Blueberry Hill: a Sister's Story(18)

When we get to the kennel, everything is dark and the parking lot empty. I jump out of the car and run to the building. The door is locked. I panic and pound my fist against it shouting, “You said you’d wait!”

The light goes on and Pete bellows, “Okay, okay, I’m coming.”

A round little man with mustard on his mustache opens the door and smiles at me. “You gotta be the lady that called. I’m Pete.”

“Hi,” I say sheepishly, now embarrassed by my behavior. “Thanks for waiting.” I introduce Dick and myself, then the three of us start toward the back room. As we pass the office I see a half-eaten sandwich on what appears to be Pete’s desk.

“Did we interrupt your dinner?”

“Nah. It’s bowling night, but the guys are going to the Fish House. I’m not big on fish, especially clams. Oysters neither.”

Pete opens a second door, and when he snaps on the light any number of yapping dogs spring to life. The room is wall-to-wall wire cages.

“Afraid I got some bad news,” he says. “I thought I had two Bichons, but I got two Maltese.”

The disappointment washes over me like sludge from a sewer. The heartache I feel for my sister and the frustration of this search rises like a lump in my throat.

“You don’t have any Bichons?” I ask.

Apologetically he answers, “Just one. A male.”

I let out a whoosh of disappointment. I have my heart set on a female Bichon. I came here hoping to find a dog exactly the same as the one I have. Brandi is a lap-sitting, kiss-giving, cuddle bug, and she brings me more joy than I ever thought possible. My goal is to find a dog that will bring the same joy to my speechless sister. Although I’ve been told there is just the one male, I say with a moan, “No females?”

Pete shakes his head. “I’ve got a female terrier.”

“The male Bichon,” I say, “is he old enough to sell right now?”

Pete nods. “That’s him. Nine weeks today.” He points to a cage in the third tier. Inside is a white ball of fluff sleepily curled around a rag toy.

This dog is not yapping like the others, so I think maybe a male dog will work after all.

I poke my finger through the wire mesh and talk to him as I stroke his paw. A little black eye pops open, and he begins wagging his tail. “Awww,” I gush. It seems this one and only Bichon likes me, and if he likes me he’s going to love Donna.

“Can we take him out of the cage?”

Pete puts the dog on the floor, and I sit down beside him. He starts climbing on my lap and licking my face.

“Adorable, isn’t he?” I turn to Dick, but he’s looking at a German shepherd puppy on the bottom row. I repeat, “This Bichon’s adorable, isn’t he?”

Still with the shepherd, Dick says, “Look at the paws on this guy. He’s gonna be a big one.”

Pete motions to the large black pup a few cages down. “That’s nothing. Check this one out. Newfoundland; he’ll be the size of a bear when he’s full grown.”

I interrupt them and ask, “How much?”

Pete eyes the ticket on the Newfoundland’s cage and says, “Six hundred.”

“Not him. This Bichon. How much is this Bichon?”

“Six fifty.”

“Six hundred and fifty dollars?” Dick repeats. He hasn’t said “overpriced” but it’s there, hanging onto the tail of the question mark.

When people have been married a long time they start to know each other’s thoughts, and I am pretty certain Dick is comparing the pound-for-pound cost of this dog and the Newfoundland.

I know this dog is way out of my budget. I know I’m going to have to cut back on any number of things to make up for such an expenditure. But by now the image of this Bichon sitting alongside my silent sister has settled into my mind.

“We’ll take him,” I say.

Pete warns, “He’s not show quality.”

This fact doesn’t faze me. I’m not looking for a show dog. All I want is a companion for my sister. I want a living, breathing, loving thing that will save her from being lonely. But my pound-for-pound husband asks, “Why is he not show quality?”

Pete picks up the dog and turns its face to us. “Look at the eyes. Bichons are supposed to have a black rim around the eyes. This dog only has the black rim on one eye.”

I look and, sure enough, the poor little thing has one perfect eye and one with an albino rim around it, giving him the appearance of pink eye. The dog wriggles loose from Pete and buries its head in my lap as if it’s embarrassed by this abnormality. Now, more than ever, I am convinced this is the right dog. He and Donna will be two slightly impaired beings helping each other.

“We’ll take him,” I repeat.

Twenty minutes later all three of us are in the car and on our way home, Dick, the dog, and me. Only now do I realize that in the frenzy of this day I have forgotten to defrost something for dinner. Uh oh.

I suggest, “It’s late; maybe we should pick up a pizza for supper.”

“You forget to defrost something again?”

“Sort of.” I start to defend my mistake. “Even if I had defrosted something, by the time I cook it would be midnight. How about Chinese?”

“Let’s just go out for dinner.”