In the weeks after her departure from this existence, I sat in the big soft chair we had shared, crying and lost. There was no question that I needed another dog immediately, along with the consistent bookends of morning and evening walks. I needed a needy thing, to force me out of bed and into the world.
I’m a small dog person, and initially I sought another small dog. But it became clear very quickly that small dogs are snatched up from shelters, while larger ones linger there for months or even years. After 4 failed attempts at small, adorable adoptees, I switched gears. Let’s give a big dog a home, I thought. I don’t need an Instagrammable dog, or even a cute one. I just needed to rescue something so it could rescue me.
“Just give me a dog who tolerates hugs,” I told the rescue coordinator.
“Margot,” she said, a stray mutt from a reservation in New Mexico.
Margot had been adopted and returned twice from other families, who determined she could not be around children. This should have been my first red flag, but I was like cool, whatever. I went to the adoption event held across town in an outdoor strip mall, and was introduced to Margot.
In a chaotic sea of bouncy, enthusiastic orphans, Margot sat with her head bowed at the rescue volunteers' ankles, looking sad and overwhelmed.
“I’m getting her the fuck out of here,” I said to my sister, who joined me on this venture for moral support. And my sister, being the great influence she is, said, “Take Lycan, too.” Lycan being a striking husky boy with crystal blue eyes.
So I did, and came home, unannounced to my husband, with two comparatively gigantic dogs who reeked of pee and were ecstatic to be there. Husband did not sign up for this, nor did he want it. But knowing my atomic level of anguish, he didn’t argue. Instead, he bought a carpet shampooer and committed himself to saving our carpet from two untrained jerks who peed everywhere.
