Blueberry Hill: a Sister's Story(17)

Now that Lucifer, the cat, has run off, there are days when these two squirrels are Donna’s only company. Mama comes over several times a week but not every day.

“I’m getting older,” she says. “You can’t expect me to be running over there every day.”

No one argues with Mama anymore, because it is useless to do so. Arguing with her means one of two things will happen. Either she’ll get mad and stop speaking to you for a good long while, or she’ll get her feelings hurt and cry and when that happens you end up apologizing all over the place.



Thinking about Lucifer gives me an idea, an idea that warms my heart as much as Brandi herself does. Brandi is the Bichon Frise sitting in my lap. She is my constant companion. She loves me when I am loveable and loves me just as much when I am impossible. This is a secret only dog lovers know: rubbing a dog’s tummy brings peace of mind. I tell myself it is almost impossible to be sad, lonely, or depressed when you’re petting the dog in your lap. Then I congratulate myself on having such wisdom and start calling the pet shops.

Eight numbers later, I am still asking the same question. When the woman at Framer’s Pet Shop answers the telephone, I ask, “Do you have any Bichon puppies?”

“Not on hand,” she says, “but if you want to place an order, I’m expecting two in about a month.”

“Bichons are on back order?” I ask incredulously.

“Yes.” She takes on a tone that infers this is the norm. “The litter is still too young to be sold. But if you want to leave a credit card deposit, I can reserve one for you.”

I glance at the yellow pages where there are listings for another twenty or thirty pet shops. Reasonably sure I’ll find one today, I say, “I’ll think about it and let you know.”

“Don’t wait too long,” she says. “They may be gone.”

I hang up and dial the next pet shop, then the next, and the next. This continues all morning until I get to Zelda’s Pets. Like the first twenty-seven pet shops, she does not have a Bichon but sympathizes with my plight and gives me the telephone number of a friend who breeds Dalmatians.

“Maybe Klaus can suggest something,” she tells me.

Since Zelda’s is the final listing for pet shops, I have no choice but to call Klaus.

“Zelda thought maybe you can help me,” I say, and I tell him what I am looking for.

He speaks with a heavy accent and acknowledges my words with “Ya, ya.” Afterward I hear some indistinct mumbling and assume he is consulting with someone else. Apparently this is not the case, because he ultimately suggests, “Dalmatian make nice pet. For friend of Zelda I do small price. Is good, yes?”

“No, not good. I’m looking to get a dog for my sister, but her apartment is really, really small. She’s sick and all alone,” I say. I give him the entire story, most of which I am certain he neither understands nor cares about. Still, I feel if someone realizes how important this is, they’ll help me find a dog. Klaus comes through and gives me the names of three places to call. One of these is the North Jersey Kennel.

The phone rings nine times before a man picks up and says, “This is Pete.”

I cut to the chase and ask, “Do you have any Bichon puppies?”

“Yeah. Two.”

“For sale right now?” My surprise is obvious.

“Yeah. Two Bichons and a Maltese.”

This place is in Paterson, which is a good hour from our house, but now I’m like a hound in the hunt so I ask, “How late are you open?”

“Five-thirty.”

I look at the clock: five-ten. As I fish under the desk for my shoes, I tell the guy Donna’s story and plead with him to wait for me.

“I’m on my way right now,” I say.

It’s obvious this guy doesn’t want to wait. “What’s the rush? The same dogs will be here tomorrow.”

“I’ve got to have this dog tonight,” I exclaim. This makes no sense, even to me. Of course I could go tomorrow. Except by now I am convinced these are the only two Bichons in the state of New Jersey. What if somebody breaks in during the night and steals them? Too risky! I whine and beg.

“Okay, okay.” Pete finally agrees to wait for me, but adds, “Be careful driving, I don’t want you killed on the way here.” He laughs and hangs up.

As I grab my coat I hear the garage door rumble up and realize Dick is home from work. Chances are he’s thinking, “What’s for supper?” But I’m thinking, “He can drive.” That way I can hold the dog on the way home.

With checkbook in hand, I’m down the stairs and sliding into the passenger seat before Dick has his key out of the ignition. “We’ve got to go to Paterson,” I say with a sense of urgency.

“Why?”

“Hurry,” I say, fastening my seat belt. “I’ll explain on the way.”

Without much of an argument, he puts the car in reverse, backs out of the garage, and heads for Route 287. I give the address of the kennel and explain the situation.

“I’m with Pete,” Dick says. “Why can’t you just get the dog tomorrow?”

It a rational question that requires a fairly rational answer, but I wave it off and repeat, “These are the last two Bichons in New Jersey!”