(Because if it’s not documented on the blog, do we really even have a puppy?)
I grew up with not-quite-puppy dogs.
My childhood was filled with slightly older rescues. Also dogs who were babies before I had entered the picture. And eventually my parents adopted a pup or two after I had exited the picture.
P.J. had dogs, too, loyal family pets and veritable baskets full of shiny, licky, Golden Retrievers.
But when we moved in together, we had cats.
Our twenties were spent loving on the two brother kittens I had adopted before meeting P.J., and in our thirties we met an orange polydactyl who officially made us a Three Cat Family.
(We also met all of our children during this time.)
We still loved dogs, but we had zero plans to get an actual dog any time soon. The babies were way too young, for starters. And the cats, well, the cats were getting way too old. It wouldn’t be fair. To anyone.
Least of all me.
Who hated the idea of walking a dog in the middle of the dark, frozen night in Chicago.
So when we told the kids we were moving five states away and among their top five questions were OMG CAN WE GET A DOGGGG, we were prepared.
“Nope!” We cheerfully told them. “We are not adding a living, breathing pet as a condition of the move!”
They took it well.
They took it so well, in fact, that the absence of a dog was only mentioned every time they ran in a field or snuggled on a blanket or saw a meme or video or photo of a dog or, in Jasper’s case, whenever he realized that “literally, everyone else in town has a dog.” (Which was weirdly often.)
Eventually, though, they started wearing us down. Not directly, no, but I’m fairly certain that they incepted us. I found myself hiking trails with the kids and thinking “dang, a dog bounding through these sun-dappled leaves would be pretty fun” or watching TV with the crew all flopped together and wondering “do dogs even like Jeopardy?”
So we put in an application at the Berkshire Humane Society. During the pandemic, the BHS had done such an incredible job of clearing their kennels that there were zero dogs currently for adoption.
Which, frankly, was great news all around.
Excellent for them, excellent for the puppies who had new homes, and excellent for us, who had time to plan for Our Future Puppy Who Is Decidedly Not Here Yet.
Our puppy application was quite thorough, and we listed everything we wanted, needed, hoped for, and quite possibly invented in a pet. We wanted a young dog, sure, but they also needed to be gentle. Yet playful. Snuggly, but well-suited for long walks and moderate hikes. Great with little kids. Oh, and cats! Super-duper smart, but not an alpha.
Having listed all of the qualifications for this unicorn dog- and having been informed that it might be months and months until we were matched with a puppy, we prepared to wait.
Just about two weeks later…
…I received a barrage of messages from friends, family, Berkshirites all. “Are you seeing this?” Apparently a tiny plane had landed at the (small!) Pittsfield Municipal Airport- unprecedented for many reasons, but chief among them was the fact that it was a tiny plane chock full of puppies.
41 puppies, all being evacuated from a shelter in Mobile, Alabama, all in need of immediate homes…and all stupidly cute.
P.J. looked at me and sighed. “You know we’re getting a dog this weekend, right?”
I wasn’t so sure. After all, there was a waiting list a mile long. They’d probably run out of puppies before they got to us. Maybe some of the puppies weren’t even, like, nice citizens.
P.J. sighed at me again.
The next morning, I received a call from the shelter. Our family had matched, personality-wise, with a few of the dogs, and we were welcome to log on to their website at 11am and make a short-list of three.
(…Only three?! How do you do that?!)
We were also told to take some time to really look at all of the puppies and read about their personalities before making choices- but to hurry up and call the kennel extension as soon as possible, as it was going to be first-come, first-served among the approved adoptees in order of their pup preferences.
So, feeling like we were about to embark on a round of Press Your Luck (For Puppies), we logged on at 11am.
HOLY SH*T, you guys. Guess what? All puppies are cute. (Dammit.)
Speed-reading has always been my forte, so I helpfully called out notes like “quick to warm up” and “will probably be gigantic!” P.J. and I quickly came up with an all-star list of three dogs.
Unfortunately, we came up with two separate lists.
Quickly- quickly- we performed a merging of the best o’ the best pups. I left a voicemail with our top choices, blurting out things like my name, my phone number, and rando words like “Frappuccino first! No, wait, Americano!” (Batch litter names or Starbucks orders? Who’s to say? You shoulda seen the lettuce and the fish-name groupings.)
And then…we waited.
We drove to the top of Mount Greylock and hiked the summit with our good friends, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine, and barely thinking about the fact that soon- maybe?- we’d know about our possible dog. But maybe not. Because even though we’d placed an order (?), there was a very good chance that we’d get shut out of our top 3.
P.J., again, gave me his long-suffering look when I mentioned this on the drive.
“We are absolutely getting one of those dogs,” he sighed.
“…But we might not.”
So, of course, they called us an hour later. And, of course, we were at the tippy-toppest part of Mount Greylock, admiring the scope of Berkshire County- and marveling at the fact that we had managed to get cell service at all.
