Journal of a Living Lady #228
Nancy White Kelly
Our remaining chickens have recovered from the shock following that anonymous massacre while we were out of town. We now believe that the black feral cat Buddy found inside the gazebo was there relishing the left-over remains. The actual villain had to be larger and more vicious than a wandering cat. Friends have guessed that the attacker to be everything from a coyote to a swamp rat or an alien. Whatever killed our three turkeys and biddies is scary. I wouldn’t want to meet up with it on a dark night.
Some of you might remember that some months ago we rescued a chewed up, male, red dachshund. The flea-bitten, skinny dog was in pitiful shape. His mangy ears had holes and jagged edges. He, too, was a victim of a malicious attack. After several weeks of attention and some minor surgery, Tyson changed from the timid canine we first met to a delightful household pet. You can imagine our disappointment when the original owners retrieved their dog.
Last week, after searching the newspaper want-ads for months, I found a litter of dachshund puppies for sale near Atlanta. I could have bought a dachshund sooner, but was holding out for one that met all these criteria: toy-sized, red, smooth-haired, and female. Male dogs bless their hearts, have such disgusting habits.
Tiny toy dachshunds are hard to find. When I read a new classified ad for extra-small dachshund puppies near Stone Mountain, I immediately phoned the seller who obliged by sending me an email picture of three darling puppies. I requested the first available appointment to see them.
Buddy set our alarm clock, an unusual activity for us retirees. At 8:00 a.m., we were on our way. The directions given by the lady’s husband were accurate, but complicated. Still we were there on the door step at exactly 11:00.
The older couple introduced themselves as Family Placement Directors. They were cordial enough, but soon began an unexpected interrogation.
“Do you have children under six?” the lady asked. I laughed inwardly. Did we look young enough to have children under six?
“Will somebody always be at home during the day?” she continued. No, I thought. We both leave home before daylight for the coal mines.
It was obvious that none of those three puppies were going to just any home in spite of their exorbitant asking price. This was a rare time when money wasn’t an object of concern to me. I came to get a puppy. Buddy could eat oatmeal for a few weeks
After we chose our beautiful mahogany-colored puppy that the lady had named Balina, she gave us detailed directives for the puppy’s care. I mean a sit-down, mini-seminar that omitted nothing. Her instructions included: Don’t use plastic dishes. Do use tearless shampoo. Make sure she meets 100 people before she is three months old.
“Oh, yes,” she added. “Watch out for the sugar drops,” which is what we humans call hypoglycemia. Finally, we were given a three-page document, plus a puppy rearing agreement which had to be signed. I was relieved that she didn’t require a notary.
While finishing up the remaining details, Buddy disappeared. He came back into the house with a small puppy carrier which we had brought…just in case. I thought the lady was going to freak out.
“That puppy has never been in a kennel or crate,” she said almost hysterically. I kept my cool, all the while thinking that at six weeks of age, this little dachshund has probably never been in an airplane or dump truck either. We politely listened to her spiel about crates being a fad and the primary reason family/dog relationships have deteriorated. Buddy sheepishly offered to take the kennel back to the car. I agreed to carry the puppy on my lap for the two-hour trip home. Neither Buddy nor I wanted be even partially responsible for the decline and fall of canine culture and security.
Our new puppy, weighing less than two pounds, cooperated while we drove home. She had a couple of short, active spells punctuated by brief naps. After arriving home, we introduced the new pup to Oppie, our ten-year-old Chihuahua. Oppie responded with her standard “whatever” look.
Late that same day, I took the puppy to the backyard for the first time. She gingerly tiptoed in the strange-feeling grass. The pup eagerly followed my feet as I headed to the gazebo to get a lawn chair.
Seconds later the tiny puppy disappeared. It was as if she evaporated. My heart skipped a beat. Had the villain that killed our turkeys returned unseen? I looked upward to see there was a hawk around.
Then I heard a weak, but distinct yelp of distress. The puppy had veered to the right on the bridge over the creek leading to the gazebo. She was now bobbing up and down in the cold, rushing trout stream that runs through our property.
Because of the bone cancer, I don’t walk extremely well. I certainly can’t run. But adrenaline does strange things. Immediately I was on my knees, reaching for the frightened baby. If the puppy had moved another inch, I would have had to get up and down again to make another grab. For me that is a slow, difficult task. Fortunately I was able to catch the puppy’s tiny paw and pull her to safety. Amazingly, I quickly returned to my feet without help.
Instinctively I wrapped the shivering puppy in my shirt and hurried to the house. Breathless, I told Buddy what happened and he took over from there. He dried the puppy with a fluffy towel and soothed her with comforting words. He kept her reasonable close to the filament bulb in the lamp by his recliner until she was totally dry.
My profound gratitude for the puppy’s safety expressed itself with a spontaneous prayer of thanksgiving. God knows it was a freaky accident. Perhaps He sent an angel to intervene. I couldn’t help but wonder what the Most High Family Placement Director of the Palatial Palace of Puppies would have said. Unless you tell, she’ll never know.
For the next couple of days, Buddy and I experimented with several name for our newest family member: Maude, Lucy, Daisy, Lulu, Minnie, Midgit, Diogie, Ruby, and Tootsie. None of them fit. Since the puppy was born on June 1st and is tiny as a bug, we settled on Junebug. There is no string tied to her leg, but already Junie has a strong tie to our hearts.
nancyk@alltel.net
