I still do not have a dog.
I found one though. The. Perfect. Dog. He is little, and yellow, and the people at the shelter described him as “unbelievably laid-back.” They nicknamed him Mellow Yellow. And we’re talking about a baby lab.
When puppy search moved from general to specific this weekend, I found myself calling him a “dawg,” you know, with three syllables. I was willing to drive to Georgia to get him. That minute. When puppy search moved from general to specific, I was sure I was ready. I was committed. And then I made the mistake of telling people I was considering getting a lab puppy, and 3/4 of them tried to freak me out. The chewing. The energy. The chewing, did we mention the chewing? ” ‘Lab’ is the only part of this dog thing that I am absolutely sure about,” I said. “There has got to be reason that labs are the most popular dog, in every category, pretty much all over the world. I googled it to make sure.” They all kept looking at me with that “well then, knock yourself out” expression. Note to self, unless you’re open to being talked out of it, have dawg in hand before informing anyone of your plans. Otherwise that conversation is just awkward. It hasn’t changed my mind. Julia’s theory is that dogs take on the characteristics of their owners eventually, anyway. “You’re a chill person,” she told me. “You’ll have a chill dog.” Bonus, this dawg is already chill.
But Dawg is in Georgia, and I was not first. Nor was I closest. He was adopted in a hurry, and I’m sure he will be delighted with his new owners, and they with him. The shelter offered me oodles of other puppies. “Look! More puppies! Boxes of puppies! More yellow labs! Take your pick!” None of them were even close. I’m not driving to Georgia for Not Even Close.
Last night outside the phone sex movie (don’t ask) we were talking about the reality that this dawg might not end up being the one. We looked at puppy pictures on my cell phone in the parking lot. The girls said, “We want you to have this one, but if it doesn’t work out, then he’s not your dawg. Your dawg will find you.”
“I don’t want a different dawg,” I said, and I think I stuck my bottom lip out. “I’ve fallen for this one. If it’s not meant to be, I don’t know whether I want to keep looking. I was totally prepared and ready to take the leap and now I’m not sure about any of it. Maybe everyone else is better at it than I’ll be. Maybe the timing won’t ever be right. Maybe I’m just not meant for this.”
“Are we still talking about dogs?” Audrey and Julia said at the same time.
We are. Almost entirely. At any rate, this dawg is gawn, gawn off with someone else. I may look for another one before long. I started off with a Christmas timeline; I’ll revert to my original plan, and we’ll see how it works out. Until then I am going to take advantage of my independence and enjoy dog-free things such as sleeping late and, I suppose, having un-chewed furniture. I’ll go back to saying the word “dog,” with one syllable, but only until I find my daaawwgg.
And I’m pretty sure I will. When the time is right.