I’m going to do something that I swore that I wouldn’t do, but I just can’t hold out any longer. I’m going to blog about my magnificent dog Milo! I can hear the groans but I’ll pretend they’re happy sounds.
Seriously though, did you see his picture? Yeah, the kid also has me wrapped around his finger.
My son begged for a dog for years. He retrieved the newspaper from the top of the driveway every morning, printed articles on the benefits of pet ownership and perfected the, can’t- resist –those -puppy- dog- eyes, look. The kid practically rolled over to please his owners.
I like dogs having grown up with several German Shepherds that brightened my life immeasurably. The Big Irishman, hubby, light of my life, ball and chain, did not grow up with pets and so I had to lobby hard for the dog. I finally got him to warm up to the idea with the agreement that we’d get a small, non-shedding dog.
The theory being, small dog, small mess, and the non-shedding stipulation, because the Big Irishman is a complete neat freak. He has been known to walk in the door and start vacuuming if he spies the slightest dust bunny.
Once I got the greenlight, I researched the smartest, cutest, smallest, non-shedding breeds. I quickly learned doggie lingo and started talking to breeders about when they’d have “a litter on the ground.”
One fine day last April, I walked into my Friday Morning Writers’ Group and my small, non-shedding doggie plans disappeared quicker than pet hair in a Dirt Devil vacuum. The entire group was oohing and aahing over a handsome picture of a very large dog that looked like the white wolf from Game of Thrones. As for shedding, you could make a fur coat from his discarded pelt.
At first, I barely paid attention being more focused on getting a cup of coffee and snagging a big piece of Kim’s blueberry Danish. But as I walked by the computer screen, I caught sight of Milo’s face and my heart melted faster that the arctic glaciers.
Milo’s loving owner had to move back to Sweden for a new job requiring extensive travel and he was forced to find him a new home. I dropped my slab of Danish when I learned that Milo is a Siberian Husky, my son’s absolute favorite breed.
My collaborative writing group quickly strategized on how to get the Big Irishman to agree to have Milo join the Murphy family,
Mary, the financial wizard, insisted that I simply announce that I found the perfect dog and he’s moving in, end of story. Suffice it to say that Mary never met the hubby or she’d know that tactic would sink faster than the stock market on Black Monday.
Chris, the clever one, suggested to have sex first, make it memorable, and then ask. Not bad, but time was of the essence and I couldn’t just show up at his office for a quickie.
Karen, the pragmatic one, said to tell him that Milo was free and the designer pooches cost a couple of grand. I couldn’t do that because I had not yet told the Big Irishman the price of those dogs and I didn’t want him to blow a gasket.
Linda, the writing group’s intuitive leader, said to appeal to his sense of destiny and say that fate brought Milo, Bobby’s favorite breed, to us.
Call it serendipity, great timing, amazingly good luck, coupled with some serious cajoling, but my family had the good fortune to adopt this 70 pound marshmallow.
As they say in the doggie business. Who rescued who?