Three puppies came bounding into the meeting room, pinging around its four corners with carefree joy and boneless energy. They paid us no mind as we sat “criss-cross apple sauce” on the floor in a circle.’
Even when the pups took turns landing accidentally in one of our laps, they kept their eyes on each other as they scrambled away from our clutches to partake in this sibling circus.
My husband, daughter, and son had positioned themselves in a row across from me, spaced such that I could see each of their wondrous expressions without moving my head.
I wasn’t there under duress, but I didn’t think I was ready, even though nearly a year had passed since the four of us held similar positions to surround our beloved dog with love and tears as we said our last goodbyes.
My husband had been in agreement. He wanted to travel more freely, and a dog would hamper that. Not that we hadn’t gone places during our long stretch of pet guardianship, it's just that we hadn’t gone without a pang of guilt. Now was our chance.
But as time went on sans canine companion, the odds began to seem out of favor for our being ready ever again. I told myself visiting with other people's dogs was good enough.
I told myself that my late-night visits to shelter websites were merely out of curiosity and not reconnaissance. I wasn’t aware I wasn’t alone.
Which is what brought us here: sitting on a shelter floor while on the rare family vacation where we are all together, serving as springboards for this triple shot of slobbery puppy love. I thought back on how hard it was to make the final veterinary call. How many nights I woke up afterward, reliving the final moments.
One mention of the word “adoption” and the ball got rolling.
Our children, now fledgling adults, had asked to be included in the selection. We knew, just as when they were little, the care and feeding would fall to us. But the kids didn’t want to be strangers when whatever dog we chose came home. They wanted to be imprinted, too.
The kids were harmonious and excitedly in agreement. It felt as if this were their very first pet. In a way, I suppose it was: They drove the whole endeavor, worked together to find the shelter, and they communed on which quadruped seemed to be kismet.
These new, first moments - with the puppies careening around us - brought some of the joy as well as the pain.
The shelter volunteer solemnly told us every word of their story thus far: How they had been found as strays with their mama, how they had been sickly, and how each of them had been dealt the real possibility that their misshapen little hearts might never see them into adulthood.
But then he smiled: “I’m not worried. These guys will all get adopted. And the others, too.”
Of course they would. The pups were happy and playful and not even a little bit afraid of what comes next, a comedy-or-tragedy coin toss. And for some strange reason, I really don’t understand, neither were we. So, we spent a few extra minutes trying to absorb all the information we could about preventive veterinary schedules and medication administration, the smallest one would require when we took him home with us right then and there.
“We just firmly believe each pet deserves to live however long they have in a regular home with people who love them.”
There would be no more waiting. My son held the smallest puppy, who had crawled into his lap. He was the one. We were his, and he was ours. Forever and until.
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