When I picked up, the gal at the kennel asked if she was speaking to Kelly. (…Sure.) She cheerfully told me that my top 3 choices had gone really, really quickly. (“Thanks for the call,” I almost said.) Mine was the seventh(!) voicemail out of about 60. Would I like to take another quick look at the rest of the pups we had matched with on the website?
I said absolutely, but when did we have to let her know by?
“Oh, right now,” she told me. “After I hang up with you I have to move onto the next in line.”
I put her on speakerphone, P.J. and I frantically pulled up our phone browsers- again, at 3,500 feet- and scrolled through our medium/short list.
“Her,” P.J. pointed. I squinted. 3 month-old female large breed hound mix. “Bonefish.” (See? Those kennel names, man.)
“That’s not a name for a dog.”
“Nope.”
So I asked- “Is Bonefish a good fit? And available?” She searched her up. “Yep, good with littles, good with other pets, energetic but loving…Can you come meet her in the morning?”
(We could.)
At 9:30am the next day we brought the whole (human) crew to see if she was a good fit. P.J. and I told each other that we weren’t going to commit to the puppy immediately on sight and we were really going to give it a good long while to, like, mull on it, because we are humongously large liars.
We seated ourselves in a big ol’ circle of 5 inside the puppy gate, prepared to Be Calm, prepared to Be Gentle, and prepared to Be Really Sure This Was the Right Dog For Us (Because It Doesn’t Always Work Out the First Time). And then Bonefish trotted in.
Jeez Louise, this baby.
Part Shar Pei, part Lab, part “Southern hound,” this little squishy, sad-eyed baby was an absolute love from the moment we met her. She gently sniffed at each of us, raced back and forth between the kids and the adults, and then spent time melting onto our laps and shoulders.
I swear she smiled.
I actually welled-up.
Goshdammit.
We were getting a dog today.
The gal at the Humane Society gave us a few moments to hang out with our dog. “I know I shouldn’t have favorites, but she’s one of the best,” she told us. “She’s a love.”
We sat with Bonefish for a while, experiencing five completely different reactions to the pup:
P.J. was humming to her and speaking gently and lovingly.
I couldn’t stop getting teary, which must’ve been more than a little confusing.
Nora, desperately wanting a puppy but quickly coming to terms with the fact that this one was “probably gonna be really big,” sat with her intense fear of large dogs in trademark Schoeny stoicism. (Punctuated by moments where she flopped to the floor to kiss the puppy.)
Suzy was all-in from the first moment, and set about attempting to train her on the spot.
Jasper was almost comatose with joy. (Literally. He had wanted this for so long that when he realized it was all actually happening, he sat on a folding chair and just…stared at the wall for a little while.)
The gal came back in and asked us how we were doing. Great! We love her/she’s ours/don’t even let anyone else see her, please. Excellent! And did our new baby have a new name?
P.J. and I exchanged a look.
“Petra.” (Playing along at home this whole time? Welcome to the newest ‘Ender’s Game’ character.)
“Petra Bailey,” the girls chimed in.
“Petra Bailey Schoeny,” added Jasper.
So, after a little bit…
Petra Bailey Schoeny came to her new forever home. And- boy oh boy- is she perfection. And- boy oh boy- is she crazy hard. (Why did none of you tell me that a new puppy combines the fun of a teething baby and random periods of alertness with the joy of potty training a large toddler? Where were you, friends?)
And- boy oh boy- is she exactly what I needed in this weird season of life.
Anxiety and depression are no strangers ’round here, but there’s something so incredibly in-the-moment about a Good Dog. A steady heartbeat under your hand, a reassuring paw on your lap, a satisfied sigh from across the room, an unrestrained face of love as you return home, an enthusiastic agreement as you embark on a hike…
Even though the cats really (really) aren’t sure about her yet, she’s proving to be an exceptional member of the family. We’ve had her for just under 2 weeks, but it’s getting harder and harder to remember when she wasn’t siting right at my side as I worked, staring intently out the window just in case. (My old co-workers weren’t nearly so attentive to my safety.)
I think back to last October, to the uncertainty of the teacher strike and our pre-pandemic worries about the upcoming move. I think about how Petra wouldn’t have fit into our lives during those months, and I think about how a pup wasn’t even a glimmer on our horizons. I think about how we almost didn’t buy this house from my Mom, how it almost sold to multiple other families, and how it kept staying on the market. I think about all of the times I’ve struggled to make things feel “right,” and then the times when they just were how overwhelmed I’ve been with surprise and gratitude. I think about how, in the midst of a year brimming with sorrow and fear and loss, moments of absolute joy can knock the wind out of you (much like a 35lb puppy who believes herself to be a teacup poodle).
The other day, Suzy looked up at me. “Just think,” she said. “Right when we were moving into this house, our dog was being born!”
I’m glad we were ready for you, Petra. I’m glad that all of the coffee-named doggos were quickly claimed and that P.J.’s snap judgement on a so-so photograph meant you were the girl for us.
I’m glad you’re our family now.
Welcome home.
Speak Your Mind