Okay, where was I?
Oh yeah, remember last week, when gramma started musing about needing to find a tiny dog, one that she can handle (remember, she is going to turn 95 years old in March) and she wanted this tiny dog to not only weigh under 10 pounds but also it had to be at least three years old?
Well, guess what? Such a dog exists. And her name is Belle.
So, let me tell you how Gramma met Belle.
As I was saying, last week Gramma got it into her head that she needed a dog small enough for her to handle and one that is already potty trained.
Since it is a very bad idea to allow TWWNCBUIP to visit an animal shelter ever again (since the time she adopted two dogs and then still cried for hours over the other 39 dogs she had to leave behind) it was up to me, old trusty Rusty, to drive Gramma over to the ASPCA in search of a little dog to love.
The first day we went looking all of the dogs were so big that they would be taking Gramma for a walk instead of the other way around. Sure, there were some really cute puppies that were hard to resist but they definitely would need potty training and someone able to play fetch and chase.
So, disappointed, we left the shelter and headed back to work to devise another plan.
Well, it just so happened that a lady was there who had two tiny dogs in her purse (no joke) you know, fancy little tiny dogs with bows in their hair. This lady told us that her dogs actually came from a tiny dog rescue place and believe it or not, even fancy little dogs with bows in their hair are sometimes abandoned and need to find a forever home.
The only way to see these little guys was to review them on-line and then make an appointment to meet them. Okay, anything to help Gramma find her little companion.
So we went to the website and started perusing the puppies. Oh, they were cute. Some were shaggy, some were groomed, some had hair bows and others had bow ties. They all had big beautiful eyes and Gramma fell in love with the one who was described as loving to cuddle and give tiny kisses. So Gramma went home with visions of her new little friend and I went home to fill out the application for adoption.
After about an hour of dotting all the i’s and crossing all the t’s, answering so many questions about where we live, do we have a 6′ fence (yes, we actually do, but seriously I can’t imagine this little fella scaling even a four foot fence, never mind one as tall as ours) and if we work, who will be with the pet while we are out of the house, will we take our pet to the vet, if so, who is our vet, and then, please include your vet’s name and number so that we may contact your vet. Well, okay, sure.
Our vets will surely vouch for us that Fred, Peggy, Murphy, Ruby and now Linc and Lola have all been well cared for by them and loved and pampered (okay, maybe spoiled rotten) by us. But sure, here’s our vet’s name.
And then, just as I was about to finish this extremely lengthy application I came across a disclaimer that stopped me in my tracks. “If you are 68+ please read this.”
So I did. And it said that no one 68 years of age or older need apply. If I was too old to adopt at 72 then that for sure means Gramma would be completely out of the running since she is going on 95.
Well, no getting around this one. It was up to me to let Gramma know that this door was closed. And it was really hard to tell her the news because she had sent a message that morning saying that she had been thinking about this puppy all night and could we please go pick him up as soon as I could get rolling in the morning. Yikes.
At least she didn’t cry. Well, not then anyway. She was hopping mad. Nobody better ever tell her that she isn’t capable of loving and caring for her dog. And if for some reason she is unable then she has two beautiful grandsons that will help her. And so on and so on it went.
Anyway, I’m no dummy. (at least not about this kind of stuff) I had already mapped out two more shelters that we could visit that morning. And I had pictures from both shelters of some charming little potential adoptees. Problem was that neither shelter listed the weights. They just said small, medium, large. And as you know, one man’s small might be another man’s medium. So off we went with only a vague idea about who we were about to meet.
The first shelter we visited had many fine dogs waiting to be loved…only most of them weighed in at least 35 lbs with the exception of one little guy who fit in our weight class but didn’t look very well and in fact wasn’t able to be adopted yet. When we walked out to get in the car I look over at Gramma and she was sobbing. Full on sobbing out loud.
Oh no. I asked what was wrong and all I could get out of her was that she couldn’t bear leaving that poor sick little thing behind.
I could see this was going nowhere fast so I got her into the car as quickly as I could and started jabbering away (not that easy for me, you all know, I’m a man of few words) about how we had to hustle to get to the last shelter before they closed.
I pretended to be lost (okay, maybe not pretended) and got her attention to help me navigate. After three or four wrong turns we finally got headed in the right direction and arrived at our final recure place with an hour to spare.
And guess what? We walked into the room with the small dogs and Gramma all but tossed her cane at me and made a beeline to a cage with this little scraggly white dog who stood up the minute Gramma walked into the room. They met. They cuddled. They snuggled. And that’s how Gramma met Belle. Perfect little 7 pound Belle.
Gramma has been back twice to visit because Belle must remain at the shelter until she is spayed (today is the big day) and tomorrow Belle gets to come to her new home. There is already a comfy new bed, a lavender harness and matching leash and two tiny dog bowls waiting for Belle. So far no hair bows.
