Anonymous donors were thick around here these days. Too bad one that supported children’s bookstores didn’t fall into my lap.
“All our dogs are housebroken and trained to a leash,” the attendant went on. “Every single one would make a wonderful pet.”
I tried not to look cynical. She was trying to sell something; of course all the dogs were wonderful. Every one would probably fetch my slippers, bring in a slobbery paper, and text me at the store about Timmy falling down a well.
The puppy Jenna and Oliver originally fell in love with had been a neighbor’s expensive purebred destined for special diets and expensive shampoos and show rings. When I’d broken the news that a dog like that wouldn’t be happy at our house, they’d stormed and raged but had eventually come around to the idea of bringing home a dog from the animal shelter.
“We’ll be saving it, right?” Jenna had said.
The shelter was no-kill, but in lots of ways she was correct.
“I want a puppy.” Oliver had been adamant. “I want a puppy, I want a puppy, I want—”
“Enough.” My voice was calm but firm, and my son’s chant had died away. “We’ll go to the animal shelter and see what’s available.”
“But I want a puppy!” Oliver’s lower lip had started to tremble.
“We’ll see what’s available,” I’d said. “Cheer up, kiddos. On Saturday we’ll go to the shelter. They’re bound to have a dog we’ll all love.”
And now it was Saturday. There wasn’t a single dog my kids could agree on, and I was not—repeat not—going to take two dogs home. Jenna stalked over to stand in front of the dog of her choice: an Airedale. Oliver grabbed a boxer’s cage door and held on tight. “I’d feel really, really safe if we had him.”
“It’s not a puppy,” Jenna said.
“I don’t care.” Oliver took on the mulish look Jenna had sported of late. “He loves me.”
The tag on the door said BONNIE. I smiled at him. “You mean she loves you.”
Oliver jumped away. “He’s a girl?” His look of horror almost made me laugh out loud.
“What’s wrong with a girl?” Jenna asked, her eyes narrowing.
“Any more bickering,” I said, “and we’re going straight home. All these dogs would love to come with us. They all want kids to play with and a food bowl with their name on it. We just have to look for the one who fits into our family.”
“This one,” Jenna said.
I squatted down and looked the Airedale in the face. Even standing still, he looked as if he were bouncing. “Hey, there,” I said softly. Instantly he erupted into leaps so high he bashed his head against the top of the cage and started a frenzied barking that set off the other dogs.
We held our hands over our ears and waited for the din to die down. Either the attendant was hard of hearing or she was used to it.
“I’m not so sure,” I told Jenna, “that he’s the best choice.”
In spite of her square stance in front of the cage, she’d taken on a doubtful look. “He is pretty noisy.”
I walked down the aisle. There were so many dogs in so many shapes, sizes, and colors. Big dogs, little dogs, medium-sized dogs. Old dogs, young dogs. Short-haired, long-haired. Black, brown, yellow, white. So many dogs without a home, so many dogs without anyone to love them. If the shelter hadn’t been no-kill, I might have started crying then and there.
The last cage at the end of the row looked empty. “I thought you were full up,” I said. “Did someone adopt a dog today?”
“That’s Spot,” the attendant said. “He’s a little shy.”
I hunkered down and peered in. Way in the back corner, a medium-sized lump of fur was curled into a ball. “Spot?” My whisper had no effect. “Hey, guy. Are you in there?” His eyes opened to small slits. We stared at each other for a moment, long enough for him to communicate his entire life history—born to an unwed mother; grown up in a foster home that didn’t have time for him; tossed into this shelter without a wave good-bye.
“You poor thing.” The tip of his brown tail beat a quiet tattoo against the blanket. I looked up at the attendant. “Spot?” From muzzle to tail, everything about him was brown.
“Someone’s idea of a joke, I guess.” She shrugged. “We have some golden retriever mixes that are good with kids. I could get one out.”
“No, thanks.” My knees creaked as I stood. “We’re taking Spot.”
Within seconds of our return home, the phone rang. It was Jenna’s friend Bailey. “Oh, sure,” Jenna told her, “we got a dog. You wouldn’t believe the lame thing my mom picked out. He’s scared of everything.”
I put down the expensive bag filled with dog treats, dog toys, dog leash, and collar, and I headed back to the garage. Oliver and Spot were sitting together in the backseat, waiting for doggy arrangements to be made in the laundry room. When I came back to the kitchen with two bags of expensive dog food, Jenna was saying, “Yeah, some guard dog he’s going to be. If a burglar comes, I bet he hides in the closet faster than Oliver does.”
Her laughter was loud and raucous and mean. The sound was so unlike my happy Jenna’s laughs that I couldn’t believe it came out of the same person. Where had my daughter gone? Even more important, how was I going to get her back?
“Five minutes,” I said, holding up one hand, fingers spread wide.
She turned her back to me.
For a moment I stood there. Jenna was only ten, far away from the dreaded teenage years. If she was snubbing me now, how would she treat me at fifteen? Images flashed. Jenna with blue spiked hair and rings in her nose. Jenna skipping school . . .
“No,” I said. “This is not going to happen.”
Jenna gave me a startled look. “Uh, Bailey? I guess I gotta go. Yeah. See ya later.” She hung up the phone. Wariness dominated the mix of emotions on her face. “Um . . .” She stopped, not knowing where to go next.
I didn’t know, either, but since I was the adult in the house, I had to take a stab at it. Pretending this was about the dog would be the easiest way to go, and it was a tempting route, but my mom instincts were telling me to take the road less traveled.
“Why don’t you play with your old friends anymore?” I asked.
“You mean Alexis?”
“Alexis and Sydney. The three of you were such good friends last year.”
Her shoes were, apparently, worthy of sudden and intense examination. “Bailey says Sydney is dumb. That she doesn’t know anything about clothes and is stupid about music. She says the only thing Sydney knows how to do is play the piano, and who cares about that?”
“Okay.” I resisted the impulse to do some Bailey bashing. “Is that what you think, too?”
“I dunno.”
“How about Alexis?”
She shrugged, but it was a halfhearted movement. The seed, however, had been planted. She needed to find her own way, but please God, I wanted it to be a fine and upright way.
“Anyway,” I said, “if a burglar breaks in, a closet is the safest place to be.”
She frowned, not making the leap back to her phone conversation. Then her face cleared of confusion and went straight on to another expression altogether—shame. “I didn’t mean that about Oliver,” she said in a low voice. “He’s pretty brave for a little kid. When I was seven, there’s no way I would’ve gone up in the big tree at Mrs. Neff’s.”
I felt a rush of relief that, for today at least, my Jenna was back. “And you’re pretty brave for a big kid.”