.
“Do not go over there,” my cousin cautioned, laughing,
already lining up behind me to pet the squirming fur ball. Without thinking, I asked, “Boy or girl?”
“Boy.”
“Name?”
“Royal.” I cringed,
wondering if this woman had an obsession with monarchs or whisky. After a quick inventory of her teeth, I decided
the latter. “We have to get rid of him
or we get evicted. We live down the
way. We have three kids. I just want to get my money for the vet
bills.” I looked down at a crate full of
every manner of food, treat, toy, and shampoo.
“He comes with all his stuff.”
“How old?” I asked.
“Eight months.”
“He’s really cute,” I replied, “but I’d have to talk to my
boyfriend. We have another dog. She’s about the same age.” No way.
I hate little dogs. They’re
yappy, require constant grooming, you can’t take them outside, they don’t play
ball. I want a real dog. A big dog.
One for Pippa. Probably a
female. Males pee on stuff.
I looked at my cousin, “He’s really cute,” she admitted. I pet Royal again, letting him sniff, lick,
and nibble my fingers. How did these
people get this little purse dog? How
can they afford to keep him? Why doesn’t
this woman have any teeth? Where are her
kids? Do they know their parents are out
here getting rid of their dog? Before I
could come up with any answers, I told the couple I’d be right back.
When I got home, The Bear was on the front steps. I trudged up the stairs, “Just tell me no.” He looked perplexed. My cousin was giggling and juggling her
Target bags. “There’s a puppy,” I
started, watching his eyes brighten. “He’s
at Target and he’s little and he’s cute and these people are trying to sell
him. Pippa’s adoption fee was $250.00
and they want less than that! I know you
wanted to get Pippa a sister sometime after the elections, but you just have to
see him. He’s cute! I know he’s a little dog, but you just have
to tell me no. We don’t have to go back.” I rambled on and on, my mouth verbalizing
every caution of my brain and every yearning of my heart.
We loaded Pippa in the car, and headed back to Target. I wanted The Bear to drive by the front of
the store first. Just to make sure the
dog was still there. I saw him pulling
at the end of his orange Harley Davidson leash, tail wagging at every patron
entering and exiting the store and felt my heart jump, thankful that some
sucker didn’t impulse-buy a Yorkie in the last fifteen minutes.
“Just tell me no,” I repeated, this time hoping The Bear wouldn’t
turn the car around. He was silent as we
walked across the parking lot. Pippa
pulled like a sled dog as soon as she realized what was happening.
“You’re back!” The
woman looked genuinely surprised that I had returned as I had promised. That made two of us. I watched as the pup excitedly dodged The
Bear’s attempts to pet him, bouncing from The Bear to Pippa. As they greeted each other the way pups do,
Pippa took the opportunity to pee approximately six inches from the pup’s
feet. He was hers. I laughed and watched both dogs chase each
other in a circle. He was ours.
After we loaded the pup and all his belongings into the back
of the car, we went to dinner with friends.
The topic of conversation?
Changing his name to anything other than Royal. By the time we finished our meal, Royal had
become Oliver; Ollie for short.
I remember everything about that day. And I will never forget the 258 days that
followed. Ollie was the best kind of
crazy. He got excited about everything and was afraid of nothing. Before we moved, he’d figure out ways to
escape from the backyard. Not because he
wanted to run away, but because he wanted to see what was happening on the
other side of the fence. When we finally
did move, the shop vac became Ollie’s arch nemesis.
He was headstrong and determined. If it took him fifteen tries to jump up on
the bed, he didn’t care. If he had to
run faster just to keep up with Pippa, he didn’t care. Ollie was a big dog in a little body full of
tangles, leaves, and thorns. After we
got him, I remember telling my mom that Ollie smelled like garbage and
hillbillies. At Thanksgiving, I used the
term, “Chinese whorehouse” to describe how bad he smelled. My grandmother was not amused. But Ollie didn’t care.
Ollie was happy: happy to play, happy to cuddle, happy to
put his paws down a girl’s shirt. Like
that pink bunny with the drum, he kept going and going. Sure, he’d stop to smell your shoes or bite
Pippa’s face, but then he’d be on to the next thing. Though he only knew how to sit on command,
Ollie wasn’t stupid. I think maybe he
was smarter than the rest of us. He was
too busy to learn commands. He had to
know what The Bear was doing or why Pippa was getting all the treats. He spent all of his time joyfully bouncing
from one person to the next. His
happiness and love were contagious. Let
a puppy lick your ear and try to tell me you didn’t smile, even if you were a
bit disgusted.
I miss my little buddy.
I miss his crooked tail. I miss the way he looked at you, with his head
cocked to one side, not knowing what you were saying, but listening intently to
the words spoken only to him. I miss the
way he’d burrow under the sheets at night.
I miss the Gremlin noises he’d make when he played with Pippa or heard
someone knock on the door. There is an
Ollie-shaped hole in my heart that will never be filled. I know
that somewhere on some beach in the great beyond, he flies with the angels.
True story.
