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The tone in her voice was dismal. I was visiting a friend halfway across the country and my mother desperately wanted to shield me from the truth.
“She’s gone,” my mother uttered.
At first, it wasn’t clear to me who the “she” in my mother’s statement was until the numbing period of silence between us lingered and I burst into tears. No goodbyes, no last hugs, no last pat on the head. My precious pup, Scraps had been put to sleep and I was not there to comfort her. A mixture of emotions settled in, ranging from anger to guilt.
I have always had a dog in my life. Scraps was a stray who came to us during a harsh Upstate New York snowstorm. They say you can put a leash on a lost dog and they will sometimes lead you back to their home. In near-blizzard weather, my father and I did just that with Scraps, but instead, she led us right back to our own house. From then on, it was quite clear she was meant to become a part of our family. The dog had a great intuitive spirit. If I were sad, sitting on the stairs with my head between my legs, she would have none of that, plowing her face from underneath my legs to greet me on the other side.
After Scraps, I didn’t think I could find another dog that could fill the void. The following year, my boyfriend turned my gears a bit. He told me he would get me any dog I desired. “Just go out there and find one,” he said. I’ve always had a fondness for abandoned or unwanted dogs, so I scoured the local animal shelters looking for a worthy companion. I came home empty-handed.
Then, my father agreed to take me to my last option, a Humane Society about an hour outside of town. The drive was unbearable; I couldn’t wait. The shelter selection was small and I almost gave up hope.
“Why don’t you take a look at one of these puppies,” my father offered.
I had never owned a puppy before and wasn’t too interested, but I still squatted by the cage to have a look. Six little ones scurried about, dancing around a huge mountain of chow. One lone puppy stood up and latched his paws onto the cage in front of me. Our eyes met and I felt a real connection. It was like one of those moments when two people see each other from across a crowd and time momentarily pauses. He stood undaunted for minutes while his playful littermates raced back and forth. No whining, no tail wagging, no jumping or yelping, he just stayed there with undivided attention. His stare was mesmerizing.
“I want this one,” I exclaimed.
I cradled the pup in my arms. He felt softer than cotton, but smelled like an outhouse. He was perfect. Debating on what to name him, I took my father’s suggestion and called him “Oz.” It suited him. This jet-black ball of fur was quite magical to me. The moment he came home, my boyfriend asked me how I selected my gift. I had to correct him.
“No hun,” I replied. “This gift definitely chose me.”
