I got a dog. I woke up Monday, not responsible for anything but myself, and then I went home, dog in arms (and dog crate and dog bed and chew toy and leash and… you get the picture) wondering if the dog was really mine. It’s not as if he magically materialized or that I’d never given any thought to getting a dog. Quite the opposite, actually.
My boyfriend, Bill, and I had been searching for the perfect pup for months. But none ever seemed right. This one’s too expensive, this one’s too far away, this one requires us to prove that our apartment will allow us to have a dog and – oops – that’s against our apartment complex’s rules. (Minor technicality, right?)
When I got into work Monday morning, I got a phone call from a town employee asking if we’d received the emails from the Plainville Dog Pound. Not unusual, as the paper often runs photos of dogs and cats who need to be re-homed. I checked the inbox, distracted by the laundry list of things for me to do, and confirmed. We hung up.
Then I saw them.
Three, white, cuddly puffs of fur. At least that’s what the four-month-old Maltese pups in the photo looked like. I think I squealed (by now, my coworkers are quite used to my enthusiastic outbursts, like the time our sports editor, Nick, witnessed me nearly kill the printer) and then I kept squealing because I suddenly felt like I needed one of these dogs.
A few phone calls and several hours later, I was heading to Plainville from our Meriden offices with Bill to see if we jived with any of the dogs.
The whole way there, I was so excited, I felt ill — something I hadn’t experienced since I was 11 and about to board my first plane to Disney World.
Animal control officer Gabby Paciotti (who is a doll) let us inside and we saw them: the furballs.
“I’ve gotten so many calls about these little guys,” Gabby said. “I even came in work early myself so I could play with them.”
I couldn’t believe how cute they all were and I wondered how we’d ever choose.
But as two of the dogs rushed to us and vied for our attention, jumping and yipping and licking, one hung back, a little timid and shy.
“I think that’s the one,” Bill said, scooping him up. The dog rested his head on his potential new owner.
Yep, we were sold. We signed the paperwork, gave Gabby a hug and then that was it – we were suddenly parents to a tiny fur-baby that we named Obi-Wan Kenobi (yes, after the “Star Wars” character). Obi for short.
“Is this real?” I asked Bill, when he passed the dog to me so he could drive us home. I leaned down to Obi. “Are you real?”
He licked my face and snuggled into the crook of my arm as if to say yes.
That feeling of being so excited I felt ill subsided in me, but, apparently, it rose in Obi, who promptly got sick all over my lap.
When I realized I loved him anyway, I knew it was a good fit.
Welcome home, Obi. We’re so happy you chose us.
Published in Record-Journal