It happened.

After two years of having a furry mutt and endless bags of poop, it finally happened. The bag had a hole and I didn’t catch it. Well I kind of did. I caught it with my bare finger, warm and disgusting.

I heard the little voice in my head say, “check it for holes!” as I put it in my pocket. But I ignored it. I had a leash and a frisbee and a giant tea I was carrying so I couldn’t fumble around for a hole I was sure wasn’t there. I felt certain and that was good enough. Until it mattered, of course.

Lately our dog hasn’t been getting out as much as he should so today was the day I declared to be the other side of the leaf. It’s time to get that beast worn out before the school day begins. We used to do that every day the first year we had him. The kids would scramble to go with me, fighting over who got to toss the ball and were valiant about whose turn it was to pick up the poop. But as it always does with kids, the novelty faded.

The boys had begged for a dog for years- don’t all kids?  I’d block them with the argument that I already had two dogs. Seriously, dogs and young children are remarkably similar. The truth is when you get a dog, you are adopting a permanent toddler. This “child” will never use the inside toilet or be old enough to go on it’s own outings; there’s no getting this one up and out. Things will be chewed on, floors will get dirty, and make no mistake… using a plastic bag will not negate the fact that touching poo is part of the daily routine (I proved that one beyond a reasonable doubt today. Ew).

And the shedding. No, thanks.

But I remember clearly the on again off again push for a dog once we got past the preschool era of both kids. We’d entertain it for a while and then I’d be like, “What? Nah-uh. Ain’t nobody got time f’dat!” I was no one’s fool. Once the pomp and circumstance of having a real live zoo animal wore off on the youngins, I knew the responsibility would fall to me. Until I was ok with that, there was no dog.

A few more seasons went by. The boys got older. We knew if we waited too long we’d either have to abandon the whole idea or find a crusty, geriatric mutt probably with those gross weepy eyes just to be sure he kicked the bucket by the time the boys hit their twenties. We have plans to get out and do things once the baby birds fly from the nest. A doggie with lots of years left by then could end up living a lonely life- or we might stay home out of guilt. Neither of those sound good.

So we started looking.

There are about a bagillion dogs for adoption in Southern California. To narrow it down I limited the search to our county, bringing the number down to maybe 47 trillion. My mom came over one night and I showed her the prospects. As we looked through the avalanche of sad-eyed canines, we came to one I’d seen before, liked and passed over.

“What about him? He’s sweet,” she clicked the profile.

His story, real or faked for sympathy points, was a good one for an easy sell. He’d been scooped up off the streets of Ensenada, Mexico after being pelted with rocks by a bunch of meanies. Apparently, the woman who rescued him partners with a shelter in the OC and keeps an eye out for adoptable dogs among the abundance of strays in Mexico, which is how he came to be north of the border (supposedly, but whatever).

He looked just like Tramp from the Disney movie and was only around five months when he was found. His big, brown eyes begged to be taken home– way to go, photographer. And he was wire-haired which meant he didn’t shed. For me that factor alone was as important as having a dishwasher in the house. It has to have it or no deal.

“Yeah. He is cute, but he’s up in Orange County. Too far.” I was thinking about not opening the floodgates of options to the north of us.

She looked at me like I had a tail growing out of my face, “So you’d drive down to the Mexican border just because it’s within your county, but you won’t come right by my house?” (She lives fairly close, just in the next county.)

Ok, so I hadn’t thought about that. Sometimes in my effort to simplify I make things harder.

“Good point, Mom. ”

I bit the bullet and arranged to meet this Spanish-speaking pound puppy at one of those adoption thingies they have at the giant pet stores. You know– the ones I completely avoid that have the cage-pens and the signature yappy miniature chiweeni and probably five pit bull mixes and the overly pushy sales-like people who make me feel like a steaming pile of dog poo for not taking one of their mangy, shedding, bark-tastic mutts. Yeah. That’s where I went.

And I loved that little Mexican mutt. Like really loved him.

So we got a dog.

(to be continued…)