I guess it’s time.
Who really knows when it’s time? Or why? There’s no magical pop-up turkey timer to tell you. There’s no kit you can buy at the pharmacy — like a pregnancy test! — that will give you a digital thumbs up.
It’s just a gut feeling, I guess. Or when you think enough time has passed. Or you stop feeling guilty for even considering the thought. Like you’re some kind of traitorous, treasonous two-timer. Apologizing to thin air for even considering, much less petting, another dog.
It’s been almost half a year since we had to put our dog, Chase, to sleep. The old girl.
Now we’re nearing a big step — THE big step! Bringing a new dog into our lives. Whew! Breathe in … breathe out … breathe in … breathe out.
But I think we’re ready. The discussions have started among the family unit about what we’re looking for. Memories of Chase weigh heavily on our minds — the kind of dog she was.
We’ve assembled long lists of what we want in a new pooch. For instance, a new dog needs to have the sly look of a jewel thief. The kind of face that is sweet and seducing, even while she crunches complex calculations on how to open the refrigerator and eat all the cold cuts without anyone noticing.
Needs to have a spring in her step. By which I mean can accelerate away from me in the neighborhood or at the beach like a cruise missile. That way if she gets loose, I am guaranteed to look like an absolute imbecile as I futilely trail behind screaming, “Come back you lump of crab meat.”
Needs to have the kind of coat that will look full and healthy — like it wouldn’t ever shed a hair in the house. But in reality her hair will fall out like a summer rainstorm. That way whenever I’m eating a muffin, I am assured of finding a strand or two amongst the blueberries or chocolate chips.
We called the clumps of hair we found around the house “puppies.” They rolled around like tumbleweeds, always emerging from dark corners and out of the way hiding places when company came over. They would think it was a mouse running across the floor.
“No,” we would say. “It’s just a dog hairball out for a walk.”
Needs the face of a deranged lunatic after overexertion. Tongue dragging on the floor. Panting like a steam engine. Eyes rolling back in her head. The expression of a tightly wound cuckoo clock.
A new dog needs to have funny brown spots on her pink belly that look like Elvis and Big Bird waltzing. A new dog has to howl when the moment seems right. A new dog has to know that eating rotten shrimp shells is bad. In fact, won’t even want to eat them … but with a shrug will chow down anyway, because that’s what dogs do.
A new dog needs to eat all the crumbs my daughter drops on the floor. A new dog has to nose her way into the bathroom while we’re making use of it, and then stand there staring at us in total amazement, like we’re some kind of Neanderthal for doing our business in such a primitive and ridiculous way. “Why don’t you just go in the woodchips like me!?!”
A new dog needs to have magnetic properties that will attract dirt, and feet that smell like popcorn. A new dog needs to be sneaky enough to climb into our bed in the middle of the night. So sneaky that we don’t even realize it until morning when we find ourselves on the floor, and the mongrel curled up in the center of the mattress.
A new dog needs to promise to live a lot of doggone years and not get cancer and not leave us … ever.
That’s a lot of pressure to put on a mutt. Maybe too much. I know, I know. But I also know we’ll find one. The right dog. A dog who has it all, just like we had before. Because we’re ready now. Ready to fill the void.
Breathe in … breathe out … breathe in … breathe out.