Growing up on a farm was great for a multitude of reasons, one of which was the pets. Dog, cats, ducks, chickens, horses, cows, rabbits, pheasants, and a turkey, affectionately named Thanksgiving, that wouldn't. shut. up! (Incidentally, he didn't make it to Thanksgiving. The other chickens got so sick of his racket they did him in.)
But, I didn't always live on a farm. And, not living on a farm, pets were a bit more of an ordeal. In the country, when your dog poops, you just watch your step when you're within her chain's reach. When you live in a neighborhood and your dog poops, you go pick it up and throw it away.
Eew.
So, when I was... seven? Eight? Somewhere in there, we decided to get a dog. I have no clue what possessed my mother to do this, as she hates dogs. I mean, who can resist a puppy, right? But puppies inevitably grow into dogs, and my mom knew very well what the little ball of cocker spaniel fluff was going to grow into.
Now, as kids, we were THRILLED at the prospect of a puppy. Ooooooh, we were so excited! Yes, Mommy, we promise we'll clean up the doggy doodles! Yes, Mommy, we promise we'll feed her and water her and play with her EVERY SINGLE DAY and she'll be the happiest puppy in the world and we'll be the happiest children in the world and the planets will align and there will be peace in the Middle East and children across the world will dance in a circle, holding hands and singing "Jeremiah was a Bullfrog."
Joy to the fishies in the deep blue sea. We got a puppy.
Her name was Murphy. We all agreed that was a horrible name, so we made it her middle name. Her first name was Dulce. And she was CUTE! Floppy, blonde ears. Long, wagging tail (that became short, wagging stump after the vet whacked it off... why do they crop some dogs' tails, anyway? That made no sense to me then, and still makes no sense to me now).
And we were happy.
We played with her EVERY day, and fed her and picked up her doodles and took her for walks and showed her off to all our friends...
For like a month.
When the novelty of the new puppy wore off, Dulce knew it more than anyone. She was NOT allowed in the house (puppy pee is no fun to clean up), so she would sit outside the door and whimper ALL DAY until someone came out to play with her. I got really good at imitating a puppy whimper, because I heard it SO MUCH!!!
Of course, when things got really boring, one of the boys (I was much to righteous to engage in such behavior... most of the time...) would "accidentally" take too long closing the sliding glass door to the back yard, and Dulce would make a beeline for the great indoors. We would chase her around the house while she ran, tongue lolling out and drool flying behind to spatter us in the face when we made a dive for her. Sometimes I felt bad for chasing her - sure we were scaring her to death - but in retrospect I think it was her very most favorite game.
Honestly, if she didn't love being chased, you'd think she'd put more effort into staying close. Like when she got big enough to go over the white, picket fence in the front yard. That wasn't just chasing her through the house. That was chasing her all over the stinking neighborhood.
Anyway, those escapades into the house ended up being our undoing. Barry snuck her up to his room (where she peed on his floor), and after that my mom put her foot down. If we deliberately let her in the house one more time, the dog was gone.
I can't remember who did it. It might have been Clarke, or Barry, or maybe even me. Either way, somebody let her in, and my mom had no choice but to stick with her declaration.
I was devastated. My puppy was going away. I carried her into the garage, snuggled her and cried. I fully expected her to snuggle right back, maybe lick the tears off my face, drink in my sorrow, etc. She did lick my mouth a little, probably to see if I had any cookie crumbs left, and then made a desperate attempt to escape my strangle-hold. I was stronger though. She would be snuggled by me.
It actually turned out to be pretty good timing. We gave her to an older lady (at least, she seemed old to me. She was probably in her 40's or something) who renamed her to Betty Cocker, and shortly after that, we moved to the farm! If Dulce had been on the farm, I predict she would have lasted a week before a coyote... or possibly a hawk... turned her into Dulce de lunch.
So, in the end, she ended up with an older woman who adored her, we got a big, yellow lab... and a bunch of cats... and a flock of assorted poultry... and more horses... and a cow... and bunnies, and we learned how to see one of our animals die and go, "Oh. That stinks," instead of, "NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"
And we were happy.
