Jennifer Sander - The Dog with the Old Soul

See, it’s a Greek thing. During the ensuing twenty years, I’d spot George at Greek weddings, festivals, funerals, picnics and dances I would attend with my husband. And each time I’d see him, I would ask his sister about him, taking curious note of the fact that he’d stayed single. My knowledge of George extended to his being a gregarious, good-looking family friend that danced well. After my marriage broke up two decades later, however, I was to discover that George was still there, unattached. And when he found out I was about to become single myself, he wasted no time saying he had no intention of missing his chance to finally get to know me. Well, it’s just about the most flattering thing a middle-aged woman can have happen to her, isn’t it?

So is this what they meant by “happily ever after?” Well, almost.

You see, my new love made it clear early on that he had pet allergies and that, although he liked dogs, he would probably never own one. Pet dander was a new term to me.

“What happens when you’re around a dog?” I asked.

A pained look came over George’s face. “My sinuses get stuffed up and I get headaches. Then I get sinus infections and it’s awful.”

Hmm, really? I’d had small dogs throughout my life. They’d warmed my lap, watched TV with me, melted me with their doleful eyes and filled up spaces in my heart humans simply couldn’t. It was tough to face the idea of never owning one again. “Can’t you get shots?” I asked.

George looked at me as if I had reduced his affliction to inoculating livestock, and it was there the subject ended.

As things got more serious between us, I rationalized the idea of having the freedom to travel and socialize without worrying about a pet. I could accidentally drop food on the floor or leave a door open without having to worry about a little being scurrying to snatch up the morsel or run out of the house. The freedom began to grow on me. A little.

The day finally came when my daughter walked me down the aisle to George and life began anew. At dinner with some friends not long after we moved into our new home, we learned they were getting a Shima puppy flown down from the Northwest—a shih tzu–Maltese crossbreed, a dog that had become popular over the past few years for its personality, its no-shed fur and, of course, its cuteness factor. Rena and her daughters would excitedly show us photos of their mail-order dog. There was jubilation the day Maxie’s doggy crate, containing a floppy-eared, mop-tailed pup, was handed to its new owners at the Sacramento airport. In the end, Maxie would be everything this little family had wanted in a dog and more. He was adorable, easy to train, smart and absolutely charming. Even people who hated most dogs loved this little guy.

Rena could tell I was smitten with her new four-legged charge. I’d make any excuse to “stop by” for a visit and I loved it when she or her girls would knock on our door with Maxie in tow. And even though I’d watch George begin to sniffle afterward, it was apparent that he became putty in Maxie’s paws. Soon a conspiracy began to hatch. Rena began forwarding me by email photos of new Shima puppies she received from the Spokane, Washington, breeder of her own pup.

The short-limbed, big-eyed blobs of fur in the photos were, of course, totally disarming. The pure white ones looked like tiny snowy owls, and the brown ones like diminutive shaggy dogs you could cuddle to death, like the character in Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, if you weren’t careful. With each set of photos I forwarded to George, he’d make a remark that I was trying to wear him down. I was. By the time I forwarded the third batch of litter photos to George, it was all over.

“Did you see the black-and-white one?” he calls to me as we occupy our respective home offices in our new house.

“Oh, yeah. He’s my favorite,” I admit.

A few minutes go by. I hear nothing but the click of George’s mouse. Then a feeble voice echoes down the hall to me. “I think we have to go see this little guy.”

If I could do a happy dance atop my Aeron chair without killing myself, I would have risked looking like an idiot.

Before he could change his mind, I was busy emailing the breeder, asking questions about the black-furred, roly-poly handful with the white paws and white belly. She told us about his parents, how he was the first puppy that wanted to be held, how large he might grow (no more than eight to ten pounds) and when he would turn eight weeks old—just old enough for him to leave his mama. The next day, knowing our heightened interest level, the breeder snapped more photos of him and sent them hurling through cyberspace. There was one of him standing on her deck, one with him shakily perched atop a rock and another one that was a close-up of his little black-and-white face. We were head over heels in love with our small furry Internet date.

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