One Small Dog

If I’m honest, the whole shady exchange felt like a drug deal; or how I imagined a drug deal would be transacted.

After losing our beloved Abby (from old age), we had been without a dog for four years. I’d sworn steadfastly that I would never have another dog; losing her had been too painful.

But after four years, the rooms in our house echoed with a silence that could only be filled, realistically, with something small and fluffy.

In my own defense, we did visit a handful of animal shelters and only found pit bulls and Chihuahuas; not quite our style. If we actually stumbled onto a smaller, fluffier dog, there were ten people in line in front of us, ready to spirit it away.

One fluffy white dog was actually injured and needed surgery, and it was adopted before I could even ask for the paperwork!

A woman at an agency instructed me to take photos of our back yard fence and then give her the phone number to our vet. She would contact us if we qualified to adopt her hyperactive poodle mix.

Another person at another agency required that one of us work from home (!) so the dog had someone with it at every moment. Apparently he needed additional attention and emotional support.

By that point, I needed additional attention and emotional support.

All I wanted was one small dog, and actually having one was becoming an insurmountable challenge.

Then one morning, as I sat at my desk at work, I made a decision. I was going to get myself a dog, scruples be damned!

I pulled up Craigslist on my computer and went to the pet/re-homing section. After skipping past several photos, I saw him. He was very small, with a disproportionately large head, caramel brown in color, and with a white smudge under his chin, like an ascot.

He looked more or less like a hamster, and I knew at that moment that he would be mine.

I noted that the posting had been up for 40 minutes. I texted the woman and asked if the puppy was still available. She texted back saying that three other people were also texting her about him.

Honestly, I was flummoxed. Why was I having so much trouble finding a dog in a world full of dogs that needed homes?

I knew I had to be bold. This puppy/hamster would not slip through my fingers. 

I texted her that I would meet her right at that moment, anywhere she liked.

She named her price (!!) and instructed me to meet her in the parking lot of a nearby mall.

In less than a minute, I was on my way.

First, I needed cash, mullah, bread. I stopped at my bank and withdrew the ridiculous amount of money that had been requested/demanded by my puppy dealer.

Unable to contain myself, I blurted out to the clerk that I needed the money to buy a puppy. She was as delighted as if she, too, were buying a puppy that day.

Then I was on the road and speeding to the designated “meeting spot.” My palms were as clammy as they would have been if I were doing something that would land me in the slammer (would this land me in the slammer??).

Since I was the first to arrive, I parked out in the open where she would see me, and turned off the engine.

Furtively, I scanned the area.

What if she didn’t show up? What if she didn’t have the goods? How would I recognize my puppy dealer?

But then a small, ordinary-looking car slid into the spot beside me. The driver was a woman about my age, and she was accompanied by a younger woman. I stepped out of the car as the younger woman approached.

We exchanged stilted pleasantries, both intent on transacting our business.

I passed her the cash; she passed me the bundle.

She didn’t even count the money (she must have been a pro).

I did notice, however, that the puppy was very, very young. There was no way he was eight weeks old, as my dealer claimed. He fit snugly in my cupped hands.

Still, I pressed him against my chest (he was mine now) and made my getaway. I brought a recycle box from work and placed him in it, then sped away as if demons from hell were after us.

He made little mewing sounds from the depths of the box.

When that night, at 3:00 in the morning, I found myself feeding him by hand and cuddling him until he fell asleep, I knew he was really young. I had to teach him how to drink water out of a bowl.

We determined that he might have been six weeks old (maybe).

He wouldn’t sleep through the night for another six weeks, and as a consequence, neither would I.

Bruno and I bonded in the dead of night, with our hearts pressed together, both exhausted, half asleep, but breathing in tandem.

Two years later, my sister would be diagnosed with cancer, and one of the few things that eased her anxiety was spending time with this small dog. Bruno adores her and watches over her. He knows her by name.

Without realizing it, I had chosen the emotional support animal that would help her through her ordeal.

When she and I went to Carmel on a weekend trip, he actually left my side (which was rare) and followed her to bed. He knew that she needed him more than I did.

Bruno just turned four, and sometimes I think about that crazy morning when I looked at a blurry photo of a tiny brown puppy on my monitor and knew he was the one for me.

That day, I didn’t know what I was buying with my ready cash. But it turns out that I bought myself a friend and companion.

I traded my small stack of bills for the zealous and steadfast love of one small dog.