When I was little, my Grandma had two dogs. One, Noel, was a fussy French Poodle, who, if I remember correctly, didn’t like me all that much. The other, Susie, belonged to my Aunt Laurel, but lived with my grandmother. I wasn’t sure how that worked, except Laurel moved around a lot.
I get it a little more now.
Some time in the fall, Caroline called to say she’d gotten a dog. A stray that someone found prancing down the street with his leash in his mouth. She reported that her roommate wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but had agreed when Caroline had promised to let her name the dog. With this foolproof plan in place, the dog was named Chad. What could go wrong?
Around the end of October, the bloom was off the rose. Maddie wanted the dog to go. Caroline was heartbroken. I told Caroline that I would take the dog, if she couldn’t find anyone to take him. She could handle it, she said. But I’d really like to, really really.
In November, Caroline was planning to come home for Thanksgiving. We were going to go to Ohio for Thanksgiving, drive Caroline (who had a one way ticket) back to Indianapolis on Saturday, pick up Chad, and come home.
Then our plans changed, and suddenly we were going to be home. Maddie planned to drive out here for Thanksgiving with Chad, and take Caroline home. Days before Caroline was scheduled to leave, plans changed. Maddie’s car couldn’t make it, and Maddie was staying in Indianapolis.
We figured out how to get Caroline back to Indianapolis after Thanksgiving, and Caroline placed an ad on craigslist, looking for someone who was driving out this way who would be willing to share the drive. One response, from a dog lover, who wasn’t planning on coming out this way, but would do it if we’d pay for gas. We told him we’d let him know whether we heard from anyone else.
The day after Caroline got back to Delaware, she had a message from Maddie, telling her the dog was going to the pound, having eaten something Maddie held dear.
So, over Thanksgiving, Chad came for a visit, until Caroline has a place for him.
Smokey and Ruth greeted him in solidarity, sitting down and turning their backs on him as he leaped around, trying to get them to play.
He runs. Up the stairs, down the stairs, leaps on to the sofa and runs its length, into the dining room, where he crashes into the wall, back to the sofa, up the stairs, down the stairs, leaping over Smokey in a single bound. Does he care if you’re lying on the sofa? He does not.
He wants her to play, and barks at her, trying to get her to play, and Smokey responds with a low pitched growl. Bark/Growl/Bark/Growl/Bark.
He eats things. The Christmas tree, which, you’ll be happy to hear, we had the foresight not to decorate the bottom branches of, no longer has bottom branches, because he ate them. Things that we throw away, thinking we don’t need them any more? Well, we’re wrong there, Chad needs them. Last night I suggested to Scott that maybe we should start throwing the used paper towels on the floor to save Chad the trip.
He ate my blackberry when I left him alone for 10 minutes to pick Charlie up at wrestling practice.
And I adore him. He’s lucky he’s cute. He drives me NUTS. But he’s sweet and totally innocent. He likes to snuggle.
And I think that’s lucky, because I think he’s here for a bit…
I’m thinking obedience training.