I grew up with dogs. (No, I am not referring to my sisters). Hee, hee.
First there was a brief encounter with some kind of dog that my father brought home which my mother wouldn't let us keep. Then there was some kind of little dog that kept running away.
Eventually, we settled in on a German Shepard puppy named Karla. Every day, without fail, my dad worked on training her to heel, walk, sit, stay, etc. Most impressive was her adherence to the rule of not setting one paw off of our property (no matter what she was chasing).
But, at 6 years old, I didn't care much about that. I cared about being able to pet her, lie on her, talk to her, kiss her, and have her grab my hand in her mouth to lead me somewhere. She was my best friend.
Then just before 6th grade, we moved to South Carolina. I don't know if it was the heat or humidity or both or neither, but Karla developed hip problems (which I know are common in German Shepards). Nonetheless, it became harder for her to get up and she spent much of her time resting in the backyard.
Then my parents sent us to Chicago to visit our uncles for a few weeks.
When we returned, Karla was gone. Not just gone from the yard, or gone from the house - just gone.
With no warning, my parents had put Karla to sleep. No conversation with us, either before or after.
Emotion is only acceptable when displayed alone.
Skip to 30-ish years later. I have married a man who is allergic to dogs. (The marital contract should have a contingency whereby a dog allergy is grounds for termination of the contract). So, I have wanted a dog for the last 18 years.
As luck would have it, I went in to a liquor store a while ago (that's not the lucky part) and there was a big, cute, light-colored, curly-haired dog. I asked the owner what was the breed of the dog and they said a golden retriever/poodle mix (hereinafter referred to as a goldendoodle). She told me that she was allergic to dogs, but not this dog (due to the poodle part).
Time passed and the next time that I was in the liquor store (ok, several times later), I asked the guy in the store if he knew where that woman got the dog. The gist of the conversation was that the dog, "Winston," has a sibling who belongs to some people who didn't realize that the dog would be more than 40-50 pounds and there was a distinct possibility that they might want to find it a more suitable home.
I excitedly wrote down my name and spent the next few days waiting for my dog connection to call. My grand plan was to surprise my husband on Father's Day with a dog, despite the fact that he doesn't want one. (This is what happens when you've been married for fricking decades.)
Father's Day came and went.
Last night, Aidan asked me if I would take him driving. I said, "sure," and promptly directed him to the aforementioned liquor store.
I explained my dog dilemma to the man at the counter (while purchasing my beer). He said that he knew the dog of which I was speaking and that my connection would be in on wednesday, and that I should await further communications.
Tomorrow is wednesday.